Chapter Text
They’re screwed, completely screwed and penniless, and they might not last another week walking on empty stomachs. Maybe it’s the weight of his instrument that’s clouding his judgment, but he’s starting to think he’s gone mad because everyone’s growling stomachs have fallen into such perfect harmony that it almost sounds like a sonnet.
A very depressing one, that’s for sure.
Raymun says it’s a good melody for a song and starts scribbling hurriedly with his quill on a crumpled sheet of paper under the shade of the tree where they’re resting. A pang of envy runs through his mind every time he sees the boy drawing inspiration from any situation to compose.
It is in moments like these, moments of misery, that he remembers the words of old Arlan, who, while he was alive, made him swear, truly swear, not to pursue music because he clearly lacked the charm necessary to dedicate his life to minstrelsy.
He doesn’t even know how to write well enough to express his feelings in lyrics, and frankly, he has no intention of sharing his thoughts with anyone in the group; he loved them, yes, but he couldn’t risk any of them stealing one of his compositions and ending up surprising the audience.
But he didn’t hate his profession, he never could, but sometimes he felt as though he’d thrown his life away just to pursue a foolish dream: that of being a minstrel, one of those who brought joy, who made even the most boring old man in the village dance and sing. He could have tried to be a knight, a hedge knight no doubt, because he had been a squire after all but that was a long time ago.
He had attended many tournaments, had been lucky enough to see them up close; he had seen them die enough times to know what it really meant to be a knight. And it wasn’t honorable at all—just a simple tale that wouldn’t cheer anyone up; it was nonsense, a poorly told joke, a song created for nothing more than entertainment.
Well, maybe it was worth it, but only if you were someone with a pretty surname. In his childhood he saw —and would continue to see until the end of his days— all kinds of men bleeding in the stinking mud and screaming like animals as they writhed because “they didn’t calculate well” or “they were unlucky” or “the gods willed it so.”
“Do you have any water left?”
“No,” he replied curtly.
A petty part of him wanted to blame her, Tanselle. If only she weren’t so proud, the whole group’s situation wouldn’t be so bad.
They had come to Ashford in search of food and a bit of money to improve their situation. They’d obviously arrived late; far too late. They’d confused the name with that of another place and waited in vain for a tournament that never came.
When they finally found it, a few days late, everyone was already packing up their camps. No one was really interested in four musicians with neither fame nor any good songs to play, so they were sadly ignored by everyone.
The thing is, their provisions had run out before they reached the tournament and, against all odds, they’d found someone willing to give them a roof over their heads and three meals a day, but there was a condition.
He had to spend a night with Tanselle; the bloke was horrible, yes, but these things happen, and in desperate times anything goes if you get something in return.
After all, he’d done it many times before to save the group from starvation, like that time with the innkeeper, the barmaid, the cook, the mother of five who lent them her empty stable to spend a few days in during the winter. Even Raymund did it when his lute was smashed in a fall. They had to look after and help one another; there was no need to feel ashamed.
But Tanselle was Tanselle, and his love for her had not faded after all these years; he didn’t have the heart or the stomach to press her on something as awful as that.
“Ser Lyonel might have been able to help us…”
Oh.
Of course.
Ser Lyonel, Lyonel Baratheon.
They’d met him a few days earlier when he’d pitched his tent near the tree where they were sleeping; he was on his way to Storm’s End, his home, his dreary, damp home, but the night had forced him and his retinue to stop and rest a while.
Although, actually, two days before that, in Ashford, he’d been seen arguing with one of his men about taking care of his helm, but at that moment it was only him he paid attention to. He gave him a wink, a very quick one, but that didn’t stop him from blushing as red as a tomato. He looked him up and down with a smile on his face.
They had been hearing rumours—malicious ones, perhaps—but no one was convinced enough to be able to deny them.
The women adored him; they melted for him like butter in the beautiful, blazing sun. There was not a woman who did not fall for his charms; but the same could not be said of the men. For the men could only envy him or hate him; he himself envied him a little; but that did not stop him from noticing his beauty.
Well, the rumor was that Ser Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, used to sleep with men as well.
That was it.
Nothing unusual.
They didn’t discriminate against anyone, and they certainly wouldn’t do so to someone like him, because after all, they were used to it. During their travels and the parties they’d been lucky enough to attend, they’d realized it wasn’t strange at all.
Tanselle and Rowan had to kiss once when some damn Lannister offered to pay them only if he saw them do it.
He blushed when they talked about it because his mind kept replaying that wink (a silly wink! Ser Lyonel probably didn’t even do it for him but for some beautiful girl standing behind him).
“He wouldn’t have refused; maybe he wouldn’t even have asked for anything in return.”
“How can you even suggest that?”
“Is it because of the wink? Because, as you say, maybe it wasn’t for you probably… Duncan, look who’s coming.”
The warmth of his body vanished completely when he heard her say that; he turned his head to see if it was true and saw him: his beautiful caravan adorned with lovely antlers that glistened in the sun.
He was riding a beautiful horse; he was arguing again, but his anger did nothing to soften his features. His hair was as dark as a Baratheon’s, yes, but the streaks of white made him look far more handsome, far more dashing and gallant. ‘Like “salt and pepper”’, Rowan had said when they saw him a few days ago.
He immediately looked away, afraid that even from a distance the man might see him.
“Come on, Duncan, lie back a bit more—yes, like that; the tree really brings out the colour of your hair,” said the redhead, who was lying under the same tree as him.
Without knowing why, Duncan obeyed and lay back a little further, settling himself to look “sensual” amidst the grasses and flowers. Raymund tossed him his instrument to add more detail to his relaxed, bohemian image; he tried to play it but failed instantly.
The day took pity on them and, as if by magic, the sun shone a little brighter, bringing colour to such a grey day. He adjusted the vihuela slightly on his lap and pretended to play carefree, whilst inwardly he prayed that the knight would notice their small group.
Suddenly, he felt a gaze fixed on his body, a feline gaze, which was ridiculous because, firstly, the Baratheons were stags, not cats, and secondly, Ser Lyonel had very beautiful eyes that were not at all threatening.
“Gods, Duncan. Look how he’s looking at you,” whispered Raymund, flopping down beside him. “If we’re lucky, your body might get us dinner in the Stormlands with Lady Baratheon herself.”
“He’s talking to another bloke,” whispered the tallest one, turning her head to hide her face.
“Duncan Pennytree!” shouted the handsome knight from a distance. He dismounted and looked at him fondly as he walked briskly toward the tree where the five emaciated bodies lay. They all exchanged knowing glances; a Baratheon knight remembered his friend’s name.
“This is the third time we’ve met; I was afraid you’d changed your route,” Upon hearing that, Rowan choked on the last sip of water they had.
So… was that wink for him?
Well...
For a few seconds, he debated whether he should stop or continue projecting that image of a carefree boy who lies under trees to think and play melodies for everyone; after all, that was the kind of image a true musician should project.
He decided to stop; he didn’t want to be rude to a Baratheon knight.
“Ser Lyonel, what a coincidence to find you here.”
“A lovely coincidence, I must admit,” he said, stepping a little closer to him. “What are you and your friends doing here?”
Should he tell him the truth or make up some excuse? Would there be any punishment for lying to a nobleman? “We intended to find a lord to entertain, but no one has taken notice of us yet, Ser Lyonel.”
The Baratheon seemed to take pleasure in his misfortune; a smile flitted across the man’s face and he couldn’t help but let out a nervous chuckle. Lyonel, on the other hand, was locking eyes with him as if trying to hypnotise him like a snake; Duncan felt like a shy maiden in the presence of a knight such as Lyonel Baratheon.
“You could join me,” he murmured, feeling the weight of a gaze fixed on his lips.
Raymund didn’t let him reply; he gave him a shove that almost made him fall, just to catch the man’s attention, and he hastened to accept the offer, extending his hand to shake it.
“Will there be stew, m'lord?” asked the bald boy they had picked up along the way.