Chapter Text
Baelor: I remember Ser Arlan of Pennytree. … [Sixteen years ago], at Lannisport, he unhorsed the Grey Lion himself. The lion was not so grey then, to be sure.
Dunk: He told me about that many a time.
Baelor: Then you will remember the Grey Lion’s true name, I have no doubt.
Dunk: Ser Damon Lannister.
—Baelor Targaryen and Dunk
209 AC
For Dunk to compete in the Ashford tourney, one of the knights had to vouch for him, but it was already late evening, and Dunk still hadn't managed to meet with Ser Manfred Dondarrion. Three years ago, the old man—Ser Arlan—had served Ser Manfred's father in the Red Mountains. Duncan had accompanied the old man then and now hoped that Ser Manfred would remember him, or if not him, then the old man.
Dunk was pondering this, walking through the lively camp, when Raymun Fossoway, whom he had met today, dragged him into a large yellow pavilion. The squire was ashamed of his behavior earlier, when he had egged Dunk on into sparring with his cousin. As an apology, the younger Fossoway offered to treat Dunk to food and drink, and Dunk agreed, expecting to be led to the Fossoway tent.
Instead, Raymun sat him down at a long table in Lord Baratheon's own pavilion and disappeared. The wise choice would have been to stand up and leave—Dunk had no place among the nobility—but hunger won out over doubt. And so Dunk found himself stuffing his cheeks with food, doing his best to remain unnoticed.
Music struck up, and people began to dance. Dunk happened to glance toward the table where the Laughing Storm and his companions were seated, and froze, a bun halfway to his mouth. Ser Lyonel Baratheon was staring straight back at him.
He's not really looking at me, Dunk told himself, but still turned away, unable to hold the gaze of those dark blue eyes. He looked toward the other end of the pavilion, and this time choked when his own blue eyes met the green eyes of Ser Damon Lannister.
Dunk swallowed hard, suddenly feeling caught between a hammer and an anvil. It seemed like something was happening—something only the two lords understood.
The younger Fossoway is going to get a clout in the ear when I get my hands on him, Dunk thought, regretting not leaving while he still had the chance.
187 AC
"So, Lucia Tyrell?" spoke the slender young man of average height. In the semi-darkness, dispersed only by the light from the camp spread out below them, his golden hair had become as dark as Lyonel's.
"I would have chosen you as Queen of Love and Beauty if I didn't know you wouldn't like it," smirked twenty-year-old Lyonel Baratheon, who had emerged victorious in this tournament. They lay on furs on a hillside, looking down at the meadow teeming with life despite the night. Hundreds of fires illuminated people scurrying to and fro—merchants who tomorrow would leave with empty carts but stuffed pockets; women of pleasure in revealing outfits, seeking out larger tents; brightly dressed musicians and dancers putting on their best performances; drunk knights and merry peasants still impressed by the tournament's conclusion. After breaking seven lances, the Laughing Storm and his opponent dismounted, and Lyonel finally won.
"She would make you a good match," continued Damon, as if not hearing him. He and Lyonel lost nothing by secluding themselves from the noisy festivities: Lyonel had bought several bottles of Arbor gold, and Damon's squire had brought food before joining the celebration below. Nearby on the grass lay a lute that Lyonel had purchased from a minstrel but quickly tired of.
The heir of House Baratheon threw his head back and laughed. The slight rasp in his voice was music to Damon's ears.
"Are you jealous?" He rolled over and loomed above Damon. His curly black hair tickled Damon's face, and the smell of alcohol hit his nose. "Don't be. I'm only yours, Young Lion. Did you know? You can't spell Lyonel without lion."
Damon leaned back, increasing the distance between them, ignoring the heat low in his belly that Lyonel's words had sparked. "I'm only yours, Young Lion," "You can't spell Lyonel without lion"... Seven, give me strength.
"Young Lion," he snorted. "The people gave me a tasteless nickname."
"You're young, and you're a Lannister," the Baratheon shrugged and lay back on his side, propping his head on his hand. "Seems fitting to me."
"You too? Thinking isn't the task of peasants, but you're a future lord." But seeing the smirk on Lyonel's face, Damon realized he was just teasing him. Damon sighed. "Young Lion, damn it. And when I grow old, will they call me the Old Lion?"
Lyonel touched his narrow face,
"If you don't like Old Lion, how about Grey? In the future, silver will appear in the gold of your hair..." He ran his hand through Damon's hair at the temples, which was shorter than on top. "Lines will appear on your face..." He tilted his head to the side and ran his thumb between Damon's brows, smoothing the crease. "But I'm sure you'll be just as handsome as you are now."
"Flatterer," Damon smirked, surrendering, and kissed Lyonel on the lips. The latter's three-day-old black stubble scratched his clean-shaven face, but this pain was nothing compared to the fire that flared within and demanded release.
***
"You know, they say Essos is flourishing now," said Lyonel after they finished making love. The night air cooled their heated skin through thin tunics, and Damon threw Lyonel's black-and-yellow doublet over himself. Lyonel himself lay beside him in just his breeches, seemingly not feeling the cold.
"And it's always warm there," Damon added. Right now, he wouldn't refuse some warmth. "But what are you getting at? Want to abandon everything and go to Essos?" he smirked, but Lyonel didn't laugh. Damon's gaze became distrustful. "You're not serious right now, are you?"
"Why not?" Lyonel answered the question with a question. The heir of House Baratheon. A future lord, damn it.
A beautiful fantasy, induced by alcohol, Damon shook his head. He knew Lyonel too well. Yes, this man shook hands with commoners and laughed at their jokes; wasn't afraid to get dirty during training bouts or tournaments; broke bread and drank with hedge knights as if they were his brothers.
But he was and remained a nobleman who drank Arbor gold like water; invited the best minstrels of the Seven Kingdoms to his castle to play at dinner; loved expensive jewelry and wore everything Damon gave him: necklaces, bracelets, rings, all of gold, which the Lannisters had in abundance. Life in Essos wasn't for him and certainly not for Damon Lannister, also a future lord.
"For first place in the tournament, they gave me ten thousand golden dragons—not to mention my own savings. That's enough for us to live a life full of pleasures in the Free Cities," Lyonel insisted. "We'll fight, make merry, love, without fear of disgracing our houses, without fear of judgment from those around us."
His dark blue eyes, black in the semi-darkness, burned like stars in the sky as he spoke. Damon looked at the night sky and tried to imagine such a life. Just him and Lyonel, far from the stern gaze of Lord Lannister, who didn't like the attention his son showed to the heir of House Baratheon. Maybe they could make it work. But in the end, he shook his head.
"No, Lyonel. No," Damon repeated, more for himself than for him. This conversation could no longer be postponed. Lyonel's gaze filled with annoyance and disappointment, but Damon forced himself to continue. "Neither you nor I can change our habits. One day, the gold will run out, and with it the merry days. And since we're talking about the future, I must confess something to you."
"Go ahead," Lyonel grumbled. "It can't get any worse."
Damon turned away, unable to look him in the eyes.
"My lord father has arranged a marriage for me with a girl from House Brax," he said in an even voice. "I'm getting married, Lyonel. And I advise you to do the same. Such is our duty."
193 AC
Such is our duty, rang in the head of twenty-eight-year-old Damon Lannister. He lay on his back on the ground, squinting from the daylight that penetrated through the visor of his lion-headed helm.
And then the ringing in his ears subsided, replaced by the deafening roar of the crowd greeting the hedge knight who had managed to unhorse the heir of House Lannister.
"Arlan of Pennytree!" someone shouted, and the rest picked it up.
Running up to him, Damon's squire—a boy from House Reyne—helped him remove his helmet and called for help.
Duty, Damon thought, requires me to be at Casterly Rock beside my pregnant wife, not playing at knight in a tournament in Lannisport. And yet here I am.
And the reason for this was the same one that allowed some hedge knight to knock him off his horse. The Young Lion might not have been as good as the Laughing Storm, but he remained better than many. Before Damon and Ser Arlan clashed for the third time, he saw how Lyonel, who was fighting in the neighboring lane, was thrown from his saddle by a lance strike to the head.
But now, as servants dragged Damon from the field, he saw that Lyonel was fine. The helmet had flown off his head, blood ran down his face, but he was laughing, holding a mace to his opponent's throat. The Laughing Storm had lost the mounted combat but won the ground fight.
Reckless fool, Damon closed his eyes wearily, no longer hoping to meet his gaze. The dark-haired youth who, in his memories, looked at him with warmth, now didn't look at him at all. But I'm no better.
After that victory of Lyonel's in the tournament at Grassy Vale six years ago, they only saw each other at royal celebrations and tournaments. For this reason, Damon didn't miss a single tournament, though he'd already grown cold to them.
Ser Damon Lannister was a proud man, like the lion on his house's sigil, but not when it came to Lyonel.
***
Late in the evening, Damon was soaking in a wooden tub, allowing his muscles to relax, when Lyonel burst into his tent, despite Robert Reyne's objections outside. Judging by his unsteady gait, the heir of House Baratheon had managed to drink.
"You may go, Robert," Damon waved his ringed hand, and Robert, casting a last glance at Lyonel, nodded and left the tent. "How's your head?" he asked, now addressing Lyonel.
"Better than your back," the Laughing Storm replied casually and began undressing. Judging by the matted black curls and remnants of dried blood on his olive face, he hadn't yet taken a bath and had gone straight to celebrate his today's string of victories.
After the fall, his back really did hurt, but Damon tried not to show it—Lyonel noticed anyway.
Damon took a goblet of wine from the table beside the bath and took a sip, watching Lyonel undress as he walked. The heir of House Baratheon had been tall at twenty, but over the past six years had become even taller and more muscular. Now his height was no less than six feet six inches.
Reaching the tub, Lyonel brazenly climbed into it—fortunately, it was large enough to fit two men, albeit with difficulty. In such moments, it seemed to Damon that everything was as before, but no, simply participating in the tournament was fraught with risk to life, which allowed Lyonel the weakness of being with him.
The water quickly clouded after Lyonel climbed into it, but Damon suppressed his disgust, focusing on the sensation of their intertwined naked legs. Lyonel's broad shoulders and strong chest were covered with bruises, dark burgundy against the black hair and olive skin.
When Damon raised his gaze to Lyonel's face again, he saw that he was staring intently at him.
"Why are you here?" the heir of House Baratheon asked unexpectedly soberly. "You're already sick of tournaments, I can see it."
"You know why."
Lyonel threw his head back and laughed.
"I thought I knew," he corrected Damon, "until you stuck a knife in my back."
"I just got married," Damon objected, setting down the empty goblet. "I didn't say I'd leave you or that everything between us was over. We can still be together. Like before."
"Before," Lyonel repeated, leaning toward him, "you asked me to hide our relationship. I understood, because we were in the same boat. And then I found a solution—run away to Essos—but you refused. And now you want me to be your dirty little secret while you play the devoted husband? Want me to satisfy you when your wife is too far along?" he tilted his head to the side. His hand settled on the inner part of Damon's thigh and slid lower. Damon needed all his self-control not to give in to lust.
"You were never a secret," he murmured and closed his eyes, but it didn't help: pictures from last night began to form in his head. "My lord father knows, the whole damn court knows." The hot memories were replaced by the cold face of the Lord of Casterly Rock. To think, a Lannister—and a sodomite! Damon opened his eyes, grabbed Lyonel by the wrist, and squeezed. "That's exactly why six years ago he matched me with Serissa. Thought it would fix me. But nothing changed. I still love you, only you. So..." Damon stumbled. He had never begged. Anyone for anything. But this was Lyonel. "So I'm asking you, just give us a chance."
"Gods, you're simply unbearable." Lyonel braced his hands on the edges of the tub and stood. The hatred with which these words were spoken hurt Damon. "A coward, unable to stand up to his father and admit his mistakes."
Damon struck his hand against the edge of the tub—splinters pierced his skin.
"You think you're better than me?! You'll get married someday, too! Lord Baratheon will present you with a girl, and you'll do exactly what's required of you: marry her and provide House Baratheon with an heir."
"Then you don't know me at all."
And he left, having pulled on only his breeches.
For several seconds, Damon sat as if paralyzed, and then grabbed the empty goblet from the table and threw it on the ground. The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, like Damon's heart.