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Ser Kevan Crakehall had been summoned to his family home by his father because a tournament was being held in honor of the wedding of one of his younger brothers.
Kevan had harbored his doubts about returning, but the idea of showing his father’s vassals —who always seemed to have far too many opinions about what Kevan did, what he was capable of doing, and how he had earned his title— ultimately convinced him to come back.
Kevan knew that, as the firstborn omega son of House Crakehall, he possessed freedoms few others could even imagine.
Though he was the eldest son, he had four younger alpha brothers, and one of them would become head of the family when his father died, so Kevan had been able to become a knight and then devote himself to traveling to as many places as possible. Not as a hedge knight —his parents would never have allowed it—, but simply because he wished to do so. He traveled for the sake of traveling, took part in tournaments, brought to his bed whomever pleased him, and avoided bastard children with moon tea, though he had likely already ruined any chance of having descendants of his own should he ever decide to do so… or should they end up forcing him to marry.
Kevan was accustomed to drawing attention, and not solely because he was an omega.
He was larger than most of the alphas he crossed paths with, broad-shouldered and possessed of a presence difficult to ignore even before someone truly took notice of his face. His blond hair seemed to take on an almost golden glow beneath the light of the sun, especially during the clear afternoons of the Westerlands, where the heat drew warm gleams from the pale strands that usually fell over his shoulders. Added to that was the confident and haughty attitude proper to someone raised within one of the great bloodlines of the realm, and Kevan knew perfectly well that, once the alphas ceased feeling intimidated by his size, they inevitably became enamored with his beauty.
Kevan knew perfectly well what he provoked whenever he entered a room. Alphas tended to watch him for far too long, caught between attraction and the instinctive challenge awakened by an omega of his size; omegas, depending on their temperament, reacted with curiosity, interest, or open irritation. Kevan had learned years ago to enjoy it, he liked taking up space, he liked feeling watched and, more than anything, he enjoyed the particular expression that appeared upon the faces of certain alphas when they realized that Kevan Crakehall was not going to bow his head merely to soothe them.
So yes, Kevan Crakehall obtained almost everything he wanted whenever he wanted it. His brothers used to tell him that it was only a matter of time before he found something —or someone— that would strike him with a dose of reality; that, regardless of what their parents said or allowed, the world did not bend for and around Kevan Crakehall.
Kevan had never paid them much mind.
He had arrived at Crakehall weeks before the tournament began, for he needed a new horse, as well as armor suitable for the jousts, and thus he had been present for the arrival of practically every house that would attend the event.
Crakehall already seethed with activity even before the official beginning of the celebrations. The smell of sea salt constantly mingled with that of the stables, damp leather, and freshly oiled steel; the courtyards rang from early morning with the sound of training swords, impatient whinnies, and the voices of squires running from one side to the other carrying shields, lances, or barrels of wine. Banners had begun to gather around the fortress and the harbor remained crowded nearly at all hours, with ships coming and going beneath the ceaseless cries of gulls.
Kevan knew most of the important and noteworthy knights of the realm; if not in person, then at least by name and reputation. He had seen The Laughing Storm compete more than once, though he had never truly managed to get close to the alpha, so when he was informed that the Baratheon galley had docked and that servants could already be seen descending toward the harbor, his attention fixed there at once.
Thanks to his constant travels, Kevan was not always aware of —nor particularly interested in— every marriage, alliance, or political movement among the great houses. Even so, only a complete fool could have missed the news that Lyonel Baratheon had married and bonded with an omega with whom he already had an heir to continue the Baratheon line.
Kevan had lamented the news a little upon hearing it.
It was well known that Lyonel Baratheon had been a particularly generous lover before marrying, but also a man with a sense of honor and loyalty far stronger than many expected from someone like him, that made it very unlikely that he would be unfaithful to his partner.
He had also heard enough stories about Lyonel Baratheon over the years to know that much of the realm seemed to revolve, in one way or another, around the heir of Storm’s End. Some stories spoke of his victories in combat and the brutality with which he could fight; others, of the absurd brawls in which he ended up involved, of his unpredictable temper, or of the ease with which he seemed to draw others into following him. And then there were the stories that circulated among omegas and occasional lovers, far more difficult to confirm, yet repeated too often to dismiss entirely.
However, they all agreed on one thing: no one seemed to forget Lyonel Baratheon easily after meeting him. And Kevan wished to discover for himself whether the man truly deserved such a reputation or, more specifically, he wished to discover how Lyonel Baratheon would look beneath him.
Because Kevan fully intended to bring The Laughing Storm to his bed.
Kevan made certain to stroll constantly beneath the excuse of fulfilling his duties as a member of House Crakehall, overseeing stables, reviewing preparations, or simply allowing himself to be seen among the important guests, and thus it did not take long before he was invited to different banquets and gatherings where he could see men in the black and gold tabards of the Baratheons… but not the heir.
Though he had seen him from afar a couple of times, and always accompanied. There was a man who seemed to follow him everywhere, one who, even at a distance, was difficult to ignore. He was tall —Kevan did not believe quite as tall as himself, but close— and possessed the sort of firm, well-worked body that spoke of years spent riding, training, and fighting. His reddish blond hair fell to his shoulders and gleamed beneath the sun in copper tones, especially when he rode that enormous black horse he guided in circles within one of the improvised training grounds near the camp.
Kevan watched him more than once.
The man spoke with Lyonel while he trained the animal, and the Baratheon heir observed him from the shade of one of the pavilions with a cup in hand, relaxed in a way very few great lords ever managed to appear. At his side there was usually also a silver-haired adolescent, likely his squire, who listened to every word Lyonel spoke with almost absolute attention.
And it was strange because they did not seem like interactions between lord and subordinate, there was too much familiarity in the way the reddish blond man approached Lyonel, too much ease in how he invaded his personal space without anyone seeming to consider it a lack of respect, more than once Kevan saw Lyonel laugh at something the other man said, throwing his head back with a deep laugh that even at a distance managed to draw attention.
Kevan’s opportunity arrived a few days later, during the second day of jousts, when the Baratheons raised an enormous tent adorned with crowned stags embroidered in golden thread to celebrate one of their famous feasts. He had been told that they used it as a place to eat when they did not wish to return to their galley, though it quickly became clear that it also served to gather their vassals, allies, and practically anyone pleasant enough to receive an invitation.
And Lyonel Baratheon seemed to invite half the tournament.
When he was informed that the feast had already begun, Kevan had his servants prepare his finest clothes and searched for some trivial gift that might serve him as an excuse to approach. He ended up bringing a particularly expensive bottle of spiced wine from Lannisport that one of his brothers had been keeping for himself. He did not care much about stealing it.
Upon arriving, Kevan immediately understood why the Baratheon feasts possessed such a reputation.
The tent was enormous, supported by thick dark poles and open on several sides to allow the humid coastal air to pass through. The smell of roasted meat, strong wine, sea salt, and approaching rain permeated the atmosphere, mingling with perfumes, sweat, and torch smoke. There was music playing somewhere in a corner, thunderous laughter, tables overflowing with food, and men shouting their conversations as though they had all been lifelong friends.
It was loud, disorderly, and extraordinarily alive.
Barely had Kevan entered before he had to stop for a few seconds to observe the spectacle before him: knights playing cards atop barrels, omegas laughing among themselves while sharing cups of wine, alphas arguing about past jousts, and several musicians attempting to make themselves heard above the general chaos and, strangely enough, it worked, there was a warmth there that Kevan was not accustomed to finding in gatherings so large, especially among nobles.
He followed the necessary protocols when introducing himself so that he might have the rest of the night in peace, and ended up being dragged from conversation to conversation, from dance to dance, and from cup to cup more times than he could remember. A woman from the Westerlands even forced him to dance two songs in a row before letting him escape amid laughter and Kevan was enjoying himself, sincerely and openly.
But he remembered his true objective the moment he finally saw Lyonel.
The alpha was seated at the far end of one of the longest tables beside the silver-haired boy, dressed entirely in black save for the golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs. He wore a simple crown of blackened antlers that drew nearly as much attention as the golden earring gleaming from one of his ears whenever he turned his head. And his laugh... Seven hells, his laugh, it resonated even above the music and the noise of the tent, deep and warm, the sort of sound that made others laugh simply from hearing it.
During one of the dances, Kevan passed close enough to receive a breath of his scent, something masculine and dense that filled his mouth with saliva so quickly he had to clench his jaw to disguise it. He felt the heat settle beneath his skin almost immediately, heavy and electric, spreading between his legs with an intensity that irritated him as much as it aroused him.
When he found the proper moment, Kevan approached with a slow and confident smile, swaying his hips only slightly as he crossed through the crowd until leaning against the table and the instant Lyonel’s eyes lifted toward him, claiming all his attention at once, Kevan’s smile widened still further.
Yes… He was definitely worth it.
He accepted the cup of wine Lyonel poured for him and, taking advantage of the evident lack of boundaries within that tent, sat upon the edge of the table, half-turned and with his legs crossed while he slowly licked his lips after a sip; the wine was strong, spiced, with that heavy warmth typical of the Stormlands, and it left a faint burn upon his tongue that only seemed to intensify the scent of the alpha seated before him.
He rested part of his weight upon one hand, leaving it deliberately close to Lyonel, almost brushing against him, while he used the other to hold the cup just above his thigh, drawing attention toward his long and strong legs beneath the tight fabric of his dark breeches, the position was not accidental, nothing Kevan did ever was.
And even so, Lyonel seemed completely at ease.
Kevan was not truly certain what the alpha was saying, because he could barely focus on the words. All his attention kept returning to his mouth; to the way his lips curved before laughing, to the flash of white teeth behind a mocking smile, to how he sometimes lightly bit his tongue at the end of a laugh, as though restraining himself from continuing to laugh.
Seven hells... It took genuine effort not to close his eyes or press his thighs together seeking some sort of relief whenever he imagined all the things that mouth must know how to do.
The constant murmur of the tent, the music, the conversations around them… everything was beginning to feel distant, drowned beneath the deep sound of Lyonel’s voice and the scent of damp storm that seemed to surround him even there inside. Kevan’s train of thought broke abruptly when the silver-haired boy who had remained silent since Kevan approached, rose to his feet, leaning slightly toward Lyonel, and Kevan could immediately tell by the scent that he was a young alpha.
—I am going to regret missing the fun, Ser, but I think I would rather retire now.
—Very well, Egg, straight to bed, understood?
—Yes, Ser… I will see Ormund and Durran before sleeping.
—Do not let them catch you.
The boy smiled faintly, with the expression of someone who was clearly already planning to partially disobey.
—Anything sweet?
Lyonel let out a deep laugh and pushed toward the boy an empty and clean plate that had been abandoned among the cups.
—Do not let your Ser see you, quickly.
Kevan remained silent, observing the scene with one brow slightly raised while the boy leaned down enough for Lyonel to rub a wrist against his neck, marking him with his scent in a distracted and completely natural manner before pressing a brief kiss against his temple. The boy departed at once, moving between the tables with evident practice while stealing different desserts and candied fruits from other people’s plates, ignoring the amused protests some knights threw at him.
Well, that only made him even more attractive.
Clearly his abilities were not limited to the battlefield or the rumors of court; the man also possessed the makings of a father, and a good one, the sort whose presence alone seemed enough to make a boy obey without fear and without even thinking much about it. Kevan had seen enough men attempt to perform that role to recognize when it was feigned and when it was not and in Lyonel there was nothing forced; everything about him seemed natural, easy, as though caring for others was simply part of who he was.
That made the hot and heavy ache between Kevan’s legs worsen immediately because it was unfair. Unfair that a man could look like that, smell like that, laugh like that, and on top of it possess that sort of quiet and affectionate patience so many omegas sought in an alpha.
Lyonel resumed the conversation as though the boy had not truly interrupted them, moving his ringed hands through the air while speaking with a relaxed ease that made it seem as though all the space around him belonged to him. The dark stones set in gold gleamed every time the torches reached his fingers and Kevan ended up watching those movements with the same fixation with which he had earlier been staring at his mouth.
Everything about Lyonel Baratheon seemed excessive: Too large, too attractive, too comfortable with himself and a part of Kevan was beginning to grow deeply irritated because it was impossible that the alpha did not notice what was happening between them. His scent was literally floating in the air; he could feel the spiced and thick note of his own arousal mingling with the warmth of the tent, the wine spilled across the tables, and Lyonel’s electric scent.
Any other alpha would already have reacted at least slightly.
But Lyonel remained exactly the same, smiling and laughing, watching him with that relaxed attentiveness that was beginning to feel almost offensive because it felt as though he were indulging him, as though he were allowing him to amuse himself.
Kevan then began using every trick he knew, not because he doubted himself but simply because he did not understand how that man still had not broken. He leaned slightly forward so that his doublet opened a little more over his chest, leaving exposed golden and firm skin alongside the broad muscles shaped by years of training with a sword and riding horseback, he slowly shifted position atop the table until he was more comfortable, though open enough that the spread of his legs would draw the attention of anyone who looked for too long.
He exposed his neck deliberately, free of collar, free of marks, completely bare beneath the golden torchlight. He even dared to take one of Lyonel’s hands between his own as though examining his rings. The alpha’s hands were enormous and warm, with old scars across the knuckles and a roughness impossible to conceal even beneath the rings. Kevan slowly slid his thumb across his skin while continuing to speak, letting his voice drop slightly, softer, lower, dangerously close to a purr.
And even so Lyonel did not react, or worse, reacted exactly as before: He laughed at something Kevan said, broad and carefree, throwing his head back slightly while one of his boots distractedly struck the floor beneath the table, his fingers did not even tense within Kevan’s hand, there was no nervousness, nor evident hunger, nor that restrained tension Kevan was accustomed to provoking.
That was beginning to drive him mad, because alphas reacted to him. They always reacted.
Kevan was so caught within Lyonel’s orbit —within the weight of his eyes upon him, within the warmth of his scent, within the sound of his laughter vibrating above the music and conversations— that he did not immediately notice how the atmosphere inside the tent was beginning to change and when Kevan finally looked away from Lyonel long enough to glance around, he discovered that practically the entire attention of the tent was fixed upon them.
The conversations had not stopped completely, but they had lowered enough to leave a strange feeling in the air, that sort of partial silence that appears when too many people are trying to pretend they are not watching something. Cups still clinked in the distance, the musicians continued playing near one of the open entrances of the enormous tent, and the smell of roasted meat, spiced wine, and sea salt still drifted beneath the Baratheons’ black and gold fabrics, but the attention… the attention was there.
Upon Kevan and upon Lyonel.
Kevan watched the man he had seen accompanying Lyonel in previous days rise from one of the long benches where he had been seated speaking with one of Kevan’s younger brothers —who now smiled at him with open mockery from the other side of the table— and with a boy wearing a tabard embroidered with a green apple upon the chest.
Something tightened slightly inside Kevan when the man began walking toward them with a broad, relaxed smile that did not reach his blue eyes in the slightest, cold as winter ice beneath that warm torchlight and the glow of braziers.
Kevan looked him over slowly, noting that he wore tight black breeches, tall riding boots still marked by dry dust, and a golden linen shirt, over which rested a black leather vest embroidered with the Baratheon sigil and left open across his broad chest. The clothing not only outlined the muscles of his torso and an impressive figure that could scarcely be hidden even beneath several layers of fabric, but the wide neckline of the shirt also left the silver mark upon his neck entirely visible.
His reddish-golden hair was half braided back, though several strands escaped around his face and brushed against his cheekbones or cheeks. Kevan also noticed the golden earring hanging from one of his ears, identical to Lyonel’s, and when he finally drew close enough to stand beside them, he could smell him.
Omega.
The recognition was immediate, though not nearly so immediate as the surprise that came from realizing he had misjudged the man’s size. From a distance he had seemed only slightly shorter than himself, but standing at his side Kevan understood that the man was, in fact, taller; not as broad-shouldered, not as massive, but still large enough to be physically imposing in a manner uncommon for an omega.
And yet there was something strange in his figure, a certain thinness in particular parts of his body that suggested someone who had once lost weight and was slowly regaining it, perhaps he had been ill or suffered a grave injury, something that clearly had not managed to weaken him overmuch but had forced him to slow his pace.
Kevan stepped down from the table with a slow, elegant movement while the omega observed him from head to toe without the slightest attempt at concealment. The man’s jaw, faintly shadowed by a reddish beard, tightened just slightly into an expression between mockery and contempt that Kevan rarely received from anyone and that, for some reason, irritated him far more than it should have.
—If you have finished entertaining…—The omega moved one of his enormous white, freckled hands through the air in a vague and dismissive gesture toward Kevan, as though he did not even consider it necessary to finish the sentence, before turning his eyes toward Lyonel and lifting a pale brow.—You promised me a dance.
Kevan felt the irritation slowly coil within his chest as he watched the omega lean over the table without asking permission, invading Lyonel’s space with the ease of someone who knew perfectly well that he belonged to him. He removed the crown of dark antlers from the alpha’s head and placed it upon himself before turning to leave.
As though it were the most natural thing in the world... As though no one would dare stop him.
—Oh, Doe… how I enjoy watching you walk away.
Kevan flinched slightly at Lyonel’s shameless remark and even more so when the alpha, without the slightest noble dignity, leapt onto the table in one swift and fluid movement to hurry after the omega who was already laughing.
So that was Lyonel’s husband. Duncan, he believed his name was.
Kevan slowly climbed back onto the table, refusing to allow the sensation of rejection to settle too deeply beneath his skin, though he knew perfectly well that he had no real right to feel scorned. He braced his hands behind himself and leaned his body back slightly, leaving his legs somewhat apart in a deliberately provocative posture, exposed in an open but still controlled manner.
Then he spoke.
—Ser Lyonel!
His voice was soft, yet loud enough to cut through the murmur of the tent and make them both turn toward him. Kevan held the alpha’s gaze without moving or bothering to look at the omega.
—May I have your favor for tomorrow’s joust?
The tent fell silent, several people stopped drinking and someone let out a muffled laugh near one of the tables. Kevan could feel dozens of eyes upon him but then the omega scoffed.
It was a dry, disbelieving sound before Duncan leaned back with almost lazy ease, resting part of his weight against Lyonel’s chest as though the alpha’s body were the most natural place in the world to rest. And perhaps he was not trying to be seductive, perhaps that was simply the way he was, but the manner in which he arched his body against his husband, slow and utterly comfortable beneath all that attention, caused the silver mark upon his neck to remain exposed beneath the warm torchlight, gleaming against his pale skin.
—Well now… —he slightly dragged out the words with an accent Kevan still could not entirely place—. I have not even seen such audacity in the cheapest whores of Flea Bottom.
The laughter that swept across several tables was immediate, mingling with the sound of goblets striking together, overlapping conversations and the amused murmur of several stormlanders who clearly agreed with their Lord Consort, but Kevan scarcely registered it.
He was too focused on Duncan.
On how he still rested against Lyonel with insulting confidence, completely relaxed despite the fact that his eyes remained fixed upon Kevan with a dangerous coldness that did not match the softness of his smile in the slightest. It was strange; everything in his body language felt warm, comfortable, even seductive in a careless and natural way, yet there was something in that blue gaze that made Kevan’s instincts tell him that the man was far more dangerous than he appeared.
And then the scent changed. Not Lyonel’s. Duncan’s.
Until that moment he had smelled of something warm and clean, mingled with that faint salty trace that seemed to cling to all the people of the Stormlands, but now the scent had grown deeper, thicker, spreading slowly around Lyonel in a shamelessly possessive way. It did not erase the alpha’s smell; it mingled with it, wrapping around him just as Duncan’s body did while one of his large freckled hands tangled through Lyonel’s dark curls to pull his head back ever so slightly, pressing a brief kiss to his neck with an intimate and territorial familiarity. As though he were reminding the entire tent — and especially Kevan — exactly who had the right to touch him.
And Lyonel… Seven hells. Lyonel seemed utterly enthralled.
There was no shame or discomfort in him, not even mocking amusement; only that dangerously open expression of someone far too in love to conceal it. His eyes followed Duncan’s every movement with absolute attention while his hands rested firmly on the omega’s waist, relaxed yet possessive, and when Duncan tilted his head just slightly toward his neck, Lyonel obeyed at once, as though kissing that freckled skin were his sole purpose for existing even in the midst of a hall full of nobles watching him.
The sight made something uneasy twist beneath Kevan’s skin.
Because all at once he had the unpleasant premonition that he had just earned the absolute hatred of someone truly dangerous.
Ser Kevan Crakehall had never been humiliated as he had been the night before.
Nor as he was being humiliated in that very moment.
Upon entering the tourney grounds that morning, he realized that Duncan was competing in Lyonel’s place, so, driven by wounded pride and an irritation that still simmered beneath his skin, he had challenged him almost immediately. The roar that swept through the arena the moment his herald announced the challenge made it clear to him that the rumor of what had happened the previous night had already reached everyone present, including Kevan’s own family. Even so, that did not stop him.
The sun beat harshly against the stands and drew flashes from the banners stirring above the noble tents; the smell of turned earth, cured leather, sweating horses, and heated steel hung heavy in the air. The jousting arena had spent days overflowing with people, but that morning the crowd seemed especially alert, as though all of them were expecting something more than a simple joust.
Kevan had ridden through the arena with a calm and confident smile despite not truly feeling it, making his mount trot before the different houses until he stopped in front of the Baratheon tent. There he struck with his lance the shield adorned with the tree and the falling star, knowing perfectly well that it was Duncan’s personal sigil thanks to one of his squires.
The blow rang out with enough force to draw immediate exclamations and murmurs.
From the previous night to that morning he had learned that Duncan, in fact, possessed a reputation of his own, one that depended neither on Lyonel nor on his marriage to him. He had heard stories while breakfasting with other knights and while his men fastened his armor: of brutal fights in the Stormlands, of an omega large enough to break an alpha’s jaw with a single blow during a tourney at Summerhall. Apparently he had vanished from the circuit for a time but had returned a few years ago and his reputation had only grown since then.
Even so, Ser Kevan Crakehall was a recognized knight, trained since he could remember by different masters-at-arms, accustomed to traveling from tourney to tourney and facing all manner of opponents. He had learned by observing different styles in the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Riverlands; he had defeated men larger than himself, swifter than himself, and far more experienced than an omega who had spent years away from the competition lists. That was what he kept repeating to himself.
So, spurred on by that confidence — or perhaps by sheer stubbornness — he had challenged the other omega.
Before taking his position, he rode before the viewing boxes searching for Lyonel almost by instinct. And then something shrank unpleasantly within his chest.
The alpha was up there, dressed in black and gold, reclined in his seat with insolent ease while two small children shifted restlessly around him. They bore black curls identical to Lyonel’s, thick and disordered by the sea wind, but the eyes were Duncan’s: blue, clear, and far too attentive for creatures who could not have been more than six years old. Even from a distance it was evident that they would grow enormous, with that heavy and solid build of the stormlanders that promised strength before even leaving childhood behind.
One of them was practically climbing over Lyonel while pointing excitedly at something in the arena, and the alpha simply held him with one arm around his waist without taking his eyes from the field.
Kevan looked away before lingering too long on the way Lyonel smiled when Duncan finally appeared at the opposite end of the grounds.
Because then the air changed.
Duncan was dressed in full armor, far more traditional than Kevan had expected. The dark steel followed the lines of his body without making him look cumbersome, and the golden details of the antlers engraved across the chest gleamed beneath the sun each time he moved his horse. The silver stars scattered across the armor and shield caught the light in an almost aggressive manner, forcing the eye toward him.
And he was large.
Larger than Kevan had calculated the previous night inside the crowded and warm tent, upon the horse he seemed even taller, more solid, with broad shoulders and long legs perfectly steady against the stirrups. He did not possess Lyonel’s brutal breadth, but there was an evident strength in the way he held the reins, relaxed and completely at ease beneath the weight of the armor.
The young alpha who had accompanied Lyonel the previous night now held Duncan’s shield and helm while walking beside him. He was still smiling, clearly amused by something the omega was saying to him, though even at a distance Kevan could tell that the boy’s eyes had grown considerably colder when looking at him.
Duncan, by contrast, appeared almost unconcerned, that was probably the worst part because he did not look tense. He did not seem irritated or anxious. He adjusted his glove calmly, received the helm, but when he finally lifted his gaze toward Kevan… his eyes were pure ice. There was no trace of the relaxed sensuality from the previous night, nor of the mocking smile, nor of the omega reclined against Lyonel while allowing the alpha to kiss his neck before the entire tent.
Only something cold remained.
Dangerous.
—Ser.
—What? —Kevan barely turned his head toward his squire, irritated at noticing the other’s nervousness filtering even through his scent.
The boy swallowed before speaking again, without taking his eyes off Duncan on the opposite side of the field.
—Are you certain?
Kevan adjusted the lance more firmly beneath his arm while his horse snorted and struck the ground with one hoof, restless from the tension weighing upon the air. The leather of his gloves creaked when he tightened the reins.
—Of course I am —he answered curtly—. Do not ask stupid questions.
So Kevan pressed onward.
He settled himself in the saddle when the trumpet sounded, lowering his body only slightly over the neck of his mount before spurring it into a full gallop. The horse shot forward over the churned sand while the thunder of hooves made the ground beneath them tremble. Kevan held the lance firmly, feeling how the impact of the heavy trot ran through his entire arm and settled in his shoulder.
His heart beat fast, too fast, excitement and something far less pleasant mixing beneath the armor as the distance between him and Duncan closed. The wind struck his face, tearing blond strands from beneath his helm as he kept his gaze fixed on the omega advancing toward him.
Duncan did not seem to move at all upon his horse.
Even at full speed he maintained that strangely relaxed posture, firm and perfectly balanced, as if the creature beneath him scarcely existed. The golden antlers of his armor flashed beneath the sun when he only slightly tilted his shield. And then he moved. It was fast, too fast for Kevan to notice in time, before Kevan’s lance struck the opposing shield, Duncan twisted his arm with brutal precision and deflected Kevan’s lance with the edge of his own shield. The blow completely changed the angle of the impact, making the wood slide off rather than connect properly.
The force of the deflection ran through Kevan’s arm until his shoulder vibrated. They had a null pass.
Kevan wheeled his horse abruptly, breathing harder as he heard the confused murmur of the stands. Duncan, on the other hand, seemed completely unperturbed as he adjusted his shield once more. And Kevan knew perfectly well that to deflect a lance like that in full charge he would have needed absurd strength, not only to move the impact but to remain stable on the mount without letting the momentum tear him from the saddle.
The next pass was the same.
And the next.
Duncan kept deflecting each attack with that irritating calm, moving only just enough, as if he were correcting something bothersome instead of facing another knight at full speed. Kevan began to grow truly enraged.
—Stop playing games! —He roared after another failed pass, turning his horse with enough violence to make it rear.
Duncan did not even respond, only repositioned himself at the far end of the field while the wind stirred the pale strands escaping from beneath his helm.
The rest of the bouts had ended long ago. Some knights had unhorsed their rivals in the first passes and others had ended up settling their differences on foot upon the sand, amid shouts, wagers, and the metallic sound of steel clashing beneath the midmorning sun. The crowd should have dispersed toward the tents to seek wine, food, or some shade away from the ever-heavier heat falling over Refugio Quebrado, but no one seemed willing to move.
The conversations had gradually dwindled into a strange, expectant murmur that surrounded the whole field while eyes remained fixed upon them. Upon Kevan, unable to reach Duncan, and upon Duncan, deflecting each charge with an insulting ease that was beginning to make Kevan’s blood boil beneath the armor.
The empty arena around them made everything feel even worse, more humiliating.
Kevan breathed harder and harder inside his helm, feeling sweat run slowly down his back as he adjusted the lance under his arm once more. His horse was nervous, tossing its head and snorting white foam between its teeth from the tension flowing down from its rider through the overly tight reins. At the far end of the field, Duncan remained motionless upon the enormous black horse, holding his shield against his body with a calm that was beginning to seem deliberately cruel.
And then something changed. Kevan would not have known exactly what it was; perhaps the way Duncan only slightly lowered his head within his helm or how he stopped playing with the position of his shield before the signal. Perhaps it was simply the instinctive and unpleasant feeling of realizing that the other omega had decided to stop amusing himself.
The trumpet sounded again and this time Duncan spurred his mount first.
The black destrier shot across the sand with brutal speed, tearing up earth with every stride as Duncan leaned forward in a far more aggressive manner than in previous passes. He was no longer waiting for Kevan’s blow to deflect it; he was going straight toward him.
Kevan gripped the lance more tightly and lowered his shoulder preparing for the impact, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs as the distance between them vanished. The world seemed to shrink to the thunder of hooves, the weight of the lance vibrating between his fingers, and the enormous figure of Duncan advancing head-on like a black and golden storm with silver stars casting white points across Kevan’s vision.
The impact was devastating. Duncan’s lance struck the center of his chest with monstrous force that pierced the armor, emptied his lungs, and tore him completely from the saddle before he could even react. Kevan barely managed to register the snap of wood breaking before he was hurled backward.
The sky and the sand spun violently before his eyes. He struck the ground shoulder first and rolled several times over the hot earth, unable to stop his body as pain exploded beneath his ribs and the air left his lungs in a rush. The sand got into his mouth, beneath his gorget, and between his gloves as he tried to push himself up coughing, desperate to breathe properly again.
He heard the roar of the crowd return around him, much louder now, mixed with surprised voices and shouts he could barely distinguish behind the ringing filling his ears. His squires were running toward him; he could hear them calling to him in alarm, but something in the overall tone of the arena made him lift his head before they managed to reach him.
Duncan was already coming toward him.
He had dismounted even before his horse finished coming to a stop, leaping into the sand with an absurd ease for someone covered in full armor, and now he walked directly toward Kevan while tearing one of his gloves off with his teeth and then the other with a calm that was infinitely more threatening than any shout.
Kevan had barely managed to set one knee on the ground when Duncan’s boot sank into his chest.
The blow sent him again onto his back across the sand, crushing the air he had just recovered and tearing a broken gasp from him as pain rose hot along his ribs.
—Come on, little filth —Duncan’s voice sounded dangerously amused above him, charged with a mocking warmth that made the insult even worse—. Last night you were brave but now you can’t even get up from your own filth?
Kevan clenched his teeth and managed to finally get to his feet, swaying only slightly before recovering his balance. The crowd roared around them, now excited in a different way, more savage, and Duncan took advantage of that moment to rip off his helm.
The metal fell heavily onto the sand while the omega shook his head slightly, releasing strands of his light hair half-braided and stuck by sweat to the pale skin of his neck. He was smiling, but there was nothing joyful in that expression; the curve of his mouth was too sharp, too satisfied, while his blue eyes remained fixed on Kevan with a coldness that did not match at all his otherwise relaxed body language.
He gave him enough time to draw his sword before advancing on him.
And barely had they begun to move, Kevan immediately understood why Duncan still had such a reputation. He was fast in a way that made no sense for someone so large.
He moved across the sand with light, precise steps that Kevan had only seen in much smaller men, moving his entire body with a brutal fluidity as steel clashed again and again between them. Duncan used every inch of height and reach he had over Kevan to dominate the space, forcing him to constantly give ground while delivering heavy blows that made Kevan’s sword vibrate all the way to his shoulder each time he managed to block them.
And he was strong as well. Not the elegant and controlled strength of some refined knights who turned the sword into a precise dance, but a physical, direct and brutal strength that seemed to grow with every impact. Each block ran through his arms like a painful jolt, forcing him to readjust his grip before Duncan attacked again, without giving him any real time to reorganize or regain ground. Kevan began to understand then, too late and with his chest still burning from the fall, that he had never faced anything like Duncan before.
Kevan was being completely humiliated and Duncan didn’t even seem to be truly trying to do so.
Each time steel clashed between them, Kevan felt the impact run through his arms to his shoulders, forcing him back across the churned sand while Duncan advanced without ever losing his balance. The omega moved with irritating ease, too comfortable in his own body, too certain of every blow he struck, as if he had done this hundreds of times and none of Kevan’s attacks represented any real problem.
Heat began to build under Kevan’s armor, mixing with the metallic taste of blood he still felt in his mouth from the fall. The crowd had been reduced to a distant noise behind the pounding of his own heartbeat and the dry sound of steel clashing again and again.
And then Duncan disarmed him. Kevan barely understood how it had happened, in a quick and brutal movement, Duncan trapped Kevan’s sword between his side and arm at the same time as he twisted violently, using all his body weight in the motion. Kevan’s wrist protested immediately; the pull tore the weapon from his hand before he could truly react, and the sword was flung away to fall onto the sand with a heavy thud.
Duncan didn’t even try to take advantage of the moment to run him through with his own sword. He simply let go of his sword. The steel fell near them while the omega surged forward, his fingers closing over the edge of Kevan’s breastplate, gripping him with enough force to make him lurch forward. Duncan’s knuckles brushed his throat while, with the other hand, he tore the helm from his head.
Fresh air struck Kevan’s sweat-soaked face for only an instant.
—Ah, there... now we're talking
Kevan had no time to ask what he meant before the first punch exploded against his face. The force of the blow snapped his head back violently. Pain bloomed immediately over his cheekbone and around his eye as white spots crossed his vision. He barely managed to cling clumsily to Duncan’s arms before the second blow arrived.
That one broke his nose... Kevan felt the wet, sickening crunch before he even felt the full pain. The force was enough to nearly unbalance him completely, forcing him back on unsteady legs as blood began to slide hot over his lips and chin. Had it not been for Duncan’s brutal grip on his armor, he would probably have ended up on the sand again.
Duncan laughed.
The sound rumbled faintly across the silent sand, deep and amused in a way that made everything far worse. Kevan caught movement in the boxes, voices rising among the crowd; his parents had likely tried to intervene long ago, but he could also easily imagine his brothers stopping them, too fascinated —or too horrified— to bring it to an end yet. The next blow came even harder. And then another.
Each impact seemed worse than the last, though Kevan was no longer sure how much truly came from Duncan’s strength and how much from the pain building inside his own head. He felt dizzy, unable to breathe properly through his broken nose, with blood filling his mouth each time he tried to draw air. He was afraid to open his jaw too wide because he could feel some teeth loosening against his tongue.
Even so he kept hitting back.
Or at least he tried.
His fists struck Duncan’s chest and arms between blows, feeling the impact against hard muscle beneath leather and steel, but he wasn’t sure he was truly hurting him. Duncan barely reacted and barely seemed to register the hits beyond using them to better position his next punch.
—All of this… because you’re afraid Lyonel will choose me?
Kevan’s voice came out muffled by the blood gathering in his mouth, thick and broken, but even so the silence of the arena allowed the words to travel clearly between them.
Duncan stopped. Not entirely; he was still holding him by the armor, still keeping him practically trapped against himself, but he pulled his arm back just enough to look him directly in the face. And then he laughed again, the wind carrying his voice across the sand.
—Oh, don’t be foolish, little whore… I’m not afraid that my husband and alpha will cheat on me.
The amusement in his voice sounded strangely genuine, almost warm, and that made the contempt even worse. Duncan tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes completely cold even as he smiled.
—I fear more that he’ll get me pregnant again, when I already have two sets of twins… and the gods know how much it pleases him, how it stirs him, to see me thus—completely filled, all because of him.
The comment struck Kevan harder than it should have because there was no shame in Duncan. None. No discomfort in speaking of Lyonel, of his marriage or his bed in front of half the arena watching them, he said it with the same naturalness with which he had been striking him, comfortable within himself in a way that was almost offensive and worse still… Several laughs broke out among the Stormlanders, mixed with comments Kevan could no longer properly distinguish through the ringing in his head, but he still caught a much deeper laugh above all the rest.
Lyonel.
Kevan lifted his gaze slightly, still trapped in Duncan’s hands, and found him leaning forward in his seat, laughing with his head tilted back just slightly and an expression so openly enamored, so fascinated with the omega before him, that something unpleasant twisted in Kevan’s stomach because Lyonel Baratheon did not look ashamed, he looked completely bewitched by his husband.
—Now, I want you to understand that I’m going to end this here because no marriage should begin with a death… That alone is what is stopping me from gouging your eyes out with my knife, dissecting them, and giving them to my alpha so he can wear them as a favor on his helm during every tournament.
Kevan shuddered involuntarily at the brutal firmness of Duncan’s words. It was not just the threat, but the terrifying honesty with which it was spoken. Duncan was not trying to frighten him with empty exaggerations or putting on a show for the rest of the arena. He sounded calm, completely certain of himself, like a man who had already imagined exactly how he would do it and although Kevan did not truly know the omega, something inside him understood immediately that Duncan was the kind of person capable of being as kind as he was merciless, as cruel as he was gentle, and completely sincere in both.
The grip on his armor never loosened.
Kevan was barely managing to stay on his feet, dizzy from the blows, from the blood thickening in his mouth and from the throbbing pain running through his broken nose and jaw, when Duncan moved again. The fingers of one of his large hands sank violently into Kevan’s hair, tangling in the blond strands already wet with sweat and blood, while the other hand remained firm around his nape, heavy and dominant.
Kevan let out a choked sound when Duncan yanked him forward abruptly.
Pain exploded again in his face when Duncan slammed it against his own chest, directly onto one of the metal stars of the armor. Kevan felt the edge sink into his skin, opening it with brutal pressure that tore another broken gasp of air from him.
The world tilted slightly around him as the pain settled, and then he understood what Duncan had just done.
The humiliation was worse than the blows, because it had not been a blind burst of rage or an impulsive movement. Duncan had pressed his face against the star with enough force to leave a permanent mark, a wound that would heal while preserving the shape of the symbol. A mark Kevan would carry on his face for the rest of his life, and the message was unbearably clear: the world did not bend for Kevan Crakehall.
Duncan’s fingers were still buried in his hair as he forced him to remain bent forward, barely holding him on his own feet. Kevan breathed with difficulty, blood sliding from his broken nose into his mouth and jaw before dripping onto the armor. Through blurred vision he caught movement in the stands; some nobles were standing, several faces tense, others looking away in open discomfort.
But no one intervened.
Because even so, covered in blood and gasping like a wounded animal, Kevan could feel Duncan’s scent wrapping the air around them both. It was no longer simply sweet or warm. Now there was something feral underneath, something territorial and violent that blended with the deep scent of Lyonel that clung to his marked omega.
—I suppose it goes without saying that your presence is completely forbidden in my home —Duncan continued, still holding him by the hair with humiliating ease—. There, nothing will stop me from cutting your head off if I ever see you again behaving like a cheap, shameless whore around my man.
His voice still sounded calm, almost conversational, as if they were speaking about the weather and not a threat of murder spoken before half the nobility of the Stormlands and the Westerlands. Kevan swallowed blood by accident and immediately began coughing, unable to recover his breath properly as pain kept pulsing through his entire face.
Duncan finally released him with a sharp shove that made him stagger back onto the sand, the silence covering the field was absolute, only Kevan’s heavy breathing could be heard, the distant flutter of banners in the wind, and the restless snorting of horses.
—Oh and the rumors are true, Lyonel fucks as well as he fights.. And his mouth is a gift from the gods
Then Duncan calmly bent down to pick up his sword from the sand, wiping the stranger’s blood from his knuckles against the darkened thigh of his armor as if none of it had required any real effort.