Chapter Text
They were doomed. Truly doomed. Not a coin between them, and perhaps not even a week left before empty stomachs finally brought them down. Maybe it was the weight of his instrument that kept him from thinking clearly, but Duncan was beginning to suspect he'd gone mad. The growls of their stomachs had aligned so perfectly that they almost sounded like a sonnet.
A very depressing sonnet, to be sure.
Raymun claimed it would make an excellent tune and immediately began scribbling on a crumpled sheet of parchment beneath the shade of the tree where they rested. Duncan felt a sting of envy every time he watched the boy draw inspiration from absolutely anything.
It was in moments like these, moments of pure misery, that he remembered old Arlan's words. The old man had made him swear, truly swear, never to devote himself to music, for he plainly lacked the charm required of a proper minstrel.
He could barely write well enough to put his feelings into lyrics, and truth be told, he had no intention of sharing his thoughts with anyone in the troupe. He cared for them, certainly, but he could not risk one of them stealing a composition and astonishing an audience before he ever had the chance.
He did not hate his profession. He never could. Yet there were times when it felt as though he had thrown his life away chasing a foolish dream. The dream of becoming a minstrel, one of those who brought joy wherever they went, who could make even the dullest old man dance and sing.
He could have tried to become a knight. A hedge knight, no doubt, for he had been a squire once. But that was long ago.
He had attended enough tourneys, stood close enough to the lists, and seen enough men die to know what knighthood truly was. There was nothing noble about it. Just another tale that pleased no one, a foolish joke badly told, a song invented merely to entertain.
Well, perhaps it was worth something if one happened to possess a fine surname.
As a child, he had watched men bleed into foul-smelling mud, and he would likely continue to see the same thing until the day he died. Men screaming like beasts while they writhed on the ground because they had misjudged a strike, because luck had deserted them, or because the gods had simply willed it so.
"Do you have any water left?"
"No."
A mean little part of him wanted to blame Tanselle. If only she were not so stubborn, the group's situation might not have been quite so dire.
They had come to Ashford seeking food and coin. They had arrived late, of course. Very late. They had mistaken it for another place entirely and waited in vain for a tournament that never came.
By the time they finally found the correct one, several days behind schedule, everyone was already dismantling their camps. No one had any interest in four unknown musicians with no reputation and no memorable songs, so they were thoroughly ignored.
The trouble was that their provisions had run out before they reached the tourney.
Against all odds, however, they had found a man willing to offer them a roof and three meals a day.
There was only one condition.
He wanted a night with Tanselle.
The man was disgusting, certainly, but such things happened. In desperate times, almost anything seemed acceptable if there was something to gain from it.
After all, Duncan himself had done the same more than once to keep the group from starving. There had been the innkeeper, the tavern girl, the cook, and the mother of five children who had let them stay in her empty stable during winter. Even Raymun had done it once when his lute had been smashed in a fall.
They had to look after one another.
There was no shame in that.
But Tanselle was Tanselle, and his feelings for her had never quite faded despite all the years that had passed. He simply lacked the heart, and the stomach, to ask something so awful of her.
"Ser Lyonel might've helped us..."
Oh.
Of course.
Ser Lyonel. Lyonel Baratheon.
They had met him a few days ago when he pitched his pavilion near the tree beneath which they were sleeping. He had been travelling to Storm's End, his home, his damp and melancholy home, but nightfall had forced him and his retinue to stop and rest.
Though in truth they had first seen him two days earlier in Ashford.
He had been arguing with one of his men about taking better care of his helm, but Lyonel had paid attention only to him.
The knight had winked. A quick little wink, nothing more. Yet it had been enough to turn Duncan red as a tomato.
Lyonel had looked him up and down with a smile.
There had been rumours. Perhaps malicious rumours, but no one seemed entirely convinced they were false.
Women adored him. They melted beneath his gaze like butter beneath a bright summer sun. There was scarcely a woman alive who could resist his charms. Men, however, tended either to envy him or hate him. Duncan envied him a little himself. That did not stop him from noticing how handsome the man was.
The rumour, at least, claimed that Ser Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, also took men to his bed.
That was all.
Nothing particularly strange.
Their troupe did not judge such things. During their travels and performances they had learned that it was hardly uncommon. Tanselle and Rowan had once been forced to kiss because a blasted Lannister offered payment only if they did.
Duncan himself had blushed when the subject arose, for his thoughts kept wandering back to that wink.
A stupid wink.
For all he knew, Ser Lyonel had not meant it for him at all. Perhaps there had been some beautiful maiden standing behind him.
"He wouldn't have refused. He probably wouldn't even have asked for anything in return."
"How can you even suggest that?"
"Is this because of the wink? Because, as you said, it might not have been meant for you. It was probably—Duncan, look."
The warmth fled his body at once. He turned his head. It was true.
There was Lyonel's caravan, adorned with magnificent antlers that gleamed beneath the sun.
The knight rode a splendid horse and seemed to be arguing with someone again, but even irritation did nothing to diminish his looks. His hair was as dark as any Baratheon's ought to be, though the streaks of white made him seem even more handsome, more gallant, more lordly.
"Salt and pepper," Rowan had called it.
Duncan looked away at once, afraid the man might somehow catch him staring even from this distance.
"Come on, Duncan. Lie back down. There, just like that. The tree brings out the colour of your hair."
The red-haired girl spoke from beneath the same tree.
Without entirely understanding why, Duncan obeyed. He stretched out among the flowers and grass, attempting to look what Rowan had called "sensual."
Raymun tossed an instrument onto his lap to complete the image of a relaxed and artistic minstrel.
Duncan tried to play it. He failed immediately.
The day seemed to take pity on them. As if by magic, the sun emerged and cast a little colour across an otherwise dreary afternoon.
He adjusted the lute upon his lap and pretended to play with effortless grace while secretly praying the knight would notice their little group.
Then he felt it.
A gaze.
Fixed squarely upon him.
A predatory sort of gaze, almost feline, though that was ridiculous. Baratheons were stags, not cats, and Ser Lyonel possessed far too lovely a pair of eyes to seem threatening.
"Gods, Duncan. Look how he's staring at you," Raymun whispered as he dropped beside him. "If we're lucky, your body will have us dining in Storm's End with Lady Baratheon herself."
"He's talking to someone else," muttered Rowan, turning her head away to hide her face.
"Duncan Pennytree!"
The handsome knight called from afar. He dismounted and smiled warmly as he strode toward the tree where five half-starved bodies lay scattered in the shade.
The group exchanged knowing looks. A Baratheon knight remembered their friend's name.
"This is the third time we've met. I feared you'd changed your route."
Rowan promptly choked on the last mouthful of water they possessed.
So... The wink had been for him?
Well.
For several moments Duncan debated whether he ought to stand or continue projecting the image of a carefree young musician reclining beneath trees and composing melodies. Surely that was the sort of image a true minstrel ought to project.
In the end he rose, it would be rude to remain seated before a knight of House Baratheon.
"Ser Lyonel. What a coincidence to find you here."
"A lovely coincidence, I must admit," Lyonel replied, stepping a little closer. "What are you and your friends doing out here?"
Should he tell the truth?
Would there be punishment for lying to a nobleman?
"We hoped to find a lord in need of entertainment, but no one has taken much notice of us yet, Ser Lyonel."
The Baratheon appeared positively delighted by this unfortunate news. A smile spread across his face. Duncan let out a nervous laugh. Lyonel, meanwhile, kept searching for his gaze as though attempting to charm him the way a snake charmed a bird.
Duncan felt like a shy maiden standing before a knight from a song.
For a fleeting moment, Lyonel's attention drifted to his lips. "You could accompany me," he murmured.
Raymun did not allow him to answer. The boy shoved him hard enough that he nearly stumbled, then eagerly stepped forward and accepted the offer on behalf of everyone.
"Will there be stew, m’lord?" asked the bald little boy they had picked up somewhere along the road.