Chapter Text
Lyonel Baratheon, as the Lord of Storm's End, is used to men being loud and as battle hardened as he is. So when a man who introduces himself as Dunk stammers about being in Lyonel's tent for the tournament simply for supper, the man known as The Laughing Storm is intrigued.
He looks up at Dunk from his table, amused. Despite Dunk being well over six feet tall, he carries himself with an air of shyness.
"You're slouching like a shy maiden on her wedding night," Lyonel muses, watching as Dunk blushes in the candlelight.
“Am I, my lord?” Dunk’s blue eyes widen in genuine embarrassment.
“You are,” the Lord of Storm’s End hums, dark brown eyes bright with intrigue. He watches as Dunk shrinks down again, still holding the half eaten berry pastry in his hand.
“Beg pardons, m’lord,” he mumbles, flicking his gaze down.
Lyonel finds himself smiling despite the alcohol already in his system. He scans Dunk’s simple dark green tunic and notices that he uses rope to hold the sword at his waist.
‘He clearly doesn’t have anyone,’ the Lord realizes with a sense of pity.
“Do you serve a Lord, Dunk?” Lyonel asks, leaning back in his chair. He watches as Dunk’s shoulders hunch, the Shy Maiden act flaring up like he’s nervous.
“I served Ser Arlan of Pennytree as a squire, my lord,” he explains sheepishly over the music. “He died barely a week ago. I’ve been on the road ever since. I only learned about the tourney this morning from an innkeeper.”
“I see,” Lyonel hums with a tilted head. “I assume you came all the way to Ashford on horseback. Where is your horse?”
“I have three, m’lord,” he explains. “Just outside the tourney grounds. I should.. get back to them.” Dunk says this as a weak excuse.
“Stay,” Lyonel orders gently but firmly. “You look half starved despite your size. Stay and eat your fill, I’ll have someone attend to your horses.”
Dunk’s eyes widen, the blue shade reminding Lyonel of Shipbreaker Bay reflecting the sunlight on the rare calm days at Storm’s End.
“Truly, m’lord,” Dunk begins, but is cut off when Lyonel raises his hand.
“What are your horse's names?” Lord Baratheon asks simply.
“Thunder is a big warhorse,” he explains, shuffling on his feet nervously. “Chestnut is an old stot, and Sweetfoot is a calm mare palfrey.”
“Three horses,” Lyonel sounds impressed. He motions to one of the servants and tilts his head to speak. “Send a stableboy to fetch Ser Dunk’s horses. Bring them to the stables and make certain they are fed.”
Dunk can’t help but stare as the servant rushes off and disappears through the tent flaps and out into the night.
“I do not know how to thank you enough, my lord,” Dunk manages to choke out.
“You can thank me by eating,” Lyonel muses as he sips his wine. “I’ll not have you starve in my tent.”
****
Dunk has never seen so much food in one place before. He bites into a chicken leg after he finishes the rest of the berry tart. If anyone is sober enough to notice a commoner sitting next to the Lord of Storm’s End, no one mentions it. Having grown up in the slums of Flea Bottom, Dunk was lucky to get bread that wasn’t charred or the ominous Bowls of Brown with various mystery meat in the stew.
He coughs into his goblet filled with apple wine, the tart flavor making his eyes sting. Lyonel laughs beside Dunk, watching him with an amused grin.
“First time trying Fossoway wine?” the Lord teases.
“It’s sour,” coughs the young knight.
“Honeyed wine might be more of your taste,” Lyonel says and snaps his fingers. Dunk watches in alarm as a servant fills an empty goblet with a light amber wine close to his plate. He takes a small sip and his shoulders relax.
“Better?” Lyonel grins. Dunk shyly nods. One goblet leads to another and Dunk is suddenly on the dance floor with the Lord of Storm’s End. He yelps as Lyonel nearly stomps on his foot. The Baratheon Lord laughs, his ink black curls threaded with silver glowing in the candlelight. Dunk is soon caught into an elaborate dance trying to avoid his toes getting stomped.
Feeling a surge of drunken bravery, Dunk somehow manages to step on Lyonel’s foot hard enough to make the Lord shout and stumble into his chest.
‘Oh, I’m going to get flogged,’ Dunk thinks with startling clarity. His hand rests on Lyonel’s chest to steady him. He stares at the Lord with wide eyes, expecting to get beheaded before dawn arrives. Instead, Lyonel grins, sticks his tongue out, and winks at Dunk. Drunken relief flooding his system, Dunk playfully shoves Lyonel away, to the shouts and hollering of the other partygoers.
Dunk is soon spun around by the Lord. The candlelights and faces of the people blur together as the young knight genuinely laughs. He has no idea what time it is when both him and Lyonel make it back to the main table. Dunk is on the verge of passing out from the amount of wine and meat he’s ingested. He hardly feels Lord Baratheon’s stag headpiece on his sandy colored hair.
“This is the most I’ve eaten in weeks,” Dunk manages to say. He can’t tell if Lyonel giggles into his wine cup or if he is imagining things.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Lyonel says, watching as most of the party guests stumble or are helped back into their own separate tents. “Do you have a place to sleep?”
Dunk shakes his head, feeling the room spin and gripping the armrest of his chair so he doesn’t double over and vomit. He does not see Lyonel frown in concern.
Having handled the alcohol better, the Baratheon Lord guides Dunk over to Lyonel’s personal tent close by.
He orders the guards to keep watch in rotations by the only entrance. They obey without question, hardly glancing at the hedge knight nearly slumping against their Lord.
Dunk practically collapses into the large bed covered in expensive black and golden silk along with animal fur blankets. This is the warmest he’s ever felt in days.
Lyonel gently removes the antler headpiece from Dunk’s head and sets it on the bedside table.
“Quite the Maiden you make,” the Baratheon Lord muses to a sleeping Dunk.
The young knight’s innocence and loss of a father figure makes Lyonel feel oddly protective of the younger man.
If Dunk has no destination in mind, Lyonel will invite him back to Storm’s End. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but the Lord finds that he wants to spoil Dunk. Keep him safe, warm, and fed. Train him to be a proper knight and make sure he’ll never be hungry again.
“Seven Hells, what am I going to do with you?” Lyonel questions affectionately to the warm air of the tent, listening to the crickets and people settling in for the tourney.