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It rained all the way to Storm’s End. Maekar had a dim notion it was divinatory. The eyes of the Gods above them slowly weeping at the mess of the seven kingdoms. Just ahead the flags of the Dragon house drooped beneath the deluge, the banner men sniffing miserably. Maekar refused to, water running into his eyes and plinking off the end of his nose. His horse, Bastard, an ill made grey palfrey, gave an irritated snort, taking advantage of his distraction to drift longingly towards the overgrown hedge. Most of the hedges were overgrown now, there were not enough men to do the pruning. One of the banner men turned, wet leather creaking.
‘Storm’s end is just coming up now, my prince.’
Maekar made a sound. All too often he made those now instead of words. He had nothing left to say. He scoffed at the name. Storm’s End. Would it mean an end to this awful weather? A sudden boom of thunder overhead made Bastard toss his head. He might have bucked if Maekar hadn’t hauled him back with a hard hand on the reins. No. He wasn’t that lucky. It seemed like this tourney would be a muddy one.
The sweeping field was covered with pavilions of every size and colour, men sitting and drinking under awnings or polishing their weapons. Some stood in respect as Maekar passed. Others averted their eyes. Maekar looked straight ahead, Bastard splashing and slipping through the mud, his eyes on the looming stone towers of Storm’s End. Beyond was the sea, a thrashing grey mirror to the lamenting sky. As he approached, the great doors creaked open, men swarming in yellow and black livery, the Baratheon stag peering at him from every corner. The yard was an ocean of water that the stable boys were desperately trying to sweep towards a drain. Someone came to take Maekar’s horse and set down a block but he jumped off from the other side, raising an elbow to fend off the Bastard’s ill-mannered snap. Another servant ran over to him, wet faced and earnest.
‘Your Grace, refreshments are waiting for you in the great hall. Unless you would like to retire early, in that case the far tower is ready and waiting for you. I can have the girls draw you up a hot bath or perhaps-‘
‘I don’t fucking care. Get out of the way so I can get the seven hells out of his rain!’ snapped Maekar, finally managing to brush past the man and head towards the vast studded oak doors to the castle.
Another servant was there, and gulped at the sight of him.
‘Yes, yes, the tower, I'm perfectly capable. It’s this way isn’t it.’ He turned. He had visited Storm’s End before but not since he was a youth. The castle was dark, with too few windows and thick walls, the paving slabs beneath his boots uneven. A servant ran ahead with a candle, lighting up the gloom.
The march up the spiralling stone stairs felt like the last straw but Maekar bit back his complaints. No one liked a whinger, prince or not. The room itself was tolerable, with a brief fire fluttering in a grate, and a large bed. The wall tapestry showed a hunting party and a cavorting stag. This made Maekar roll his eyes. His clothes had already arrived, his attendant hastily hanging them in a large oak wardrobe.
‘Shall I send for refreshments, Your Grace?’ asked the attendant, turning. He was just as wet as Maekar was, black and red tabard and tunic dripping onto the ornate rug.
‘No. Go sort yourself,’ replied Maekar, and slammed the door after him.
He stood for a moment, staring at the fire, and thought how it should be banked. He knelt to do it himself, brushing grit and wood dust from his palms. He was still wet but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Even now, all these years later, he half expected Baelor to appear at his elbow.
‘Let’s get you out of those wet things,’ he would say, far too close for daylight, and skim a hand over the fastenings of his shirt.
Maekar jumped as the door creaked open again. ‘I told you to go and sort-‘ he started to say but the words died in his mouth.
Because Lyonel Barathoen was standing there, in a black shirt already slipping off one shoulder, drenched with gold jewellery like Maekar was drenched with the storm. He smiled, gold earring winking in the light.
‘I was waiting to receive you in the great hall but it seems you couldn’t wait to receive me in your bed chamber.’
Maekar’s eyes narrowed even as his stomach gave an unwilling squirm. He pushed the feeling away, barely supressing a growl. ‘Is that any way to address a prince of the realm, and the heir to the iron throne?’
Lyonel swaggered into the room, sweeping his hair out of his dancing eyes. ‘Go on. Say the rest of your titles, what is it, defender of the seven realms or some such, and some nonsense about the Andals?’
Maekar scoffed. ‘Oh fuck off Lyonel. It’s barely midday and you’re already drunk.’
‘Stone cold sober actually,’ said Lyonel, now peering into Maekar’s open wardrobe. ‘Although not for much longer. I like this shirt. Is that silk from Volantis?’
‘Did you actually want something?’ said Maekar, turning to watch him.
‘I came to ask you why you weren’t fighting in the lists,’ replied Lyonel. ‘I was looking forward to smashing you off your horse.’
Maekar crossed his arms, feeling wet material straining against his biceps. ‘I’m the heir to the iron throne.’ As he spoke he felt a sharp pang, so sudden he thought someone had kneed him in the balls. He had to struggle for his next breath, groping for the armchair that was nearest. ‘It wouldn’t be proper. Anyway I don’t need to explain myself to you.’
‘I’ll lend you armour,’ said Lyonel. ‘My father’s old set is still in good condition.’ He swept his eyes over him. ‘You’re about the same size. And I have a blacksmith that can adjust the helm-‘
Maekar wanted to tell him to fuck off, but prince or not, he was still a guest in his castle. He settled for sighing instead. Lyonel brightened.
‘So you’ll consider it?’
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ replied Maekar, pointedly moving towards the door. ‘Now, if that’s all?’
‘That is all Your Grace,’ said Lyonel, padding to the door, before he paused. ‘Oh and there’s a feast at eight of the hour in the great hall. I’ll see you there.’
He winked, and Maekar, to his horror, felt his face flame hot. He quickly turned his head.
‘Yes, yes. Leave me.’
He caught sight of Lyonel’s grin as he slammed the door on him. Bloody bastard Baratheons.
Maekar felt every face turn to him as he entered the great hall, the sea of eyes glittering like glass. He heard their whispers. He’d hear them forevermore until he was carried into the great sept. One of the Kingsguard walked ahead of him, the other behind. A servant pulled out a chair. He was surrounded by people that cared for him but did not care. Maekar sat back in his seat, staring at the tables groaning with excess, and the people merry with a surfeit of ale. Baelor would have made some small joke. Baelor would have kicked him under the table for his scowl at the serving girl, and laughed as his sour expression turned on him. Maekar looked down at his hands, and the ring he always wore now, Baelor’s ring, a silver band inlaid with onyx, some name day gift from their mother that had become a talisman. He’d given the rest of his jewellery to his widow, although they were all widows now, a whole damn kingdom of them.
But then Lyonel Baratheon flopped down next to him, wine sloshing from an overfull cup, and Maekar was startled from the gloom of his thoughts.
‘Not eating, your grace? Scared you won’t fit in my father’s armour?’
Maekar watched him slosh wine into his flagon. ‘I’m sure some cup bearer or serving wench can do that,’ he said.
‘Nonsense,’ replied Lyonel. ‘A man that can’t pour his own wine has no business drinking it. So, leg or breast?’
Maekar blinked. ‘What?’
‘Of the goose. Freshly roasted in herbs and lemon or so my steward tells me. Unless you prefer something a bit meatier to sink your teeth into?’
Lyonel grinned then. He knew how ridiculous he was being. Maekar frowned.
‘Did you come over here just to make silly innuendos?’
‘No I came to get your answer. Will you joust me tomorrow or not?’
Lyonel reached over the table to pull a handful of meat from a suckling pig, honey glaze gleaming beneath the candle chandelier. Maekar had to admit it did look nice, and found himself reaching for his fork. Lyonel held up his plate like a courteous bride, earning another frown.
‘I didn’t bring my destrier,’ said Maekar, after he had swallowed, finally realising how hungry he was.
Lyonel waved a hand. ‘I have plenty of war horses in my stable. Take your pick.’
Maekar took a sip of wine as he turned to look at him, and had to admit that was quite good too, sweet and tart spreading over his tongue. He could feel the warmth from the wine spreading through his belly, and lightening a little of the black mist clinging to him.
‘Don’t you have a favourite?’ he asked.
Lyonel leaned in, far too close to be proper. Maekar could smell him, rose perfume from Lys, woodsmoke and beneath it all, him, something vaguely salty, like brine. Of course, there was salt water as much as stag blood in the Baratheons, ruling here braced against the crash of the sea, and the shriek of gulls overhead. Even with all the chatter and merriment in the great hall Maekar swore he could hear the bay beyond.
‘They’re all my favourites,’ said Lyonel, voice dropping. He set down his wine glass. ‘Tell me. Do you like dancing?’
Maekar leaned back in his chair. ‘No I fucking don’t.’
Lyonel sighed. ‘That’s a great pity,’ he said before he rose, calling over to the musicians, and clearing a space between the tables.
Maekar watched him whirling, a blur of black and yellow, others running to join him, clapping the stag lord on. He looked like a fool. And yet-
Maekar stood up, his head swimming from music and wine, and Lyonel chose that moment to look over at him. He winked. Maekar’s frown deepened to a scowl, he felt his back teeth grind. The impudence of the man. He turned, shouldering past Lord Swann, who nearly fell, and headed from the great hall and into the cool dark embrace of the stone corridors. Only then did he dare to adjust his half hard prick.
He was woken by a clatter, and sat up, a headache boiling in his temples. A servant, one of Baratheon’s going by his livery, froze. There was another next to him, and between them, an armour stand. Maekar blinked. It was still early; the light filtering through the curtains a watery grey. He reached for his robe as he got up, covering his nakedness. He always slept naked. Naked or in armour, depending on where he was.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
The servant looked terrified as he prowled over, damn near cowering behind the stand. Maekar wrenched open one of the embroidered curtains and the cloudy light of pre-dawn flooded the chamber.
‘His lordship said we were to surprise you, your grace,’ murmured the servant, stepping back.
Maekar finally cast his eye over the armour stand. The armour was plain. Surprisingly so, pauldron and tasset oxidised black but the rest naked steel, with none of the usual Baratheon embellishments. The helm stood crooked on its stand, with a black plume. Maekar picked it up.
‘It’s been adjusted,’ said the servant. ‘A raven came from the Summerhall armourer late last night with your measurements.’
For a moment Maekar felt the heft of a mace between his hands, the pull of it at his shoulder. He placed the helmet over his head and felt an automatic response, back straightening, muscles tightening. It was a perfect fit. But then he remembered with a lurch the bite of his mace hitting crumpling steel. He yanked the helm off, struggling for air.
‘Take this away,’ he snapped.
‘Your grace?’
‘You heard,’ growled Maekar. ‘Send someone useful with some hot water and breakfast.’
He waited until the servants had vanished, suit of armour clanking between them, before he curled back under the blankets. He didn’t cry. He never did. But he clenched his fists so hard they hurt, and tried to remember how to breathe.
He slipped down to the stables after a simple breakfast of leftover meat and bread, wanting to take a moment from servants and stags before the tourney began. He walked down the line of stalls, taking in chestnut coats and kind eyes before he spotted Bastard at the far end, tied in a wooden sided stall. Maekar drew a crust of bread out of his pocket and patted the gelding’s neck as he ate.
‘It seems even vicious bastards have weaknesses,’ came a low voice.
Maekar turned, hand on his dagger. ‘Who the fuck-oh. Lord Baratheon.’
Lyonel slunk out from the adjoining stall. There was straw in his hair and he was still wearing his clothes from last night. Maekar wondered if he’d slept in the stables. ‘My head groom tells me that one snaps like an alligator.’
‘He needs a firm hand, it’s true.’
Lyonel patted the nose of the horse next to him. ‘From what I’ve heard he’s not the only one.’
Maekar glared at him. It didn’t help his headache. ‘The fuck did you just say? Is that any way to speak to your future king?’
Lyonel smiled but it was at the horse and not him. He smoothed a hand over the animal’s face as he spoke again. ‘I’m not sure what you’re implying your grace but I’m talking about horses. Not kings.’ He finally turned his head. ‘I’m riding against Lord Swann this afternoon, but that can be changed. I’d rather ride against the dragon.’
‘I already told you no,’ replied Maekar, crossing his arm.
‘No, you told me you’d give me your answer on the morrow.’ He gave the horse another pat. ‘This is Moon. He’s a good horse, he’ll carry you well.’
Maekar’s gaze skimmed over the beast. Well made, with a dished face. ‘Why is he called moon? He’s black not grey.’
‘Ah. He’s the dark side. He rides out on windswept nights, when all you feel is despair and even the moon isn’t above to watch you.’
Maekar wondered if the man was still drunk. ‘That’s the most garbled and nonsensical explanation I’ve ever had the misfortune to listen to.’
Lyonel let his hand drop and moved closer. Maekar felt his hand slide to his dagger once again.
‘Is it?’ said Lyonel softly. ‘You don’t have those dark nights?’
Old memories rattled at the edges of Maekar’s mind. He impatiently pushed them away. This was neither the time nor the place.
‘If I knock you flat on your back will you finally shut up?’ he snapped, feeling for anger. He could do things with anger.
Lyonel cocked an eyebrow. ‘I suppose it depends how you do it, your grace.’ He leaned in, and Maekar smelt the stale wine on his breath. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll arrange the joust for tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Fine. If it makes you finally fuck off,’ grumbled Maekar, taking a step back and bumping against the wall.
‘I look forward to it,’ said Lyonel.
Maekar braced himself, expecting another wink, but it was a nod he received instead, before Lyonel turned, and staggered somewhat unsteadily down the line of stalls, before disappearing through the door at the far end. It took Maekar a moment to identify what he was feeling, and he huffed. It was disappointment, and he hated himself for it.
Maekar passed the rest of the day in the stands, nodding at knights he didn’t care about, eyes glazing over with boredom. Baelor would have known their names. But he wasn’t Baelor. His mind kept drifting unwillingly back to a dishevelled Lyonel Baratheon. He wondered what he would have done if he’d picked the straw out of his hair.
When Maekar awoke the following morning the armour had reappeared. The black plume had been replaced by a jaunty red one, as though that had been the problem all along. Maekar eyed it as a serving woman set out bread and honey for him on the table, and leaned over him to pour dandelion tea. He moved back, chair scraping, as her bosom came into eyesight. She moved back, teapot still in hand.
‘Will that be all your grace? I can fetch ale and cold meats if you prefer.’
Maekar shook his head. He eyed the armour as he ate, and finally stalked over to the door, and leaned his head outside. The Kingsguard lolling there immediately straightened up. Maekar looked him up and down, some eager second son from a minor house, Farlen something.
‘Help me into my armour,’ he barked, and watched the man’s eyebrows raise in surprise.
It was still early as Maekar left the castle, mist clinging to the battlements. The armour was heavier than his last set, weighing heavy on his shoulders. There was something vaguely comforting about it. A boy brought Bastard around, and another was dispatched to fetch Moon. Across the tourney field the air was heavy with woodsmoke as servants and squires prepared their lords breakfasts. Maekar strode to the tilt, the ground sodden with the nights rain, and yesterday’s blood, being desolately raked over by mud stained servants. The Master of Games spied him and came running over, dropping into a bow the closer he came, until he was bent almost double. Maekar scoffed.
‘Have you some back trouble, man?’
The games master blinked. ‘No your grace. It’s just, uh. We weren’t expecting you so early. Your pavilion isn’t ready yet and-‘
‘I can wait,’ said Maekar, and leaned against the fence, armour chinking.
Across from him the servants caught sight of him and started to rake faster.
The tourney woke up around him, knights walking by to check the ground, laughter and the clang of distant sword fighting drifting over the wet field. Maekar stayed where he was, leaning against the fence. As the clouds parted and the sun appeared, he looked back to see a huddle of smallfolk standing some distance away, staring curiously at him. No one dared come closer. He felt their eyes on him as he walked past, flanked by his guard, and was led to his pavilion by a nervous boy that kept sneaking glances at him. Finally, as the sun glinted high overhead, Lyonel Baratheon, in his customary golden armour, finally appeared. Watching his gait Maekar suspected he was hungover again, and it was proven when he had to stop and empty his guts next to a hawthorn bush. Maekar stood, waiting with arms folded as Lyonel staggered towards him.
‘You’ve kept me waiting a long time for a man that was so eager to cross jousts,’ he said.
Lyonel squinted at him. His golden eyes were bloodshot. ‘Gods man what time did you rise? You have the habits of a soldier. I come to greet you personally and this is what I get?’
Maekar bristled. ‘Are we jousting or not? It’s almost midday.’
Lyonel waved a gauntleted hand. ‘Yes, yes. Let me find my horse. I’ll see you at the tilt.’
Maekar had a sudden vision of grabbing him by the hair and shaking him. He blinked, not quite sure where this had come from.
The crowd was heaving as Maekar settled in the saddle and put his helmet on. He was all at once very aware of his breath, the world narrowed to a slit in steel. His borrowed warhorse shifted under him, starting to prance as he drove it on to the end of the tilt. He clicked a finger at the boy and he rushed to hand him a lance. At the other end Lyonel was struggling to keep his seat on a pirouetting white stallion. Maekar stared at him and saw the glitter of his eyes between the bars of his visor. He nodded, and Lyonel nodded back. He could hear murmurs and shouts from the crowd, a wall of sound that wrapped around him. Moon shifted, turning side on, and Maekar wrenched him around. He turned his head to see Lyonel was already thundering towards him, lance lowered, his horse churning through the mud with a heave of its powerful chest.
Maekar kicked his horse on with a growl, the lance tucked in close under his elbow, rattling against his breastplate. Moon sprang from a standing start and into a rocking gallop, hooves plunging through mire. Maekar dropped his weight, the saddle creaking, his breath puffing inside metal, and aimed his lance. He missed, Lyonel swinging to one side in the saddle. The crowd roared. Maekar felt an immediate flash of irritation.
Moon galloped to the end, puffing and blowing, and Maekar turned with a bellow. He urged the horse on with a thrust of his hips, bracing his weight in the stirrups. Already Lyonel was on him, lance pinpointed at his heart, and the two lances hit with a tear and splinter of metal, the force juddering all the way up Maekar’s arm. He swore, turning again as he came to the end of the tilt.
‘Lance!’ he bawled, already turning, Moon jogging on the spot.
The boy almost dropped it, but then Maekar was wrapping his fist around it and he was off again, breathing as heavily as the beast under him, muscles burning. His vision tapered to a golden breastplate, gleaming ahead like a star. Lyonel tried to slip, dropping low, but Maekar threw all his weight forward, the lance an extension of his arm, and it shattered against Lyonel’s chest, flinging him from the saddle. Maekar was already jumping down from his horse, knees shuddering as he hit the ground, and bawled for a sword, hand closing around the hard grip. He gave it several swings, loosening up his shoulder as he prowled towards Lyonel. Lyonel was barely on his feet as he reached them, his squire hastily pressing a blade into his outstretched hand, his beautiful armour dented, his antler helmet askew. Maekar swung at him with a growl, not knowing why he was so angry, only knowing he was.
The sword was a fang and he was a snarling mouth, nothing more than rage wrapped in metal, Lyonel rising to meet his strike, their blades grinding and scraping with a bone shaking quake. Maekar swung again, and again, Lyonel stumbling as he deflected, his sabatons slipping in the mud. Maekar heard his pained gasp as he raised his arm, but he matched him swing for swing, an immovable metal wall against his rage. As Maekar lunged he backhanded him with his left fist, metal clanging against metal and making Maekar reel, his helmet ringing like a bell. Lyonel was on him in a second, blade whistling past his ear, Maekar barely managing to dodge. He met his next blow with a show of teeth, and saw Lyonel was grimacing too, but he was laughing.
Maekar swung again, wildly, with all his rage, like he was on the battlefield, rather than a muddy tourney field, his sword clashing into Lyonel’s with a shower of sparks. Another strike, one that Lyonel tried to parry, and then another, and Maekar forced the sword from his hand, and kicked out, one foot slamming full force into Lyonel’s chest. He staggered, and fell, crashing into the ground for a second time. Maekar stood over him. He stepped on his breastplate with all his weight and received an answering wheeze.
‘Do you yield?’ he said.
‘Do I have a choice?’ rasped Lyonel, but there was still a crooked smile playing at the edges of his mouth. ‘You’ve made your point. Let me up.’
Maekar pressed down, making him yelp. ‘Yield,’ he said, voice a dangerous rumble.
‘Stickler for the rules aye? Yes. I yield.’
Maekar finally removed his foot. He was all at once very aware of all the watching eyes, hundreds of them. Baelor wouldn’t have kicked a fellow noble. Wouldn’t have stood on him either. Maekar held out his hand, and pulled Lyonel to his feet. Lyonel clapped him on his back.
‘How about we have a drink?’ he said.
Maekar pulled away from him. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said stiffly.
Maekar let the boy remove his armour and changed, and then sat alone in his pavilion and stared blankly at the canvas walls. His hands shook. He knew people would talk if he didn’t go back out and oversee the rest of the tourney but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He remembered feeling like this a very long time ago, after the slaughter of the Redgrass field, where Baelor had stepped into his tent and placed a hand on his shoulder. Here he scoffed at himself. It had just been some piddly joust. And yet-
He jumped as someone appeared at his elbow.
‘I told you not to disturb me,’ he snapped, and then stopped, because it was Lyonel Baratheon. ‘What?’
It had grown dark, and some unseen servant had lit a brazier, orange light dancing across the white canvas. Just how long had he been sitting here?
‘You didn’t come and join me in the stands,’ said Lyonel. He was holding a bottle and two flagons. ‘So I brought the wine to you.’ He rubbed his chest. ‘That was quite a knock you gave me.’
‘Are you expecting an apology from the crown?’ said Maekar, leaning back in his chair. He watched Lyonel sit on the stool opposite. ‘We should go back to the castle.’
He frowned at himself then. We, was it now?
‘Why?’ said Lyonel, before he uncorked the bottle with his teeth and glugged wine into the flagons. ‘I like it perfectly fine here. Grass beneath my feet. A dragon for company.’ He had drained half the glass before he looked up again. ‘You put on a fine show.’
Maekar received the cup from him. ‘I wish I could say the same.’
‘Oh, ouch. You wound me, your grace.’
Maekar sloshed burgundy liquid before he took a sip. ‘I did, yes. Looks like you’ve a few cracked ribs.’
Lyonel shrugged. ‘They’ll heal. I’m glad after all that no one could find a mace.’
Maekar, in the act of taking another draught, stilled. ‘I prefer the blade these days,’ he eventually replied, tongue slow in his mouth.
Lyonel nodded. ‘Do you miss it?’
Maekar frowned. ‘My mace?’
Lyonel shook his head. ‘No. War.’
Maekar drained his cup and held it out for Lyonel to fill again. There came a sudden burst of laughter from someone passing by outside.
‘Sometimes,’ replied Maekar.
Lyonel nodded again. ‘You get a taste for it. Like a bloodhound. Do you remember the stench, over the Redgrass field?’
Maekar stared at him, over his cup. He hadn’t spoken to anyone like this since Baelor. For a moment he considered telling Lyonel to fuck off. But he didn’t. He blinked, and for a moment, saw the chaos of the battlefield.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Shit and death.’ Then he squinted at Lyonel. ‘You’re too young to remember Redgrass.’
Lyonel leaned back, winced, and adjusted his seat. He was very close. Too close really, almost bumping knees with him.
‘I was there,’ he said, and smiled again, but it was faded now. ‘It was my fourteenth name day. First time I ever cleaved a man’s head from his shoulders. I’ll never forget the colour of his blood on my blade, there was so much of it, it hung in the air like mist. My horse fell under me, almost crushed me to death.’ He shook his head. ‘By the time I got up again the fighting had moved on. I saw it then. Baelor Targaryen sweeping down from the crest, and I saw you, your white plume, drenched in blood, that damn sigil on your chest. You saw each other across a sea of men, and then the hammer hit the anvil and between you was carnage.’ He gulped the rest of his wine. ‘I learnt that day just how much blood a man has in him, and how much it looked like the wine I drank later, flagons of it, until my father had to come find me and drag me to bed, still in my armour. I wouldn’t let go of my sword you see, I wouldn’t let anyone take it.’
Maekar slowly raised his cup, and Lyonel refilled it.
‘To shit and death,’ he said.
‘Well that’s fucking morbid,’ replied Lyonel, but he raised his flagon. ‘We could toast to cunt and cock you know.’
Maekar huffed. ‘You brought it up.’
Lyonel shrugged and took another sip of his wine. Some of it spilled and he licked over his lip to chase the droplets caught in his beard. Maekar found himself transfixed, and unable to drag his eyes away. Because Lyonel was handsome. Handsome in the way Baelor had been. A glittering sun of a man, golden eyes shining in his tanned face. The gilded glint in his eyes matched his smile. Maekar didn’t tan. He didn’t smile either. Dyanna hadn’t cared, she’d had him in her bed all the same. Baelor hadn’t cared either, when he’d driven his cock into his hole and his teeth into his neck.
‘You’re blushing,’ said Lyonel, reaching out to skim a hand over one scarred cheek.
Maekar squirmed away from his touch, feeling himself immediately twitch. Lyonel let his hand drop.
‘I bet I could beat you if we went another round,’ he said.
‘What are you on about?’ replied Maekar, attempted to cover his arousal with a snap, but it was impossible, all his blood rushing south with a roar.
Lyonel stood and Maekar was reminded that as well as handsome Lyonel Baratheon was big too, barely a smidge under his height. He found he was standing. They were inches apart.
‘We should fetch more wine,’ said Lyonel, half turning. ‘And swords.’
‘I’m not fighting you again,’ replied Maekar, following him as he strode from the tent.
‘Best of three?’ said Lyonel, turning to grin at him.
The tourney field was quiet, glimmering lights showing in the mouths of pavilions.
‘Stay there,’ said Maekar as one of the Kingsguard tried to follow him. He felt then how loose his limbs were, his thoughts slippery. The wine had been too strong.
He finally caught up with Lyonel just before the tilt, wrenching him around. ‘I beat you fair and square, I am not participating in this ridiculous pissing contest any longer.’
‘I wasn’t planning on pissing,’ replied Lyonel, tongue between his teeth. ‘Unless you’re into that, my prince?’
Maekar slapped him. Lyonel swung at him, Maekar managing to block, but then his boots slipped in the wet grass, and they were tumbling over and over like boys. Lyonel managed to swing a leg over his hips and slam him into the ground, and Lyonel saw his grin appear over him at the same time as the moon. He bucked his hips. He thought how inappropriate this was, the heir to the iron throne wrestling on the crushed grass like some drunk squire. He was also horribly, achingly hard, trapped cock rubbing painfully against linen.
‘Get off,’ he said, but there was none of his usual snap in it. ‘Lyonel.’
Lyonel Baratheon slowly clambered off him, and flopped down next to him with a pained hiss. ‘I can’t do anything unless you invite me,’ he suddenly said.
Maekar turned his head. His hair flopped over one eye. ‘What?’
‘You heard,’ replied Lyonel, staring up at the stars.
Maekar joined him in looking, although they looked much the same as always.
‘Look, there’s the stranger,’ said Lyonel pointing.
Maekar tried to speak and for a moment could not get the words out. His cock gave an insistent throb, reminding him of its presence.
‘I-‘
Lyonel’s head immediately turned. ‘Your eyes look like stars too.’
Maekar laughed despite himself. ‘Is that what you say to serving girls to get under their skirts?’
‘Depends on the girl,’ replied Lyonel, who hadn’t yet broken eye contact. ‘Depends on the night.’
‘What about this night?’ said Maekar, feeling his face heat.
Lyonel nodded and sat up, and for a moment Maekar thought he had somehow gotten it completely wrong.
‘Whatever my prince commands,’ replied Lyonel, getting up with a grunt.
A moment later he had prowled between the cluster of tents, and disappeared into the darkness.
Back in his bed chamber Maekar paced up and down. He had misinterpreted the whole thing. He hadn’t been clear enough. He wasn’t sure which was worse. He managed to get ahold of himself and stood and stared at the fire. It was late, the hour of the wolf. Lyonel wasn’t coming. Did he even want him to-?
He jumped as there came a soft tap at his door.
‘Enter,’ he said, loudly, for the sake of the watching Kingsguard. It was perfectly normal for one lord to receive the other. He was dressed wasn’t he? One hand drifted over the clasps to his shirt. Perhaps he shouldn’t be.
Lyonel poked his head in. He wasn’t smiling now, and there was a fresh purple bruise on one cheekbone. Maekar didn’t know if it was from the joust or the blow he’d given him. He watched as the other man inched inside and quietly shut the door behind him.
‘Did you know,’ he said. ‘You damn near glow in the darkness.’
‘You don’t need to sweet talk me,’ said Maekar, feeling his jaw tightening. ‘I’m not a maiden.’
But he felt like one, too much air in his body, his hands tapping against his flanks. He’d never been one for whores. Never been one for brothels. No there had only been two loves in his life. And he’d lost both of them. Lyonel, looking searchingly at his face, did not immediately move towards him.
‘We can just talk you know,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’ Finally he took several steps towards him and stopped an arm’s length away. ‘What do you want, my prince?’
Maekar wasn’t sure anymore.
‘Call me Maekar,’ he finally said, but it sounded more like a command than an invitation. ‘And I don’t know what topic of conversation would interest you, unless you want to swap more war stories.’
Lyonel shifted a little nearer. ‘We perhaps could wax lyrical about the weather.’
‘It’s atrocious,’ replied Maekar shortly, and watched his steps as he stole even closer.
They were now scarce inches apart.
‘You don’t do this often do you,’ said Lyonel, head cocking to one side.
‘That’s very presumptuous,’ replied Maekar. He should make the first move. That’s what a prince would do. Baelor would have.
But Lyonel wasn’t here for Baelor. He leaned in, still cautious, as though Maekar really were a dragon, and might bite, and pressed his lips to his. When he met no resistance he cupped the back of his head, trapping him between his fingers and mouth, and crushed up against him. A lightning bolt of sensation shot through Maekar, making him gasp into Lyonel’s mouth. He hadn’t kissed anyone since-
Lyonel’s eyes widened as he hastily pulled back, his heart jumping in his ribs. There were too many feelings, a knotted snarl of emotions he couldn’t name, tearing at his chest.
‘Should I leave?’ said Lyonel, before Maekar growled and grabbed for him.
He let everything crash over him, his mouth crushing against Lyonel’s. It was like plunging into hot water, lust drenching his nerves and soaking every edge of him. Lyonel kissed him back, hard and eager, already grinding against him, hands drifting down to grab greedily at his backside. They kissed for long minutes, panting into each other’s mouths, Maekar lashing against his tongue and nipping at his bottom lip. He reached up to grip a handful of those silky curls and wrenched his head back so he could suckle at his throat, and felt his pulse jumping against his mouth. Here was a living, breathing man in his arms, whining against his ear. Maekar decided then that he had had enough of the dead.
He shoved Lyonel over to the bed, tearing at clasps and buttons, Lyonel moving to help him. He pushed one thigh between his legs, pushing up against his cock as he moved to undo Lyonel’s shirt. The silk puddled on the floor, exposing Lyonel’s furred tits, and a vivid purple bruise in the centre of his chest. He’d done that. Maekar felt oddly proud. He leaned in, still pressing with his thigh, and grabbed a handful of flesh between his teeth. Lyonel gasped. He grabbed for his jaw and roughly pulled him back to his mouth. Maekar could feel his cock straining at his breeches, and rubbing up against his hip. He cupped him through the suede, tugging just a touch too hard, and dragged another gasp from Lyonel’s mouth. Maekar seized hold of his lower lip, holding it between his teeth as he squeezed. He was bleeding by the time he let go, a ring of teeth marks embedded in his mouth. Maekar licked over his lips, and Lyonel turned his head, exposing his throat for him. Maekar felt a little thrill at the sight, his cock giving an answering twitch. He returned to the mark he’d made, sucking twice as hard.
Lyonel’s hands drifted to his laces, easing them over his hips. Fingertips skimmed over Maekar’s stomach, making him shiver, before they finally dipped inside, slowly easing out his fattening cock. He twitched in Lyonel’s grasp and he gave a little chuckle.
‘You’re sopping,’ he said, and ran his thumb over his drooling cockhole, making Maekar buck his hips as pleasure zipped up his spine.
Lyonel let go of him, shimmying out of the rest of his clothes and clambered onto the bed. Maekar followed, shedding his garments, and was shoved into the pillows with a rough hand on his chest. Lyonel Baratheon swung one leg over his hips the way he’d pinned him in the field, and Maekar struggled not to groan at the feeling of hard muscle and warm skin grinding up against him. Lyonel dipped his head, and kissed him, softer than before, before curling a hand around his cock. Maekar felt lust wash over him. He slipped beneath it, already drowning in pleasure from a hand on his prick that felt completely differently to his. He felt the fat weight of Lyonel’s cock pressing up against him, making his eyes flicker and roll back, his cock throbbing in the other man’s hand as he slowly stroked him.
‘How do you like it?’ murmured Lyonel. ‘Like this? Or perhaps like this?’
On the final word he moved, Maekar biting off a disappointed groan as he let go of his cock and climbed off him. A moment later strong hands had flipped him, his chest digging into the embroidered quilt, Lyonel physically manoeuvring him where he wanted him until his arse in the air.
‘I keep oil stocked in this room for guests,’ said Lyonel, and there was a whisper of cotton and silk as he slipped from the sheets to grab something from a heavy oaken chest.
Maekar watched him with his face pressed into the pillow, one eye open. He should feel silly, waiting here like some bitch in heat, but the sight of Lyonel’s burnished cock and tight arse only served to make his cock throb all the harder. He could feel himself hanging heavy between his legs and had to grip at himself, desire twitching over his skin. Now they were doing this he couldn’t bear to wait any longer.
‘Can you fucking hurry up?’ he snapped, as Lyonel looked between two glass vials.
‘I was wondering what scent a dragon would prefer,’ replied Lyonel, joining him once again, and immediately pressing back up against him.
Maekar gasped as the sensation of his hard cock slipping through his thighs. A moment later he heard the vial uncork, the heavy scent of jasmine clouding the air, and an oil wet hand was catching hold of his leaking cock, and stroking him, so hard and fast light flickered across his eyes.
‘Wait,’ he cried, but it was too late, his climax crashing over him in the next breath in a shuddering wave.
Lyonel groaned at the sight, before arching over him to kiss between his shoulder blades. He kept stroking him, Maekar trembling as pleasure turned to pain and then back to pleasure, his whole body thrumming. Lyonel’s oil slick hand crept upwards, squeezing his belly, and then his chest, as his mouth pressed hot hard kisses to his skin. His hips continued their slow maddening roll, cock slipping and sliding between Maekar’s thighs, his cock nudging up against his balls with every rock of his hips. It was too much sensation and yet not quite enough, and Maekar felt himself start to harden again. He pushed back against Lyonel.
‘Hm?’ said Lyonel, voice a slow drag against his overheated nerves. ‘Does my dragon wish to be mounted by a stag?’
‘Fuck you, I’m not fucking begging,’ growled Maekar.
Lyonel’s hand twisted in his hair and he was wrenched back, knees grinding into the bed, Lyonel’s rigid cock knocking against his inner thigh. Lyonel’s hand slid low again, teasing his straining cock with the pads of his fingers, touch barely an echo. Maekar felt himself give a full body shudder. The barely there touch came again, and again, making his breath stutter in his throat and his hips blindly thrust, his cock red flushed and desperate.
‘Ask me nicely,’ breathed Lyonel into his ear, and his hand stalled, inches from where he wanted it.
‘Fuck me,’ groaned Maekar, arching into his touch, before he was pushed back to the sheets.
A second later a finger probed at his entrance and he moaned. Lyonel worked him open with practiced efficiency, oil slowly dribbling between his arse cheeks and trickling over his balls. Maekar all but dissolved as he brushed up against his sweet spot, but already Lyonel was pulling out, his fingers replaced by the blunt head of his cock. Maekar hissed as he was breached, feeling himself stretch around the girth of the other man, his eyes rolling back as he immediately hit his sweet spot again, pleasure sparking up his spine and pooling honey slow in his neglected cock. He pushed back against him, and reached back a hand to grip Lyonel’s thigh.
Lyonel gave a soft chuckle before he began to thrust, slowly at first, pressing in and out as though he was trying to see all the different ways he could make Maekar moan, before he adjusted his weight and began to pound him. Maekar bit down indiscriminately and tasted cotton. He’d forgotten how good it felt, to have a cock pushing steel hard into his guts, and hands curling into the meat of his hips, and another man panting his name, the sound soon swallowed up by the oil wet slap of skin on skin as Lyonel hammered into him. Every hard thrust made his cock pulse, slapping against his belly with the force of Lyonel’s heavy thrusts, his cock stroking him from the inside out. Already another climax was building, lust coiling taut in his belly. He murmured fuck in three languages, arching his back as he braced himself against the stag rutting him. He hissed as Lyonel wrapped a hand around his throat and his vision shuttered red. He was so close, one more thrust would do it-
But Lyonel’s clever strokes stalled, and Maekar heard himself make a wet sob, teetering right on the edge, his blood thrumming hot, heartbeat thudding in his aching cock.
‘That’s it,’ purred Lyonel. ‘Oh you’re so fucking good for me.’
He pulled Maekar back with the same hand, his throat jumping against his palm, and kissed against his ear.
‘Please,’ moaned Markar, voice hoarse, as his cock gave another insistent pulse.
‘What was that?’ said Lyonel, laughter in his voice. ‘Are you begging now, my prince?’
Maekar felt the cock inside him twitch. The sensation almost made him come on the spot. He shivered.
‘If you don’t let me spend I’ll fucking kill you,’ he growled, which made Lyonel chuckle.
‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he said, and started to kiss his neck, before his hips began a slow insistent drag, his cock gliding in and out. One hand crept down Maekar’s belly and wrapped around his rigid length.
His orgasm was squeezed out of him as he juddered, his cock spilling over, his climax tearing through him like a hot bright light. He squeezed around Lyonel’s cock so hard he heard him curse. For several seconds he was nothing and no one, just the pleasure burning through him. He groaned as Lyonel pulled out, and felt him splatter hot and wet across his lower back like he was branding him.
He came back to himself lying outstretched on his belly, as Lyonel gently wiped him clean with a cloth.
‘That was-‘ he tried but couldn’t think how to form words.
Lyonel smiled. ‘The best fuck you’ve had in close to a decade?’
Maekar rolled onto his side, surprised he still had limbs. He felt like he was floating weightless in a pool, the way he had as a boy. ‘That’s the only fuck I’ve had in a decade.’
‘That can’t be good for you,’ replied Lyonel, sliding down to join him.
‘I have hands,’ said Maekar, letting himself study the man, his gaze as greedy as his lust had been, snagging against all Lyonel’s edges, and noticing details he hadn’t before; the lines at the corner of his eyes, the olive tones in the gold of his eyes.
Lyonel reached for one of them and kissed the back of it. ‘Mm, we’ll have to use them later.’ He stared up at the canopy and sighed.
Maekar was drifting into sleep when he spoke again.
‘Your boy,’ he said. ‘The egg boy, the one you squired to that hedge night. Do you ever hear from him?’
He kept his tone light but Maekar could hear something, a sort of insistence pressing against his words. He raised his head.
‘Yes, they survived the sickness. They’re down in Dorne, I believe, at least that’s where the last letter found its way from. I sent him coin with a courier to buy a proper horse rather than use that cart horse they were hauling around.’
Lyonel kept his eyes fixed on the canopy but Maekar saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
‘It was quite a nice horse actually, Stormland bred.’
‘If you say so,’ replied Maekar, laying his head back down on the pillow and closing his eyes.
‘And he didn’t mention me at all, in his letters?’ said Lyonel, a moment later.
Maekar’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Why would my boy mention you?’
Lyonel finally dragged his gaze away from the canopy. ‘Not him. The hedge knight. Ser Duncan.’
‘No,’ replied Maekar and watched the other man’s face drop.
Ah. he knew that expression. He saw it in the mirror each morning, grief draped like a curtain over his features. His heart went out then to the Baratheon.
‘I heard you offered to take him into your service,’ he said softly, and reached out a hand to smooth down Lyonel’s arm.
Lyonel’s voice was breezy but Maekar noticed the tightness of his jaw all the same. ‘Yes. Well. Big man like that, and a beast in combat, who wouldn’t.’
‘He’s a fine knight,’ he said. ‘Although perhaps not as fine as you.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Lyonel with a sigh, but his expression already looked lighter. He turned onto his side. ‘Will you stay?’
‘I’m already staying,’ replied Maekar.
‘After the tourney ends.’ His bright eyes were pleading. ‘Just for the season. Until the winter comes.’
‘My brother is ill,’ replied Maekar. ‘I don’t think I have much-‘ but then he stopped at Lyonel’s expression. ‘Yes. I’ll stay.’
He could already feel the weight of responsibility, the weight of the crown, like a cage descending to trap him. How much time did he have? Days? Weeks? Here he leaned in and kissed Lyonel’s cheek, feeling his beard brushing softly against his lips, and felt a rush of affection for the other man. Not love. He’d never feel anything close to love again. But something all the same.
‘Whatever time left I have is yours,’ he muttered, and returned Lyonel’s smile, before finally letting himself be washed over by sleep, and sink beneath the lapping waves.