Chapter Text
The wind howled its discontent as the waters of Shipbreaker's Bay roiled violently far below. A storm was brewing. Lyonel could taste it in the air and feel it in his bones. He should abandon the battlements and head inside, but he could not make himself go. It had become a past time watching the waves. He stood for hours counting what ships came and left, observing birds on the hunt as they dove straight down and took to the skies again a prize clutched in their talons, and on days such as this he would stand defiant for as long as he could before the winds forced him to retreat. What was left for him, the former Storm Lord who once fancied himself a king? He was now a guest in his son's home—one who had long outstayed his welcome, and he did not know what to do with himself. He did not know the stranger reflected back at him in every pane of glass. The deep lines around his eyes and the stark white hair on his head and face. Who was that old man, and how had he lived so long?
Lyonel had never expected to be given so much time. He was supposed to die on a battlefield or on the tourney grounds in honour and glory. His death was supposed to rattle the heavens and shake the ground. Instead he was slowly fading away. A joke from the Seven who had not forgiven him for his impudence.
Storm King he had named himself. When young Duncan Targaryen had broken his betrothal with Lyonel's daughter, yes he had been insulted, yes he had been angry, but that was not why he rose up. It was a sign as clear as day. Lyonel could see it. As good of a king as Aegon the Unlikely had turned out to be the realm would not be safe in the hands of his children. They were cut from the old Targaryen cloth, and it was up to Lyonel to stop what was to come. War and conquest were the true old religions of the Seven Kingdoms, and he could see everything good that he had helped Aegon build being swept away in conflicts of succession. He thought his cause was just. Then the gods had sent the Warrior made flesh to knock him back down to earth and Lyonel knew himself to be a fool. The gods' plans were well beyond him.
He did not understand the Seven and their whims, and he did not wish to. The news out of Summerhall was incomprehensible. Lyonel could not stomach it. The moon had turned since word had first reached Storm's End and he still couldn't eat more than a mouthful of bread softened with broth at a time. The reports were confusing—it was a horrible accident, no it was a terrible experiment gone wrong—but all agreed on a few details, Summerhall was lost to a fire, the king and his eldest son were dead along with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The Targaryen curse had found Aegon at last. Why had the king walked down that path, and why had the gods allowed such a thing? King Aegon had been the champion of the smallfolk. He was pragmatic and true to his word. Yes he had made enemies—many of the great lords were angered by having their powers curtailed—but the king never held a grudge. He was as generous to his foes as he was to his friends, and the realm prospered. After Lyonel's own failed rebellion Aegon could have had his head but instead he strengthened their ties. Sending his daughter to be his cup-bearer and future daughter-in-law. King Aegon was merciful and just, so how had he fallen down the same trap that had doomed so many of his kin? Dragons. It was always fucking dragons.
Anger burned in Lyonel's chest. King Aegon foresaw the same future he did, and instead of bringing his children in line and protecting the alliances he had worked so hard to build, he turned backwards. The whisper of dragons had been heard around the realm. The king was searching for any information on the old ways of hatching and raising the fire breathing demons. Lyonel had tried to dissuade him, his entire council had, but the king wouldn't listen. It was nonsensical. Did he mean to protect the smallfolk by burning them in their beds? What had dragons brought his family other than misery? There was nothing he could do. He had already tried to break ties with the Iron Throne and the gods had laughed at him. The only thing to be done was to stop playing the game. He passed Storm's End to his son and waited for his end. He was sure he'd be long gone before everything fell apart. King Aegon had never been rash. His hobby was a foolish distraction taking him away from the good work he should have been doing. He was wasting time while his sons made terrible choice after terrible choice. That was the real tragedy. Sorcery and witchcraft were so outside of the man Lyonel knew, he didn't know what to make of the rumours. The only thing he knew for sure was that the king had reached for dragons and the gods had struck him down for it. Maybe there was justice in that, Lyonel didn't know or care. All he knew was the realm was worse off without the king and without—
No, Lyonel would not accept it. All the reports agreed but how could it be true?
Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, upstart hedge knight, dearest friend, fiercest enemy, and the truest knight the Seven Kingdoms would likely ever see. He could not be gone. Lyonel's hand gripped his left side where Ser Duncan's sword had struck true. He could not have slipped from this world without Lyonel feeling it. He had fought for Ser Duncan, he fought against him, he fought by his side—their lives had intertwined again and again. He would have felt that thread snap, he would have, so he waited.
He waited and watched the ships come in. Hoping against hope that one of them carried a giant man looking for shelter. He examined every missive searching for the one that told a different story. He sent ravens far and wide asking if anyone had seen a large burnt man wandering. There was nothing until today. His daughter-in-law came to him after receiving a raven from her niece, one of the few survivors of Summerhall. Rhaelle had shouldered the tragedy admirably. Better than him, to his own shame and the anger of his son. Ormund could not understand the depths of his sorrow. Rhaelle had lost her father, brother, and countless family, why was his father the one who could do nothing but stare at the sea all day?
Rhaelle was the lady of Storm's End, she had duties. She had a purpose. Of course she was heartbroken, but her broken heart was not all she had left. Lyonel hoped his son never knew what it meant to be a ghost in his own life. What it meant to be the last of his peers. Lyonel was not supposed to be the last.
Rhaelle had come to his study the note still clutched in her first. It was a kindness that she had come straight to him. Unlike his son she did not begrudge him his pain. She was gentle as she told him the last anyone saw of Ser Duncan he was holding up a doorway surrounded by flame allowing her niece and newborn son to escape the fire. He had not followed them out.
It had taken Lyonel out at the knees. It was the first time he had allowed himself to believe that it could be true. Because of course that is what his hedge knight would do. Protect the innocent until the end. Ser Duncan remembered his vows. He would not have left anyone behind.
Rhaelle had knelt beside his chair taking his hands in hers. "I don't believe he could bring himself to leave my father," she said quietly, "but if by some miracle he did survive I would welcome the news. My father's spirit would rest easier if his truest friend had escaped his folly."
Lyonel had kissed her hands and thanked her for her kindness. When he composed himself he walked the battlements as he did everyday. He didn't know what else to do. Even if it made sense he still couldn't believe it. Ser Duncan was as large in spirit as he was in height. He couldn't just be gone. He should have at least had the courtesy of visiting him in his dreams on the way out so Lyonel could have cursed him, or kissed him, or begged his forgiveness. This nothingness, what was he supposed to do with it?
Black clouds rolled in from the west, dark and menacing. Thunder boomed in the distance and lightning split the sky. He would be forced inside soon, even this small mercy denied him.
"Fuck you all!" he screamed into the wind. "Every last one of you! The old gods and the new!"
How dare they take everyone and leave him here. He could barely sit on a horse anymore. Old injuries and aching joints kept him awake most nights. It was a cruel jest, his existence. He stared over the wall at the waves far below him and briefly considered throwing himself in, but he wouldn't give the gods the satisfaction. If they wanted him they would bloody well have to come and get him. Fuck them.
Lyonel stayed for as long as he could bear the wind and the rain, and then he let out one last roar of a scream. He screamed until his throat felt raw, and then he finally turned and made his way inside.
There was no solace to be found indoors. Lyonel stepped through the door and right into the pathway of four guards dragging a protesting young man down the hallway.
"What in the seven hells is going on here!" Lyonel yelled stopping the guards in their tracks.
"You!" the young man said excitedly pointing at him. "You're Lord Lyonel aren't you? I was sent to find you!"
One of the guards smacked the boy upside the head. "Don't worry my Lord we were just escorting the stupid boy outside the castle walls where he can start his journey to find a new life and new employment."
The boy squirmed and tried to break free. "The man said—"
The guard struck him across the face this time. "Do you want to keep your teeth boy?"
"Enough." Lyonel barked. "Who is this? What man is he talking about?"
A second guard sighed. "This is one of our stable boys. There's a beggar sleeping with the horses. He has the boy convinced that he knows you, but don't worry my lord, we'll take care of it."
Lyonel gripped his cane in an iron fist. His heart beat wildly in his chest.
"Release the boy at once," he commanded.
"My lord?" The first guard questioned.
"At once!"
They dropped the boy at Lyonel's feet. He quickly scrambled upright and smoothed his clothes.
"I told you so," the boy said.
"Don't misunderstand me boy," Lyonel said stepping closer. "If this is some cruel jape you will wish I had let the guards throw you out into the storm."
The boy swallowed, but then stuck his chin up proudly. "No my lord, not on my part anyway. The man said you'd be cross if you missed him. I believe him. I just do."
Hope threatened to overwhelm him but he would not let it loose. Not yet.
"Did he give you a name, this man?"
The boy shook his head. "No my lord, but he gave me a message." The boy took a breath and spoke carefully. "Find Lord Lyonel and tell him a friend from Ashford Meadow has come for supper."
Lyonel moved before the boy had finished speaking. The guards tried to block his path.
"I will have your hand for accosting this boy and your feet for blocking my path. Get out of my way!"
"Your son—"
"My son does not dictate where I walk! You forget to whom you speak." His voice dropped low and dangerous. A crack of thunder shook the walls on his last word. Lyonel pointed a finger skyward. "I am a Storm Lord still."
The guards jumped to the side. The one who had hit the boy the last to fall in line.
"Your name ser." Lyonel demanded.
"Ser Erik Mertyns, my lord."
"I'll remember you, Ser Erik." He meant it as a threat.
The guard's ears reddened. "If this man kills you, your son will have my head."
Lyonel nodded at that. "Yes, probably." He turned and hurried towards the door leading to the courtyard. "Come boy, show me which stall this man has made his bed in."
"Yes my lord!" The boy said running in front of him. He turned his head and stuck his tongue out at Ser Erik.
Lyonel laughed, and Ser Erik gave him a look that indicated he thought Lyonel had completely taken leave of his senses. Maybe he had. His laughter had once been so commonplace that they used to call him the Laughing Storm, but that had been long ago. Before some of these guards had even been born. The redhead beside Ser Erik had a face free of stubble and looked like his balls hadn't even dropped yet. Had he ever been so young?
The stable boy threw open the castle doors. Wind whipped the trees and the rain came down sideways. A bucket flew past the doorway.
Ser Erik made one last attempt to stop him. "My lord," he hissed grabbing onto his arm.
Lyonel stepped to the side bringing his cane up in a sweeping motion. He cracked Ser Erik across the knuckles and then sharply poked him in his stomach. Ser Erik fell back with a grunt.
"Do not touch me again."
He walked towards the door.
"Go fetch Lord Baratheon," he heard Ser Erik say.
Lyonel threw back his head and laughed. Lord Baratheon was right here walking into the storm.
The rain stung as it hit his face. He could barely see, but it didn't matter. This courtyard had been his playground. He could find the stables with his eyes closed. The brave stable boy hooked his arm around Lyonel's own and tried to guide him anyway.
Lyonel laughed again. "This is my home boy!"
The wind took his words before they could be heard. No matter, the poor boy was shaking either from cold or fear, so Lyonel held onto his arm tightly. A streak of lightning forked the sky. It was farther away then it looked, but the stable boy jumped a foot in the air. Lyonel pulled him forward. They needed to get inside before the lad fainted.
The stable doors appeared in front of them, but Lyonel hesitated. His search for Ser Duncan must be well known by now. There would be some who would look to take advantage. The Trial of Seven had been famous once. There could be a tall knave who didn't realize how well Lyonel knew Ser Duncan and was trying to pass himself off as the man.
"Supper, he said supper?" Lyonel asked the stable boy.
"What?" the boy yelled back.
"Supper!"
The boy nodded. "Aye, he said he came for supper!"
Who was alive that knew that? Nobody he could think of. Lyonel steeled himself and pushed through the doors. The stable boy quickly slammed the doors shut behind them latching them against the wind. If this was a trap, Ser Erik would never let him hear the end of it. Of course if it was a trap he'd probably be dead, so at least there was an upside.
"Where is he?" Lyonel demanded.
"Down here my lord," the stable boy said walking into the darkness at the end of the stables.
Most of the horses had been born and bred at Storm's End, so the stable was quieter than one might expect. A few nickered nervously, but most ate and slept unimpressed with the passing storm. Lyonel gripped his cane in one hand and pulled a dagger from his side with the other. The stable boy lit a lantern by the last stall in the line and gestured inside. Lyonel approached, and almost dropped his dagger at the sight that greeted him.
At first Lyonel had thought he was experiencing a cruelty beyond anything he had imagined. The unmoving mountain of a man lying in a pile of hay was most definitely his Ser Duncan, and he was also most definitely dead. Half of his face was burned and melted beyond recognition, while his one good eye stared lifelessly straight ahead. Who could have dragged his body here, and by the gods why? Or had Ser Duncan made it all this way only to expire while Ser Erik interrogated the stable boy and slowed Lyonel down. If so, he would kill the guard himself.
The body in front of him took in a shuddering breath and then sat up. Lyonel jumped back and tightened his grip on the dagger.
The bright blue eye blinked and focused. "Lyonel, you came." The voice was rough but recognizable.
Lyonel let out something between a laugh and a cry. He dropped to his knees grabbing onto the man in front of it. "I knew it. I knew you were alive you son of whore!"
The man grunted. "Did you? I don't know how you could have. I don't feel very alive."
"You don't look it either," Lyonel agreed. "Boy, I know you're frightened of the storm," he said turning to the stable boy, "but this man needs help. Bring the maester, don't worry we have a good one now," he assured the man, "and if any of the guards give you trouble tell them I said you will wear the balls of any guard who bothers you as a necklace."
The boy blanched. "I don't actually have to wear their balls though, do I?"
"Of course not, you can do whatever you want with their balls, just hurry."
The stable boy ran out. There was nothing Lyonel could do in the meantime. He hadn't even brought a water skin with him. He patted the man's good hand.
"Ser Duncan you are a sight." The man who had once been the avatar for the face of the Warrior himself could barely sit up. The hair on his left side had been burned away and the gray streaked mess on the right hung in greasy clumps.
The man shook his head. "Ser Duncan the Tall died at Summerhall, hadn't you heard? Dunk from Flea bottom is all that's left. If even that."
"Dunk is still a ridiculous name."
Dunk shrugged. It looked like it took all his strength to do it. "It's all I've got. I'm sorry Lyonel, for coming here. I didn't know where to go. I didn't think I'd survive the journey, but the gods won't have me."
"Fuck the gods," Lyonel said squeezing Dunk's hand. "I'll have you."
Dunk looked at him with such genuine bafflement that it broke Lyonel's heart.
"I'm not sure why you would. There's nothing left of me."
Before Lyonel could protest Dunk's eye rolled back in his head. Lyonel pulled him close and did his best to soften his collapse. The man was still heavy as an ox, but thankfully he hadn't been standing. Lyonel was able to maneuver him safely to the ground. He cradled Dunk's head in his lap and whispered prayers to all the gods he had cursed.
"If you bastards let him live, maybe I'll grant you forgiveness."