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There was a moment, albeit short lived, that Lyonel thought there was something romantic about it—the life of a hedge knight. The lush green bounties of nature as your bedding, the star strewn sky as your canopy. The warm body of a beloved companion blanketing your own.
He hadn't thought he was that deep in his cups at the time, but it seems the only explanation for why he'd suggest this outing in the first place.
Perhaps it was his intentions that painted the idea of such an experience in a romantic light—or desperation, more like. He'd been so forlorn to learn that his hedge knight was set on leaving Storm's End after a mere two moons, and nothing Lyonel said or offered had managed to change the man's mind. So, naturally, he'd offered to come along. And as a means to appease Ser Duncan's minimalist sensibilities he'd even offered to do so in the guise of a hedge knight himself.
It was a foolproof plan that, with their horses going at a particularly leisurely pace, would guarantee him another fortnight of Ser Duncan's company at minimum. Prince Maekar will like as not be compelled to invite him to stay as a guest before Lyonel makes the journey home, especially as he had already sent his nephew ahead with a very small host of bannermen so as to ensure an escort on what would surely otherwise be a miserable and lonely journey home. Surely in such a situation Prince Aegon himself might also be compelled to stay while his family plays host, which in turn would compel Ser Duncan to stay—which, in the most important turn of all, might win Lyonel even more time in the hedge knight's company.
The reality is exactly as people have derided it to be since the advent of hedge knights.
Ser Duncan had seemed so happy when Lyonel had made the suggestion, flushed pink with excitement and unable to truly hide his smile. You've housed me so finely, m'lord he had said and given me a seat above the salt which I scarce could have imagined ever attaining, and Lyonel had puffed up like a spoiled cat with its dish full of cream. I doubt you'll find much pleasure in it, but I'd be glad to show you my life on the road and Lyonel's fool ears picked apart his words and his fool heart had seen fit to insert the words he wanted to hear in those spaces.
You'll find pleasure in me Lyonel's heart chose to hear, which made the thought of the journey that much sweeter. He'd arranged for his supplies to be packed and a horse to be readied and bid his long suffering castellan to manage things in his absence and followed his love -struck heart.
The first day was easy—enjoyable, even. Their horses trod along at a reasonable clip, two apiece to account for the armor and supplies required between the two of them. Lyonel brought his mail along as a precaution, but wore a borrowed jack of plate so as not to look too out of place next to Ser Duncan in his well-worn tunic. They sang songs and laughter until the sun made to set, then laid out their bedrolls under a tree made scrubby by the seemingly never ending drought that summer had brought along.
If it had only been autumn, or perhaps even a mild winter, they might have huddled for warmth. As it was Lyonel was itchy with drying sweat and radiating enough heat on his own without adding Ser Duncan's to his misery. They slept apart and without a fire, though even at a distance Lyonel thought he could feel the warm length of the hedge knight's body beside him. It was a comfort and eased his sleep, even if it did not match the dreams that had encouraged this expedition in the first place.
The third day was almost good, for the heat had become so great that Ser Duncan begged his pardon before stripping his tunic in the effort to manage the heat. Even with as foul as his mood was starting to become under the constant barrage of the sun, Lyonel could not help but finally find the beauty in the landscape.
He remembers meeting the man in Ashford, when it was still spring and before the great sickness laid the country to waste. Ser Duncan had been pale then, and his hair hadn't seemed half so ruddy in the gentler sun of those years. Now, well into the second year of summer, he seems almost a different man. He does not brown in the sun but freckles erupt in great clusters across his shoulders and back, along his arms—perhaps his chest, too, though Lyonel's destrier is not so accustomed to the heat as to keep up with Ser Duncan's mount, and thus the mystery remains. It is like the markings of a fawn in reverse, though no one could think him anything less than a man grown from the sheer size of him.
He is a vision and makes it easy to follow him. Lyonel devours the shadows the muscles of his back cast, daydreams about running his tongue along the dip of his spine. He lifts from his seat to extend his legs at a point, breeches riding low, and shows off the dimples of his lower back. They're hypnotizing, they're perfect, they look as if Lyonel's thumbs pressed them there. He slips into a daydream—some fantastical land where they have a horse massive enough to carry both of their oversized frames, where the weather is fine but their air is cool, where Lyonel's thumbs might have reason to press into the dimples made for them, where his chest might press to the warm expanse of Duncan's back—
On their seventh day of travel Lyonel is miserable and full of regret. He is happy for the experience, if only for the happiness it brings Ser Duncan in turn—he is pleased beyond measure to extend the limited time he was granted to spend with him. But would it have been so awful to take along a tent? Or a mule to carry a ready supply of wine?
They are not without, of course. As lord of Storm's End he had the right and authority to raid the castle's larder for drink and food. There was a sad trickle of a creek that meandered along the way to Summerhall, and they had skins of watered wine to fortify themselves—but it did not amount to enough to drink for the joy of drinking. Even without the romantic air his heart had lent the outing, but especially with the haze of lust his touch-starved cock granted him, Lyonel had expected the solitude of their journey might bring them closer still.
And if not that, then perhaps an evening of wine could smooth the way.
Ashford seemed an age past, and though he was in quite a strop at Ser Duncan's rejection of his offer at the time, the hedge knight did not know him so well to understand that his mood would pass as quickly as any squall in the stormslands might. For Lyonel it had been a gift from the gods, receiving a raven with word from the hedge knight—an apology, an inquiry, answered with an invitation in kind.
He'd been stiff at Storm's End, m'lord this and ser that and never once having the grace to dare to use Lyonel's given name alone. Though the cool walls of his home might have provided a better environment to hold each other close, it seemed the damn thing ensured distance, too, by making more blatant their different stations in life. Lyonel thought the road might be the cure, a night of good drink and merry company—if Duncan would not let himself be dressed in finery by Lyonel's own hand, then he thought the answer might lie in dressing as the hedge knight would.
Nothing.
"I'm bored," he says, finally, on the ninth day. "It's too hot to hunt, to sing, to do fuck all but burn miserably on horseback."
Duncan slows his horse until their horses keep pace with each other, finally revealing the mystery of his naked chest. Lyonel's mood is too foul to even enjoy the sight—and anyways his skin looks burnt and miserable under the mess of his freckles. In a kinder world the hedge knight might have seen the summer to end in the cool halls of Storm's End—and perhaps the world would be kinder still and make the summer last for years and years, still. Surely Duncan would have unclenched in time, maybe even let Lyonel dress him in silks of Baratheon gold.
But this is a cruel world, and so Duncan saw fit to leave him yet again.
"There is a wood ahead, where the shade covers the creek enough to keep it cool. We'll reach it within the day, m'lord. We could take a day of rest tomorrow and perhaps find some diversion there."
"Lyonel," he snaps, "I've given you leave to use my name, I've asked you to use it."
Duncan's ears, already pink from the sun, burn a ferocious red. "A-aye, I'm sorry, m'lord—Lyonel, I'm sorry Lyonel." A weak gust of wind rolls over his skin, as if the world itself apologizes too, and he is mollified.
He stays close for the remainder of that day's ride, shares tales of the two years past that Lyonel has already heard told across the great table in his home. It's different like this, more intimate with just the two of them. Duncan offers more, offers details he did not mention in his initial tells—about his time in Dorne, his encounter with the Red Widow, about his poor showing in the lists at Whitehalls.
"Word of Lord Butterwell's wedding tourney did reach Storm's End," Lyonel says, unable to hide his smile. "I would not have thought you were the Gallows Knight. A poor showing indeed, perhaps it is best you didn't enter the lists in Ashford in the end. You'd have lost your horse and armor and then where would you be?"
"I showed my skill in the end well enough, I'll thank you," Duncan grumbles, but even he must see the humor with the distance of time for a smile of his own curls the corners of his pouty lips.
Lyonel remains stuck on this tale, even as they enter the sparse wood that Duncan promised they would find, even as the sun begins its descent, even as they arrange their camp. There is still light, and the moon is full besides, promising a night so bright they could safely navigate the wood. The trees are sparse here, and when Lyonel finds two dead branches it seems meant to be.
"Come, Ser Duncan," he implores, hefting one of the limbs to test its weight. It is so dry and light it seems hollow, and the branching twigs break off with no effort. He extends towards the hedge knight as he approaches and chucks his chin. "There—grasp the end and give it a squeeze." Duncan does as he is bid and Lyonel watches with satisfaction as a length of the wood crumbles away into nothing.
"I'm in sore need of entertainment, hedge knight. What say you, shall we have a friendly joust? Will you regain your honor?"
Duncan grunts when Lyonel presses the branch into his check, grabbing hold of it when Lyonel turns to clean the second branch. "All that jawing off earlier and you want to don your armor and have a tilt, in this heat?"
"Don't be ridiculous—we'll be fine in our tunics, no need for armor. The wood will break under a stern stare alone, no harm will come to us." Duncan seems wary but eventually lets himself be convinced.
Their destriers are left to reft, and their pack horses are saddled instead. The slower speed will be to their advantage in terms of safety, and they're likely less exhausted anyways without a day spent with giants on their backs. They both put on gloves and ready their shields and go on the attack.
For all that it is play, there is something thrilling about Ser Duncan this way. His duties as lord had kept him away from the training yard the last two moons, and he had bemoaned missing the opportunity to test his strength against the larger man. Here was his chance now, though they'd be lucky if their branches didn't crumble from an incorrect grip.
They are perfectly in sync, send their horses forward without sharing a word, and the muscle memory takes over. Their approach is slow, as if wading through a dream, and Lyonel can only focus on the ice chips of Duncan's blue eyes growing closer and closer. A loud crack fills the air sooner than Lyonel would have guessed it, and a sudden sharp pain in his hand.
Lyonel is made of stronger stuff than this—he is a man long grown and has seen his fair share of battles, has known hurt. And yet it is a shock, this pain. It rips a cry from his breast, loud enough to scare his horse. She is not a war horse and so she kicks and jumps, and so Lyonel falls.
The ground is awfully hard, dry as it is. He sees white for a moment, and even as his sight returns he gasps and he gasps and can't seem to find air. The world shifts and it takes him a moment to realize it is he that is shifting—Duncan's face is pale in the dying light, eyes wide with concern.
His hands are gentle as they probe Lyonel's skull, and he grimaces when his fingers find a lump that makes Lyonel's eyes water. One of his great paws cups his skull below this injury, and the other comes to rest on his chest.
"Breathe, Lyonel," he pleads, "slowly." Duncan sucks in a slow breath to lead by example before releasing at the same speed. His hand trembles against Lyonel's breast until he feels the way he finally catches his breath, after which he settles him on the ground and leans back to take a look. Duncan's hands are firm but gentle as they feel along his body, checking for tender spots, checking the wholeness of his limbs.
"My hand," Lyonel gasps. It is as if the pain flows twofold through his body with every aching breath he takes. His head is sore and his back feels as if it's one big bruise, but even through all of that he knows, he knows there is something wrong with his hand.
His mind cannot untangle the pain he feels and so he cannot help but assume the worst—that the branch shattered instead of crumbling, that his hand was maimed or otherwise rendered useless. Lyonel cannot bear to look, not yet. There is no maester here to care for him and he knows not to what extent Duncan can heal.
"Easy, Lyonel," Duncan hums. It is the same tone Lyonel has heard him take with his horses, which should be patronizing. Instead it is soothing, for he knows how dear his animals are to him.
Perhaps I am dear to him, too, he thinks, though I wish his first show of tenderness towards me were not for such a wretched cause. Will he ever touch me so gently again? He looks to Duncan with feverish eyes, focuses on the thin line of his mouth, the red of his nose and cheeks and ears. Lyonel sees him return the glance and his ears go redder still, leaving him to wonder how gruesome the sight of his hand must be for him to look so.
He moans at the feeling of Duncan tugging his glove off, nearly hysterical at the thought that removing it will take his bloody mess of a hand with it. "Easy," Duncan repeats, voice low. The pressure around his wrist is reassuring when Duncan holds him there, he presumes to steady his shaking. The pain is sharp and godsawful and it reaches a stabbing crescendo when Duncan's thick fingers pinch and—
His hand feels fine.
"What the fuck?" He implores.
"Splinter," Duncan responds helpfully.
Lyonel thinks his hedge knight must not understand how impossible the situation is, so he helpfully repeats himself. "What the fuck?" Duncan hums uselessly, so Lyonel tries again. "What the fuck, what was that? What did you do?"
There is still enough light to see, but only just, and yet Lyonel cannot seem to focus on what Duncan presents between his pinched finger and thumb. His eyes cross until he grabs Duncan's wrist with his hand—whole and inexplicably hale—to push it a mite further away.
"Splinter," Duncan says, again, and presents—well. A splinter.
"You jape, ser. Where is the rest?"
Duncan bites his lips as if to hide a smile and an unfamiliar, hot feeling crawls up his throat. Embarrassment.
"'Tis all there is, Lyonel. I swear it."
It's a nasty little thing, the splinter. Thin, sharp. Fucking tiny.
"The Stranger take me away," he curses. He gently rests his head on the ground again and lays there, half hoping it might swallow him up. A fucking splinter. The Laughing Storm brought down by a sliver of wood so small it would scarce suffice for a mouse to pick at its teeth.
Duncan's warm hand scoops under his head again, a softer bedding than the dusty ground. "The Stranger will do no such thing, and don't invite him to do so," he demands. Lyonel blinks his eyes open and sends him a miserable look.
His hedge knight seems to be gathering his courage to speak, and it seems a great effort that he continues. "I'll not have him taking you yet. Not until you know in true that you are dear to me, ser."
"Lyonel," he interrupts quietly. Insistent.
"Lyonel," Duncan agrees. "If I had known you wanted tenderness from me I would have gladly given it. I cannot—my life is on the road and I won't lie and say I don't like it. But I would come back if you would have me."
"Perhaps I have a concussion," Lyonel mutters. "Or else this is a dream."
Duncan huffs a laugh and shakes his head. Lyonel watches the bob of his throat as he swallows, shivers as Duncan's free hand comes up so he might stroke his knuckles against his cheek. There are no more words exchanged—and how could there be? When instead their lips do meet, and his hedge knight sets to kissing his hurts away?