Chapter Text
"Come on, Beesbury. Is that all you got? Where's the sting?"
Beesbury laughed as he stepped in again. This time the swing had more to it, but Lyonel turned the blade aside with a parry that rang through the yard.
"Disappointing," Lyonel said.
Beesbury growled and committed harder to the next strike. Men often did when you mocked them enough.
Lyonel stepped forward, caught the blade at the forte, and slid along it as he snapped his wrist over. It broke Beesbury's grip, and with a quick twist the sword went spinning from his hand.
Lyonel grinned. He could swear he saw Beesbury's yellow moustache twitch.
"Cunt," Beesbury muttered, stalking off to retrieve his weapon.
They had been at it a while now beneath the bright spring sun. Sweat ran down both of them, though on Beesbury it somehow looked considerably less dignified. Even the man's moustache was damp.
Lyonel had only taken up with this out of boredom, after too much sitting and waiting around his encampment. He'd spotted Beesbury wandering the grounds with no better purpose, and decided to improve both their days. To his credit, Beesbury had not needed much convincing.
There was little else to do at Ashford yet. Tents were still going up across the meadow, pavilions rising one by one, houses from near and far setting up their camps. The tilts would not begin for another couple of days.
Lyonel had himself arrived the day before. The ride from Storm's End had been dull as ditchwater, and soon enough he would have to make the journey back. But for a few days there was sport to be had.
Beesbury had retrieved his sword and taken up his stance again. Lyonel was just deciding which lesson to teach him next. Balance, perhaps? Or the importance of keeping hold of one's bloody weapon.
Beesbury's gaze flicked past him. Then the man smirked, sly as ever, and Lyonel wanted to hit him for it.
Beesbury jerked his chin toward the edge of the yard. "Your hatchling's found you."
After half an hour of getting his arse handed to him, it would seem Beesbury had finally resorted to the oldest trick in the book.
Lyonel shifted his footing, ready to punish the distraction.
"That desperate to land a hit? You'll have to do better."
Beesbury lowered his sword and looked about ready to throttle Lyonel.
"Prick. Turn around. We have a royal audience."
Lyonel finally glanced over his shoulder.
And would you look at that.
Dark hair, black on black, hovering at the edge of the yard like he'd wandered there by mistake. Uneasy and princely as ever, Valarr Targaryen.
The prince stood watching the sparring as though he had nowhere better to be. Worse, as if he were considering coming over.
For the last few tourneys, the prince had made a habit of seeking Lyonel out. He had yet to drag an explanation out of the lad.
Lyonel had to bite back a grin. The day had improved considerably.
The prince had a wonderfully fussy streak. Sometimes he'd puff himself up to his full princely height over the smallest imagined offense. It made him entirely too easy to bait. One would think he had learned to stop handing Lyonel such easy opportunities.
Beesbury snorted softly, already stepping back.
"Ah. I'll leave you to it. I've no wish to witness you torment the boy."
Lyonel recognized an excuse when he heard one.
"Go on, off with you. You're one swing from collapsing into that ridiculous moustache, and I've no stomach for the sight."
Beesbury barked a laugh as he turned away. "Try not to jest yourself into a war over Breakspear's son."
"Gods forbid I have a little fun."
Lyonel sauntered over to the prince, taking his time and enjoying the way Valarr began shifting where he stood. Lyonel kept his gaze fixed on him and, sure enough, the prince was looking everywhere except at him.
"It is good to see you again, Ser Lyonel," the prince said when Lyonel came within speaking distance. "It has been some time. Have you been well?"
The prince looked much the same as he had at the tourney at Maidenpool some moons ago, though he was a little leaner about the jaw. He sounded the same too, still soft-spoken and painfully polite.
Lyonel frowned as though searching his memory. Looked the prince up and down, and tilted his head slightly.
"Terribly sorry," he said at last. "Have we met?"
The prince looked genuinely aghast.
"It is Valarr Targaryen," he said at once. "We have met bef–"
He stopped abruptly, suspicion beginning to creep across his face as he studied Lyonel more carefully.
"Valarr..." Lyonel repeated thoughtfully. "Which dragon prince were you again?"
Lyonel tilted his head again and waited as Valarr narrowed his eyes at him.
"Do not trifle with me, Ser Lyonel. You do know me."
"Do I?" Lyonel's mouth twitched. "You'll have to remind me. I meet a great many people."
The prince hesitated then, almost glaring at him as he did.
His eyes remained as peculiar as Lyonel remembered. Deep blue, save for the brown cutting through one of them. Hard to look away from once you'd noticed.
The prince studied him a moment longer. Then, at last, a small smile returned to his face.
"Then perhaps this will help your memory," he began. "The tourney at Maidenpool. At the feast on the last day, you put a lute in my hands and refused to let me leave until I played for you. Then you took up a drum and declared we would make splendid traveling bards."
Strange place to begin. Lyonel would sooner have expected some mention of Prince Baelor than the evening he'd tried to recruit the princeling into a troupe of wandering musicians.
"Gods, the lute. I remember now." A grin tugged at Lyonel's mouth. "Good thing we never took to the roads. We'd have been begging by the end of the moon. Shite lute player that you are."
Valarr laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as though Lyonel had said something vastly more amusing than it was. The sound drew a grin from Lyonel.
"They're not putting you in the lists again, are they?" Lyonel asked. "You were better suited to that lute than a lance, and gods know I've no wish to risk my ears twice."
"I am riding in the lists indeed," Valarr said, a flicker of pride entering his voice. "As one of Lady Gwin's champions. In honor of her nameday."
Lyonel had known that, of course. He already knew how this would go, too. The prince would ride well enough against men sensible enough not to embarrass him, the crowds would cheer, and Baelor Breakspear would gain another shining little victory.
Lyonel toyed with the idea of being the one to challenge the whelp. Of unhorsing him cleanly on the first pass and leaving him flat in the dust before the whole field. Might do him some good.
"Is that the plan, then? Ride well, look princely, let the smallfolk swoon."
A flash of genuine irritation crossed the prince's face. Lyonel's grin deepened.
"It is an honor to be appointed a champion, and one I intend to justify," the prince said, noticeably stiffer now.
"Oh, appointed, is it?" Lyonel echoed. "A fine way to earn your glory."
"You speak as though I had awarded the honor to myself," Valarr replied, drawing himself up a little. "Lady Gwin did me the courtesy of asking. I mean to do well, and prove her choice to be a sound one."
Lyonel regarded him for a moment. There was the offended majesty. Why he didn't simply tell Lyonel to piss off, Lyonel could not guess.
"Aye, well. Crowds like something pretty to look at."
"That is hardly-" Valarr stopped abruptly.
The prince's mouth closed, then opened slightly, but he said nothing. Color appeared on his cheeks and he stopped looking at Lyonel altogether.
Well, hells.
Valarr cleared his throat and looked somewhere off to the side, seemingly trying for nonchalance and failing badly at it.
"You are very... kind, my lord," he said.
Kind? That was a new one.
"Did you need something?" Lyonel asked him.
"No, I–no, ser," Valarr said quickly. "Robert Ashford was kindly showing me around the grounds and I saw you from there," he added, pointing somewhere behind him, though Lyonel did not bother looking. "And thought I might come and greet you."
"I see."
"I saw you sparring with Ser Humfrey. Might you spar with me?"
Now that would be something. Lyonel would have him eating dust in a heartbeat.
And where was the sport in that? There was none. Only the dull business of knocking over a man who never had much chance to begin with.
"I think not. Find someone who'll pretend to struggle with you."
"I should like to learn from you," Valarr said, a little hesitant. "If you'd have me."
"Find a septon, or one of your white cloaks. I've no patience for it."
The day Lyonel Baratheon started sharpening dragon princes into better knights would be the day Storm's End washed into the sea.
Valarr looked down, the faintest crease between his brows.
"I understand. I shall leave you to it."
The princeling understood nothing of it. And Lyonel had had enough of unhappy blue-brown eyes.
"Hold a moment, champion," he said.
Valarr looked back at once.
Lyonel jerked his chin toward the big red pavilion rising above the others.
"They'll set a log there later in the afternoon," he said. "Raised just high enough that you'll feel it if you fall. You climb up atop it, and you shove and strike with one hand behind your back, trying to knock the other man off while keeping your own footing. If you fall, you go to the end of the line and wait your turn again." Lyonel waved a hand. "Seven hells, they'll show you. It mostly comes down to balance."
He glanced at the prince pointedly. "You could use the practice. And they'll be glad enough to have a prince take part."
Valarr seemed to consider Lyonel's words.
"May I expect to find you there?" he asked.
Lyonel's mouth curved. He rolled the practice sword idly in one hand, never taking his eyes off the prince.
"Someone's got to clear that log."
The prince's smile turned bright, almost conspiratorial.
"Then I will see you there," he said.
He lingered a moment, as though waiting to see if Lyonel would say anything else. When none came, he dipped his head and took his leave.
Lyonel watched him go, the pale streak in his hair bright in the sun before it was lost among the tents. Strange sort of thing, that.
At Maidenpool, the prince had made the damned lute sing.
Later that afternoon Lyonel had been waylaid by one of his household's men and drawn into a wager. The challenge was to see who could skip a stone farthest across the lake. It had been good sport for a time, testing their throws upon the water and drinking wine in good company. Lyonel found he had a talent for it.
But in the end, the men could not decide who had actually won, and he had half a mind to shove them all off the pier into the lake, himself included.
He then dimly recalled there was still sport to be had, courtesy of Hardyng's inspired log game.
As he made his way back, Lyonel briefly wondered whether the dragon prince would make an appearance. Surely a prince had better and duller ways to spend an afternoon.
When Lyonel reached Hardyng's pavilion, the log game had already drawn a crowd. Men and women were shouting and cheering around it, loud and unruly as ever.
He shouldered his way closer, waving off familiar faces as he went. After claiming a place beneath one of the canopies, he uncorked his wine flask and settled in to watch.
The prince was already there.
Standing next in line, waiting his turn, no less. So much for better and duller things.
It seemed the men had split into two sides this time. It was simple enough, knock your opponent off, and press on. First side forced back to its own end of the log lost.
When the man before Valarr was knocked off the log, it was the prince's turn to climb on it. He took his stance, one hand tucked behind his back and the other lifted ready to strike. There was a look of absurd concentration on his face as he eyed his opponent.
The men at his side shouted encouragement, laughing and telling the prince where to strike. Opposite them, the other side answered in kind. The crowd added their own noise to it, too.
Valarr and the young lad before him began shoving and feinting, each trying to throw the other off balance. All of it a ridiculous flailing of arms.
Then, by what could only generously be called skill, Valarr caught the other man square in the shoulder and sent him off the log, only barely keeping his own footing. He advanced a step, with loud cheering from his side.
Lyonel grinned as he watched. The prince did improve a man's day.
His grin only widened when he saw Ser Humfrey Hardyng was next up opposite the prince.
It was over in a heartbeat. The whelp was knocked clean off and into the dirt.
A chorus of dismayed groans rose from Valarr's side and the crowd alike, especially from the women gathered to watch. Even the opposing line let out a few sympathetic 'oh's.
The prince scarcely had time to brush the dirt off before three hands reached for him. One of the men hauled the prince back to his feet, both grinning and patting each other's backs, all in good sport.
Lyonel snorted. The prince had a way of it, had them all near tripping over themselves for him.
Valarr gave one of those small, practiced princely smiles and stepped back into line, ready to take his turn again.
The prince's side was victorious. Much of the credit belonged to Lyonel's younger brother, Gowen, who'd kept Hardyng from bullying his way down the log.
Valarr's balance was dreadful. Lyonel had seen as much in the lists, where Valarr clung to the saddle by sheer refusal to fall after a bad strike. No better on the log, either. He wobbled like a foal finding its legs.
Awkward little bastard or not, a victory was a victory.
The men broke apart, some drifting off to drink, others gathering themselves for the next round. The prince remained where he was, quickly surrounded, men and women alike pressing in to speak with him. Lyonel watched for a while as Valarr spoke with them, all polite and well-mannered, as a Targaryen household guard stood watch nearby. Curious, that a white cloak was not hovering over the prince instead.
Then fate, having apparently grown bored, intervened. The prince's gaze found him.
Valarr excused himself at once and made his way over, coming to stand right before where Lyonel sat watching.
"Ser Lyonel," the prince greeted, a little breathless.
Lyonel leaned back on the table behind him to look up at the prince.
"Enjoy yourself? You looked as though you did."
"Yes," the prince said, a small laugh escaping him as he ducked his head. "Thank you for inviting me."
Lyonel had done no such thing, but saw no cause to correct him.
"Might I join you for a while?" the prince asked, watching him as though braced for refusal.
"You may do as you please. I doubt I'd stop you."
The prince sat before Lyonel could reconsider.
For a while, they sat in silence and observed the people around them. The prince beside him was still and quiet as stone. More than one noble looked as though they meant to approach the prince, only to think better of it.
Lyonel glanced at Valarr from the corner of his eye. It was becoming mildly unsettling.
He held out his wine flask without a word. Valarr hesitated only a moment before taking it for a quick drink and handing it back.
The quiet was beginning to grate. Usually the prince needed little encouragement to talk. The last couple of tourneys, whenever it had been just the two of them, Valarr had always had something to say.
Lyonel turned toward him, close enough to crowd the prince a little. Valarr's eyes found his, then fled. Skittish.
His eyes caught on a smear of dirt along the prince's face, just on the cheekbone. Likely from before when he'd been sent sprawling.
Without much thought, Lyonel tucked away his wine flask and caught Valarr by the nape of the neck, swiping at the smudge with his sleeve. The prince shut his eyes and held still as Lyonel scrubbed at his face perhaps more roughly than needed.
"Thank you," Valarr said quietly.
"You're all legs and no footing." Lyonel scoffed, letting him go at last. "Like a fawn on ice. Lower yourself more when they shove at you. Bend at the knees, else you'll go flying every time."
And to think he'd just used his own sleeve to tend a dirt-smudged Targaryen prince like a dutiful nursemaid. He took up his flask again and turned his attention back to the crowd.
Hardyng and the others were still setting up for another round of the log game, and Lyonel wanted in at once. He rose and lifted a hand with a sharp whistle to draw their attention. The men waved him over eagerly, making space for him at the front.
The prince had followed him, but joined the opposing side. Lyonel's mouth curved, one eyebrow lifting in interest. The prince could've joined his side instead, Lyonel would've done the hard part.
Valarr met his gaze and held it this time. A challenge, if Lyonel had ever seen one.
He nearly laughed. The prince had all the menace of a sparrow puffing its feathers. Still, Lyonel liked the spirit of it. Clearly Valarr was not after an easy victory, but a good bit of fun and a proper sweaty contest.
And in the end, Lyonel's side won. It had never truly been in doubt.
He drove them forward almost singlehanded, sending men from the log one after another, with a laugh ugly enough to make the men around him grin too.
The prince, to his credit, kept taking earnest swings at Lyonel whenever they matched up against each other. Lyonel discovered quickly enough that unsettling Valarr was far more entertaining than simply knocking him flat would have been.
The first time they faced off Lyonel barely twitched toward him before Valarr flinched aside with a startled laugh and lost his footing all on his own. It was ridiculous. Half the battle was simply making the prince anticipate the hit and letting him defeat himself.
Another time Lyonel fought dirtier, jabbing quick fingers into the prince's ribs. Valarr laughed, lost his footing, and went off the log with a protest. He claimed Lyonel had behaved unsportingly.
Lyonel grinned and stuck his tongue out at him.
As it turned out, winning only meant climbing back onto the bloody log. The men wanted a rematch, and Lyonel was happy to oblige. By then the game had turned into Lyonel and Hardyng against half the camp. The younger lads came at them in a steady stream, cheered on by everyone sensible enough not to stand on the log themselves. Only Gowen and one of the Tully boys had managed to knock either of them off.
Lyonel sent one of Lord Tarly's young cousins tumbling from the log with a shove to the shoulder. Valarr was next.
The prince squared his shoulders and tucked his left hand behind his back, raising the other to strike. He was still restless on his feet, shifting his stance every few moments, but this time he kept himself lower.
So he had listened after all.
Lyonel gave him a nod, barely suppressing a grin. Valarr returned it. There was a glint in his eye that boded poorly for someone, though Lyonel doubted it would be him.
Now then. How best to dispose of the prince this time?
Another feint might do it. Valarr had proven remarkably susceptible to those.
The prince's build ought to have helped him. Less weight to throw around. Less to lose when his balance shifted. As it was, he seemed more occupied with watching Lyonel than making a move.
The men behind Valarr were shouting advice at the top of their lungs, Lyonel's own brother among them.
"Let him move first!"
"Wait for him!"
"Catch him off balance!"
Lyonel snorted.
And really, shouting strategy so openly? The bastards seemed to think they had him figured out.
Lyonel gave a small feint. Earlier that would have had the prince losing his balance and hopping sideways, but this time Valarr merely lowered himself another fraction and watched him.
Valarr struck at his shoulder, Lyonel leaned away. Another swipe followed and this time it landed, but Lyonel did not budge.
The prince kept pecking away at him. A sparrow, indeed.
But he would need more than that to send Lyonel sprawling.
"Get him, my prince!" a young Lannister lad shouted behind Valarr.
Another swipe at his hand. Lyonel did not bother to avoid it.
Lyonel was still considering the matter when he noticed Valarr's cheeks redden with the effort he was spending.
Or perhaps not entirely from the effort.
He was reminded of how the prince had blushed like a bloody maiden earlier. He had a fair notion of what had caused it, then.
He wondered if it would work twice.
Valarr's brows were faintly furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out. He took another swipe, striking Lyonel's forearm with a smack.
"That's it. Put some spite into it, pretty," Lyonel said.
Valarr stumbled mid-shove and flailed. Lyonel avoided him with the slightest lean.
"Ser–"
Whatever else the prince had intended to say was lost as he stepped on empty air and went off the log.
That settled it. Whether the prince liked being called pretty or took offense at it remained unclear. Either way, he reacted.
Valarr landed on his feet below the log and nearly lost them again before recovering, as his side protested on his behalf. Behind Lyonel, Hardyng let out a low laugh. Lyonel stepped forward, gaining ground on the log. Another victory was certain.
The Lannister cub was next, his jaw set with determination, but Lyonel spared him only a glance. First, he threw a grin at Valarr. The prince had lasted longer this time, but the result remained the same. One well-placed word and down he went. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing a dragon prince lose, no matter the game.
Valarr looked up at him and, to Lyonel's surprise, he laughed. A small thing, soft and rueful.
The prince dipped him an exaggerated little bow from below the log before turning away, already being claimed by a couple of young noblemen and steered toward the wine. It would seem the prince had had enough balance training for the day.
A curious reaction, but Lyonel would take it. He'd expected a princely glower. Or perhaps hoped for one.
He turned his attention to the Lannister boy. He meant to cure him of that determined look next.
Wine and victory had left Lyonel in good humor.
He decided a break from the log games was in order, entertaining as it was to send men off the log only to have them climb right back up, stubbornly trying new ways to best him. Some even managed it.
Soon enough, he found something else to occupy him. He fell into conversation with a few young knights from his household, who had all but surrounded him by the time he stepped back beneath the canopy. Their wives joined soon after, and before long they were crowded around a table with cups in hand, arguing over hawks, hounds, and which made the finer hunter.
Lyonel had spent much of his boyhood trailing after his father across the Stormlands on hunts. The old stag had never cared much for men who preferred a cushioned chair to the hunt. If diplomatic matters could be discussed beside a campfire with a boar turning on the spit, so much the better.
Lyonel could still recall the first rabbit one of his self-trained hawks had taken clean. He had been perhaps two-and-ten. The bird struck hard enough to drive its talons straight through the thing's skull.
He remembered kneeling in the grass with the rabbit limp in his hands while the hawk tore greedily at the strip of meat Lyonel tossed as reward. His father had clapped him once on the shoulder afterwards. Good kill, he'd said. Coming from his father, that might as well have been a song in his honor.
Ser Maric had roasted the rabbit legs over the fire that night. Lyonel had gnawed the meat clean from the bone while the hawk perched nearby on its stand, smug little beast that it was.
Lyonel was midway through describing how the hawk had near taken off Ser Maric's thumb when he spotted the prince a little way off. Valarr was engaged in conversation with an older lord and his wife, though one ear seemed turned toward Lyonel's table. Every so often the prince glanced over, then looked away the instant he was caught.
After that, Lyonel's story acquired a few improvements. The hawk grew larger, Ser Maric's thumb came nearer to being lost, and Lyonel demonstrated the strike with enough enthusiasm that he nearly sent one man's cup flying from the table. The prince laughed at that from where he pretended not to listen.
Lyonel caught the sound and promptly improved the story further.
Another moment and he might have put a stop to the prince's lurking and dragged him over to contribute something useful, but Valarr did not stay long enough for that. One of his household guards, the burly fellow in black armor who had kept watch nearby all afternoon, crossed to the prince and bent to murmur something in his ear, just as the men were preparing for yet another round on the log.
Lyonel knew that look on Valarr's face. It was the face a man made when duty arrived to spoil a perfectly good afternoon.
Valarr bid them farewell and explained that he was required back at the castle. Lord Ashford had prepared a grand feast, and it would not do for him to miss it.
The news was met with a chorus of groans. Judging by the faces of several ladies nearby, one might have thought the prince was departing for war.
"A shame," Lyonel said. "You're abandoning the better company."
A few men nearby, Beesbury among them, shouted an aye! to strengthen Lyonel's claim.
Valarr's smile deepened faintly as he looked over the noisy crowd.
"I confess I would sooner have remained here."
"So stay."
The prince stared at him a moment.
"I–"
"Ah, bugger off then. Before they take a count and come up one prince short." Lyonel grinned and lifted his flask in a lazy salute.
The older lord and his wife looked scandalized. Lyonel supposed most men did not tell the heir to the Iron Throne to bugger off in polite company.
"Very well," Valarr said, a small smile playing about his mouth. "Do try not to let your victories and the wine go to your head." His gaze drifted over Lyonel. "Though I suspect they already have."
"Hah!" Lyonel smacked the table.
For the briefest instant, the prince looked almost startled by the reaction. Then his smile deepened, and he ducked his head briefly.
He thanked Hardyng and the others for the games and the wine, very princely about it all. The company parted to let him pass, though not before he cast one last glance over his shoulder at Lyonel. Lyonel lifted an eyebrow. Valarr's gaze fell, and he turned away.
Hells, what was Valarr looking at him like that for? He was the one marching off to the castle. What was Lyonel meant to do, sling the prince over his shoulder and haul him back?
He snorted at himself and reached for the wine once Valarr had disappeared from view.
Lyonel stayed by Hardyng's pavilion long after the prince had gone.
There were old companions to greet and enough drinks flowing between the tents to drown a lesser man twice over. Someone started a filthy song before sunset fully faded, and by the third verse half the pavilion had joined in roaring it badly.
At some point the fools had managed to crack the log they'd fought on earlier clean through the middle. Fortunately, Hardyng and his sister appeared soon after carrying a new log. She was built near as powerfully as her brothers, and twice as loud too. They put the new log into place, and the games began anew.
Men shoved and grappled atop the log once more while women shouted wagers from the canopies. Soon the women wanted a turn as well and claimed the log for themselves. Lyonel found their style of warfare considerably more entertaining.
Later Lyonel sent three more men sprawling into the dirt before one of them, sputtering mud and wounded pride alike, accused him of cheating.
"You dumb cunt. How do you cheat at shoving a man off a fucking log?" Lyonel barked, wobbling drunkenly on said log.
The laughter spilled out of him anyway.
Twice he thought he spotted the prince among the tents. Twice it proved to be someone less interesting.
The following day passed with Lyonel finding new ways to amuse himself. One of them found him in Beesbury's tent, cups in hand, shouting his way through some thoroughly mangled drinking song with the man himself. Lyonel had never met a song he couldn't improve by singing louder.
Good cheer took hold of him, and before long he was standing atop a table declaring that he would host a feast that very evening. He had a pavilion large enough for it. There would be music, drink, food, and dancing. Beesbury and his wife, naturally, were the first to receive an invitation.
And later, at his feast, once the novelty of it had worn off, Lyonel found himself bored.
He sat behind the high table, an antlered helm upon his head, watching the guests before him eat, drink, and make merry while he turned over a thought that had taken hold.
On the very field outside, where they would ride in the lists on the morrow at dusk, men had first bloodied one another with sticks four thousand years before. But who had first looked at another man and thought, I'd like to hit that bastard with a lance from horseback? Better yet, why?
The answer seemed obvious enough to Lyonel.
Only his steward and Ser Maric seemed inclined to hear it. Around him people talked and laughed and emptied their cups, yet none of the bastards cared to entertain his question, let alone answer it. For once he had a thought bordering on profound, and not a one of the cunts had the wit to appreciate it. As it was, he could barely hear any of his thoughts at all.
Gowen afforded him a thoughtful "Hmm," then promptly turned back to his wife. Bloody idiot. The matter concerned their own house's sigil beast.
The dragon prince would've pretended it was worth discussing.
Lyonel urged his guests to eat faster. The sooner the tables were cleared away, the sooner the dancing could begin. They were meant to enjoy themselves, not rot behind tables.
His wish was granted soon enough. The last of the tables disappeared and the musicians struck up a livelier tune. Within moments the centre of the pavilion had filled with dancers while the rest drifted toward the wine.
It was then an offensively tall man caught Lyonel's eye. Hard not to notice a giant skulking around the edges of a tent.
Lyonel returned his attention to the dancers. Beesbury was throwing himself into it magnificently.
Even so, he kept the giant in the corner of his eye. A fair-haired mountain of a man, intent on sampling every dish he passed while looking Lyonel's way often enough to invite suspicion.
The fellow hunched as he moved, folding in on himself as though ashamed of the space he occupied. That, more than anything, pricked at Lyonel's temper. A man built like that ought to stand tall and dare the world to make something of it.
He told one of his men to wave the cowering giant closer. He wanted to know what business the fellow had skulking around his feast.
And after the brief exchange it became clear the fellow was simply… earnest. An honest, towering man. With a belt made of rope. His business in Lyonel's tent was not to curry his favor or take his head. He simply wished to eat supper. He told Lyonel as much, with a stutter that had no business being as charming as it was.
There was something unfinished about the lad. Strength enough to pull down a wall, but no notion what to do with it. The fellow, besides being irritatingly tall, also had the sort of face women liked. Lyonel could see why.
The man's name was Ser Dunk. The more Lyonel watched him, the more curious he became. Here was a man with shoulders fit to carry a gate and hands like a blacksmith's hammers, yet he moved through the tent as though afraid of inconveniencing someone. Ridiculous.
Since the man seemed refreshingly straightforward, Lyonel found himself wondering how someone built like that moved. There was only one way to find out.
So he sent the giant out to dance.
Dunk was game. He started stiffly, but before long the music had carried him away. Women caught him by the arm, laughed as they spun him this way and that, and the fellow proved surprisingly light on his feet.
Lyonel watched for another moment before deciding to improve matters. He rose, let the music carry him and joined the dancers. Dancing had always come easy to him. Especially after a few cups and a good tune playing.
Somehow the dance contrived to deposit Dunk directly in front of him. Perhaps Lyonel had something to do with it.
Dunk still looked stiff and timid, so Lyonel, without too much thought, brought his heel down hard on Dunk's foot.
Dunk grimaced. Lyonel only stared at the man. Come on. Do something.
A look of confusion passed Dunk's face, though he bore the pain admirably. A few people around them stopped and stared at the scene.
Lyonel did not let up. He lifted his foot only to try it again and again, but the hedge knight caught on right away, shifting aside just before each stomp. Soon Lyonel was chasing the giant. The first true steps of their dance.
Things improved considerably when Dunk returned the favor, one enormous foot coming down square atop Lyonel's own. It did hurt like a bugger.
Lyonel caught himself against the giant's shoulder, and Dunk's hands came up to steady him. The look on the fellow's face suggested he believed he had just crippled a lord, and that look alone was worth the bruised foot.
Lyonel straightened, and the hedge knight was eyeing him warily back while still trying to hold Lyonel upright. Lyonel barked a laugh.
Dunk's expression eased at once as he answered with a grin and a shove at Lyonel's shoulder, pushing him off.
From there, the dance only grew wilder.
Around them, the music swelled as their shadows moved along the canvas walls. Lyonel clapped, laughed, circled Dunk, until the whole thing turned chaotic. Lyonel began spinning the big man where he stood, like they were two hurricanes at sea back home.
The crowd pressed close, they clapped their hands and cheered, some were drawn into the dance themselves. The whole pavilion had gone to glorious ruin, just as Lyonel had hoped.
Somewhere amid the chaos, mid-spinning around, Lyonel caught sight of a familiar prince. The candlelight was poor, yet he knew him at once.
Valarr stood at the edge of the dancers, a cup in hand, watching the others rather than joining them. Lyonel had no notion when he'd arrived, nor when the prince had become so bloody easy to pick out in a crowd in a candlelit tent.
One of his men ought to have mentioned a dragon prince had somehow wandered into his feast. Was the prince looking for a lively evening? If so, he'd chosen the right pavilion.
The prince lingered half in shadow, smiling faintly to himself as though perfectly content to watch while everyone else made fools of themselves. Lyonel broke from the dancers and made straight for him. There was still a wicked grin on his face, and he was breathing a little harder from the exertion.
He came to a halt before Valarr with a heavy stamp. The prince said something, but it was lost beneath the music and noise. Lyonel paid it no mind.
He stamped again, but Valarr merely looked up at him. Still neat and proper, even here. That same shy, curious look, as though he wanted terribly to join in but lacked the nerve to do it. That would never do.
Lyonel then nudged his foot lightly against the prince's.
Valarr glanced down at it, then back up at him, plainly at a loss. Lyonel nearly groaned.
"For fuck's sake, prince."
He tried again, more deliberate this time. He moved as though to crush the prince's toes, but Valarr did not move an inch. At the last instant, Lyonel pulled the blow. What should have been a proper stamp turned instead into an awkward, barely-there tap of his foot against the prince's.
The prince only smiled, bright and entirely unhelpful, color rising into his cheeks all over again.
Lyonel stared at him, at a loss for what to do with him. With the other man, his new friend, it had been simple. Push, and the giant pushed back.
This one merely blushed. Entirely bloody useless.
Lyonel stepped closer, faintly incredulous. "Are you truly not understanding me?"
Their faces were near now, Lyonel looming over him. Valarr's gaze wandered over his face without quite settling.
"I fear I am not."
Lyonel let out a slow breath through his nose. For a moment he considered simply taking the prince by the collar and throwing him bodily into the dancers.
"It is a fine gathering, my lord. Very... spirited," the prince continued, a touch hesitant, leaning a little closer so he might be heard. "It is pleasant to see so many people at ease. Your musicians are exceptional, too. I believe... unless I am mistaken, or my eyes deceive me... is that a harp? I had thought I heard one. I am rather fond of the instrument. Such a clear, bright tone, as well... I confess I should dearly like to know what the strings are made of." He cleared his throat. "I hope I am not intruding. I had only intended to look in for a little while."
Lyonel let out a low laugh. Seven hells. If the prince wanted a closer look at the harp, he was welcome to it. He could have the bloody thing, for all Lyonel cared.
But first, he needed to stop standing about and join the dancing.
Lyonel leaned closer, near enough that his breath stirred the hair by the prince's ear.
"Why aren't you dancing?"
At that, Valarr stepped back, as though half-expecting Lyonel to seize him by the arm and drag him into the dancers.
The prince was about to say something when the tall man with the ridiculous name, Dunk, came barreling in and brought his heel down hard on Lyonel's foot with a thump. The giant laughed as he danced away.
"Fucker," Lyonel muttered, grin breaking on his face.
He turned at once and gave chase, rejoining the dance before Dunk could escape.
Later, Lyonel lounged in his chair with his head slightly tipped back while Dunk leaned against the table beside him. They talked of this and that, of Dunk's old knight, Ser Orlan or something, and the roads they had traveled together, of how the old bastard had died. Lyonel had a few good tales of his own he cared to tell. The hedge knight listened with the same earnest attention he seemed to give everything.
A couple hours of dancing and wine had done the fellow a world of good. Less like a frightened draft horse, more like a man. The antlered helm Lyonel had planted atop his head earlier didn't hurt, either.
Around them the feast lay in ruins. Men snored where they had fallen, cups still clutched in hand. Someone had claimed the space beneath a table for a bed. Yet two fools, Gowen and his wife Tya, still turned in slow circles in the middle of the pavilion, determined to wring every last moment from the evening as a softer tune played.
Lyonel scoffed. Good for him.
Some men simply had the good fortune to end up with the right woman. Gowen, somehow, had been one of them. Lucky bastard.
Lyonel took another drink and turned his attention back to his fair-haired companion.
The hedge knight was good company. He carried enough knightly ideals for three men. And he listened, which was perhaps the greater virtue. Lyonel suspected he could have spent the next hour discoursing on the best way to gut a trout and Dunk would've found it worth hearing.
There came a lull between them, and Lyonel caught sight of someone moving past.
The crimson-and-black prince. And his household guard walked beside him. Valarr was heading for the entrance, but stopped abruptly and looked back.
His gaze settled first on Dunk. Then the antlers. Then Lyonel himself. But his expression gave away nothing.
Lyonel could make neither head nor tail of that look. He had thought the prince long gone, yet apparently the fool had lingered somewhere about the pavilion all this while. How in seven hells had he failed to notice him?
They held one another's gaze for a moment.
Lyonel lounged low in his chair, gaze heavy-lidded and a faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth as he looked back. Always watching, this one.
But the prince did not wander over this time. Instead he turned, cloak swishing behind him. He continued toward the entrance, disappearing into the night. Lyonel's mouth pressed into a line.
Strange behavior. Why come all this way only to leave without a word? Poor manners for a guest.
Once, a year ago at a tourney in King's Landing, Lyonel had caught the prince by the hand and dragged him laughing into a dance among the crowd without asking. They had both been so sufficiently and pleasantly drunk that every damned thing had seemed funny then, and every notion Lyonel had was a stroke of genius to them.
He had spun Valarr hard, thrown him off balance on purpose, then caught him again by the arm as they staggered through the fellow feast revellers together.
And Valarr had followed him easily. Had followed him right onto the floor, as it happened. Whether they had tripped or merely drunk themselves off their feet, Lyonel could not recall. He'd taken the harder landing, naturally. One of the prince's white cloaks had appeared soon after and reclaimed his tittering charge, marching him back to the Red Keep.
Perhaps the prince has simply grown more cautious since then. He did not seem so ready to throw himself into foolishness anymore. A real fucking shame. Watching a Targaryen prince crawling about the floor, drunk off his wits and attempting to knight a wine bottle with a table knife had been a sight. The princeling had somehow slurred every blessed word of the ceremony, too. Impressive, in his state.
Lyonel found himself wondering whether Valarr even remembered it.
By the following noon, Lyonel had already insulted the Reach, started a tug-of-war with the Reachmen, won it, emptied a few cups, taken a shit, and was somehow still waiting for the bloody jousts to begin. He was sat in a chair outside his pavilion, with a cup in his hand.
Ser Dunk had been chiefly responsible for the victory. Or Ser Duncan the Tall, as the giant had apparently decided he was now called. Just the night before Lyonel had informed the fellow that a man built like a siege tower had no business pretending otherwise. Perhaps it had taken root.
The tug-of-war had begun after Lyonel observed that the Tyrells were a pack of soft-handed cunts better suited to pruning roses than testing themselves against Stormlanders. The Reachmen had taken exception, as well they should. A rope had appeared shortly thereafter, exactly as intended.
Lyonel had claimed Ser Duncan before the Reachmen had the wit to do the same, and by the gods the hedge knight made a magnificent rear anchor. Lyonel nearly snorted into his cup at the memory. The Tyrells had pulled with everything they possessed until Dunk gritted his teeth and settled his weight, whereupon the lot of them came tumbling forward to eat grass.
And Ser Duncan the Tall's bald little squire had clung to the rope with enough determination to count for at least two boys.
Beside Lyonel, Ser Manfred Dondarrion lounged in his chair, rattling a pair of dice in a cup before casting them onto the small table between them. They clattered softly as they fell, Manfred's gaze fixed on them.
"It would seem I am victorious. Once again," Manfred said, sounding insufferably pleased with himself.
Lyonel snorted and reached for the dice, a fraction slower than usual after the previous night's revelry and the morning's tug-of-war.
"I'll correct you shortly."
Alas, he did not get the chance. The thunder of hooves broke over the quiet, and a rider came straight toward them, hauling his horse up sharp before the pavilion. Dirt and dust kicked up in the sudden stop, scattering over the table between them.
For a moment, Lyonel expected trouble. He narrowed his eyes at the rider.
Valarr sat his horse straight-backed and composed, all dazzling smiles and bright as the sun.
"Ser Lyonel," he said as he swung down from his black warhorse. Then, to Manfred, "Uncle."
"Nephew," Manfred returned. "What has you in such a hurry today?"
"Kind of you not to ride us down," Lyonel said before the prince could reply. "I think you've kicked half the field into my drink."
The prince glanced at the dust settling over the table and had the grace to look sheepish. It suited him.
"I wondered if you might ride with me, Ser Lyonel."
Lyonel stared at him a moment, waiting for the rest of it.
The prince merely looked back at him, as though he'd already explained himself.
"For what, exactly?" Lyonel asked, furrowing his brows.
The hesitation told Lyonel the prince hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Well… It is a rather lovely day for it, and there is still time before the jousts," the prince said. "I thought we might ride a little. Let the horses stretch, perhaps."
Let the horses stretch? Lyonel bit back a laugh. Gods.
"Does your squire not see to that?" Lyonel asked, eyeing him.
"Oh, go on," Manfred said beside him. "You'll survive a short ride. The boy has come all this way for it, after all."
Lyonel looked between them. Manfred lounged beside him, lazy and amused, while the prince simply waited. He let out a low groan.
"A man cannot even sit in peace," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.
His gaze dropped to the board and the dice. "I was winning, too." A blatant falsehood.
The prince brightened immediately, a smile breaking across his face before he schooled it back into something more princely.
Lyonel would have to change into his riding attire, call for his horse. A tiresome business, all for the dragon whelp's ridiculous ride.
"Seven Hells. Give me a moment," he said. "You can try and relieve your fool of an uncle of his coins. He could do with the loss."
Valarr moved at once, handing off his reins to a serving man who had stepped forward. He claimed Lyonel's place, already talking with Manfred before Lyonel had gone ten paces.
Before long, Lyonel and the prince were riding out from the Ashford tourney grounds.
Lyonel's stallion seemed only to happy to trot beside Valarr's mare. She had indulged him with a brief touch of noses, before deciding she had humoured him enough and turned her attention back to the road.
The noise of the camps faded behind them as they followed a road through open fields, bordered by hedges and scattered trees. The prince led them along a route he'd noticed on the journey to Ashford, insisting it was worth seeing.
Soon they left the road altogether for a narrow trail beneath a stand of elm trees, branches stretching overhead in a canopy that scattered sunlight across the path.
The air was cooler beneath the trees, and only the sounds of birds and hoofbeats remained. Lyonel found he did not miss the shouting nearly as much as he'd expected.
There was another sound, naturally. Valarr talked as they rode, as though he had been waiting all day for the chance. He spoke of the coming joust, who might ride against whom, and what might come of it, then of his cousins who had gone missing and, somehow, of the citrus cheesecake he had eaten that morning.
Lyonel found he did not mind that either. There was something in the prince's steady voice that fit easily alongside the birdsong, a quiet murmur threading through it.
Valarr would put a question to him now and again, only to answer it himself before Lyonel got a word in, apparently deciding his own answer would do just as well.
Eventually the path led them through a birch tree forest to a clearing with a winding stream and a small waterfall. Valarr dismounted first and urged Lyonel to do the same. They tied their horses to a young tree nearby.
It all looked rather serene. Easy enough to see why the prince liked it. He was the sort.
The prince moved forward and reached as though to catch Lyonel by the arm, then seemingly thought better of it and only motioned for Lyonel to follow. He led him onward toward the stream where the water spilled over a low rocky ledge.
"How did you come by such a place?" Lyonel asked.
Mostly to humor him.
"By complete chance," the prince said. "I rode ahead of my family on our way here, with Ser Roland. We had heard my cousins had run off their escort, and went to look for them. We followed this path, and it led us here."
"Your troublesome missing cousins," Lyonel said. "You mentioned them. Maekar's sons. The eldest and the youngest?"
"Yes. Daeron and Aegon. My uncle has taken their disappearance hard. He fears they are lost. Or taken. But I think Daeron merely wished to avoid the lists." The prince paused. "Do not tell anyone I said that."
Lyonel snorted.
"If they've been taken, you'll hear of it soon enough. Ransom demands, or severed fingers in a box. Men have done worse for less."
He crouched beside the stream, idly studying the stones beneath the water. The sound of the water washed the noises of the camp clean from his ears.
"And Daeron's the drunk one, isn't he? Hardly difficult prey for anyone with bad intentions."
"I hope it is not so," Valarr said quietly. "They are my kin. Daeron is easy company when he is in the right mood. And Aegon...Aegon is difficult to stay angry with for long. It grieves me to see my uncle bear such worry."
There were few things Lyonel cared less about than Maekar Targaryen's worries or his wandering sons, but he kept that to himself.
He reached into the stream and picked up one of the colorful stones that had caught his attention.
"I suppose I might just as easily be carried off one morning, on one of my rides," Valarr said after a moment, his tone lighter now.
"Perhaps," Lyonel said absently, still crouched beside the stream, turning the pebble over in his hand.
"I do like to go on rides alone, though my father and Ser Roland generally insist upon accompanying me. Or at least remaining within sight."
"Mm-hm."
He felt the prince waiting for something.
"Do you think it likely?" Valarr asked.
Lyonel glanced up at him, brow furrowing slightly. "Think what likely?"
The prince hesitated.
"That someone might truly try. To carry me off."
Lyonel shrugged.
"Who bloody knows. There's always some bastard willing to chance it, if presented with the opportunity."
Valarr considered that in silence.
"And if there were men waiting in those trees now?" he asked after a moment. "Maybe there is an ambush. Should we head back?"
Lyonel stared at him a moment.
"Head back?" He glanced instinctively into the trees before looking at the prince again. "What in seven hells are you talking about?"
The prince seemed to be working himself into a proper fucking fuss now. Lyonel slipped the stone into his pocket.
"You said it yourself," Valarr replied carefully. "A lone prince upon the road... Men have done worse for less. They might carry me off for ransom."
Lyonel rose upright. His hand settled at the hilt of his sword, thumb dragging lazily along the antlered guard.
"You think I'd stand there scratching my arse while some mangy bandit made off with you? They'd not get near enough to lay a hand on you."
The prince looked suspiciously, absurdly, pleased with that answer.
Ah. Lyonel snorted softly.
Valarr had baited him neatly enough. Lyonel did not mind much.
The prince stepped closer, and there was something oddly disarming in the way he seemed to brace himself for whatever was coming next.
"I thought you might enjoy it," he said, gesturing faintly toward the stream. "Though... I had hoped you might enjoy the company as well."
He glanced at Lyonel only briefly.
Well, now. Lyonel watched him with growing amusement. An interesting turn of events.
"Go on. I'll hear the rest of it."
Valarr straightened a little, recovering his princely composure.
"I find your company...agreeable," he said. "It was my hope that you might find the ride, and my company, agreeable as well."
The prince dragged him out here for that?
"Agreeable?" Lyonel echoed. "That the best you could come up with?"
Valarr drew himself up another inch.
"You are right, it is insufficient. Allow me to amend it," he said. "I hold your company in very high regard."
"Mm. That hasn't amended it much."
Valarr huffed and puffed, clearly losing patience. "You–" He stopped, then stepped closer.
"I wished to be alone with you," he said at last.
Now that, at least, had some sense to it. The prince might have led with that.
Lyonel's gaze lingered on him, sharper now. The prince was flushing red clear to the ears and making a miserable effort to pretend otherwise.
"And then what?" Lyonel asked, taking a step closer. "You get me alone. What happens next?"
Valarr hesitated, looking like a man who had wandered into deep water only to discover he could not swim.
When it became clear the prince had lost the power of speech altogether, Lyonel laughed quietly and stepped back again, granting him mercy while he still possessed the good sense to do so.
As he did, the prince stopped him, catching his wrist.
"Wait," Valarr blurted.
Lyonel's gaze dropped to the hand around his wrist. One brow lifted before he looked back at the prince.
"I have always liked your eyes," Valarr said, and looked momentarily horrified by his own courage, but pushed onward anyway. "You are very– I cannot seem to look anywhere else when you are near."
Lyonel was standing beside a waterfall that belonged in some maiden's song, while a Targaryen prince concerned himself with Lyonel's eyes of all things.
Under such conditions, a lapse in judgment seemed almost unavoidable.
"A troubling condition. You ought to see a maester about that," he said with a grin.
Valarr laughed softly at that.
Then, still visibly fighting his nerves, he stepped closer again and closed the space Lyonel had just opened between them. Rather compelling watching the prince approach him like a man edging toward a great beast, uncertain whether it might bite.
They watched one another for a moment. Valarr's gaze wandered uncertainly over Lyonel's face. The corners of Lyonel's mouth curled almost despite himself. Now he wanted to see whether the prince would lose his nerve.
Still holding Lyonel's wrist, and gathering the last scraps of his courage, the prince tipped up onto his toes and leaned in.
Lyonel stopped him before he could close the distance, his hand rising to cup the prince's jaw lightly.
"And where do you think you're going?" Lyonel asked softly.
Valarr's brows drew together, though the flush deepening in his cheeks rather ruined any attempt at dignity.
"Well, I wanted to kiss you."
A grin threatened at the corner of Lyonel's mouth.
"So that's it," he murmured, studying him. "You've taken a fancy."
Valarr's jaw tightened beneath Lyonel's hand.
"I fail to see what is so surprising about that," he said.
The prince looked thoroughly absurd. Caught, flushed red to the tips of his ears, and still trying to summon princely indignation through it.
Lyonel's thumb shifted against his jaw, near enough a caress. Valarr's thumb answered with a tentative stroke across Lyonel's wrist.
"Rather unwise of you, lad."
Valarr did not pull away. Instead he leaned, just slightly, into the hand holding him, testing whether Lyonel truly meant to stop him.
"Then I will be unwise." He held Lyonel's gaze. "Am I alone in that?"
Bold of him, too. Nervous, and pride hanging by a thread, and still he pressed closer. Flattering, that a prince would risk his dignity just for a kiss. Lyonel would've had to be a humbler man not to enjoy it.
"Look at you," Lyonel murmured. "Handsome bastard."
He tilted the prince's head slightly, taking his time studying him. In the sunlight, the colors of Valarr's mismatched eye seemed to bleed strangely together, green where the blue and brown met.
"You've not given this much thought, have you? Not that I object, but you ought to," he said.
"So you do not object?" Valarr asked.
Hope flickered briefly across his face before determination overtook it again.
"Then..." he said and his eyes dropped to Lyonel's mouth briefly.
Lyonel's eyes dropped despite himself. The prince had soft lips, parted just enough with nervous breath.
A man might be forgiven for wanting to feel them beneath his own.
He had already leaned in before he caught himself, his grip tightening faintly against the prince's jaw.
Somewhere off among the trees came the sharp crack of a twig beneath weight. Lyonel's head snapped toward the sound at once, every easy instinct stripped clean away. His hand never left Valarr.
One heartbeat passed, then another. But nothing followed. Only birdsong and the rush of water over stone. Lyonel saw nothing amiss among the birch trees. Must have been some deer or rabbit nosing through the undergrowth.
When Lyonel looked back, the prince was still there in his grasp, watching him closely.
"You're getting ahead of yourself," Lyonel said at last. "Entertaining as this has been, watching you work your way round to it." His thumb dragged once along the prince's jaw. "Not subtle, either."
Valarr looked briefly offended.
"Tell me something," Lyonel said. "You must've had some notion of how this was meant to go. A pleasant ride, a pretty little view, flatter me a little..." His head tilted as he watched the prince. "Then what? We kiss and stand there mooning at each other till sunset?"
The prince's gaze dropped at that. Which was not what Lyonel had intended.
"It was not like that," Valarr said quietly. "I had no plan. I only–" He stopped himself and sighed. "You have had your amusement. Will you have more of it at my expense?"
Valarr let go of Lyonel's wrist. He shifted, his eyes lifting briefly, asking permission to retreat. Lyonel's hand eased from the prince's jaw, and Valarr stepped away.
The satisfaction Lyonel had taken in teasing him soured quickly.
The prince walked to the waterfall and stopped at its edge. The water spilled narrowly over smooth stone and broke into a fine mist that caught the afternoon light in bright colors. Lilac flowers grew along the banks, soft among the green grass and clear water. Valarr stood dark against it all in black riding gear, watching the water. Hells.
Lyonel had been a bit of an arse. He'd all but dared the prince to make a move, only to leave him hanging. Made the poor bugger pay for his own nerves. Craven thing to do.
He found he preferred the prince glaring at him to ignoring him altogether.
Lyonel exhaled slowly through his nose. Only then did he notice his pulse was still running high.
He had not meant to make Valarr regret trying. The truth of it was, had the prince stood his ground a heartbeat longer, Lyonel was no longer certain he himself would have. A damned inconvenient thought.
He watched Valarr standing there beside the water, and wanted to catch him by that pale streak of hair and haul him back.
An increasingly difficult impulse to ignore.
"Why did you kiss me at Maidenpool?" the prince asked suddenly, not meeting his eyes.
Lyonel's eyes widened just a fraction. He had kissed him.
Right there in the middle of the feast before half the pavilion.
One of his companions had dared him to kiss the fairest lady present, and Lyonel, already deep in his cups, had taken certain liberties with the wording. He had crossed the pavilion without a second thought and gone straight to the prince, stopped right in front of him, and stared. Valarr had been in conversation with some young Dondarrion lady, but turned when he noticed Lyonel.
"Need you a moment," Lyonel had said.
"Of course. Is something the matter?" Valarr had asked, and stepped closer.
Lyonel had caught his face in both hands, while the prince had blinked up at him. Valarr had not pulled away, so Lyonel had bent down to kiss him square on the mouth. It had been quick and chaste by Lyonel's standards. Only a brief press of lips before he pulled away again.
Looking back, it had been a bloody stupid thing to do.
The pavilion had erupted immediately after; laughter, shouting, pounding cups against tables. Just another of Lyonel Baratheon's audacious drunken jests, with the prince sporting enough to play along.
But when Lyonel had leaned back, Valarr had looked out of it. For a brief moment, he had hidden his face against Lyonel's shoulder, and Lyonel had not the faintest notion what to do with that. He remembered soft lips, the taste of wine and odd reluctance to let him go.
Still, he had. Clapped him roughly on the shoulder afterward as though that might somehow set things right again and shake the prince back to himself.
Then the feast had swallowed them both again, and Lyonel had made a point of leaving the whole business alone. They hadn't spoken of it, until now. He had tried not to think on it much.
"Because I wanted to."
Saying 'it was only for a bet' sounded like a terrible choice. And not even entirely truthful.
"Because you wanted to," Valarr echoed quietly.
"Was that your first kiss with another man?"
Valarr did not answer, only let out a scoff and turned his face to watch the waterfall once again. Perhaps not, then.
"Did you kiss him as well?" Valarr asked instead. "The tall one. Yesterday, at your pavilion. The one with the antlers."
Lyonel's brows shot up, taken aback. Then a low laugh rumbled out of him.
"Are you asking me, or accusing me?" he said, closing the distance between them. "What do you think?"
"You seemed to enjoy dancing with him," Valarr said, a touch too evenly, still not looking at him. "All night."
That earned a sharp snort from Lyonel. He was being scolded by a bristling prince for a slight he had not realized he'd committed, and found he rather liked it.
"I asked you to dance, you stupid bastard. I wanted to dance with you."
"And how was I to know that? You merely...stomped at me."
"Well, next time I'll bow prettily, offer my fucking hand, and ask you proper." Fighting back a grin, Lyonel bent slightly, trying to catch the prince's eye. "Would that please you, Your Grace?"
Valarr scoffed again, but Lyonel caught the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. That was better.
He studied Valarr more closely. Could the prince truly be jealous? Ridiculous thing. Though it explained the look Valarr had given to Dunk and the antlers.
Then it struck Lyonel that the prince was not the only one owed an explanation.
"My turn. Not only did you refuse me a dance, but you came all the way to my feast, then left without so much as a word. That's poor manners, prince."
Valarr lifted his chin just slightly.
"You appeared... otherwise occupied."
"You should've come over."
Valarr held his gaze for a moment before looking away.
"I had no wish to interrupt."
"Next time, interrupt," Lyonel said sharply. "Don't lurk around the edges of my tent, haunting my feast."
Valarr said nothing. He only continued watching the water.
"Did you, ah... get a look at that harp?" Lyonel asked, shifting on his feet.
"Yes," Valarr said quietly. "Silver strings. I had suspected they might be, from the sound alone. Such a lovely, bell-like tone."
"Silver? Huh." Lyonel scratched his beard. "Well. Glad you got your look."
Valarr remained quiet then. Lyonel let out a slow breath.
"Valarr." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm flattered. Truly. But it's not a good idea, getting tangled up with me. You'd come to regret it."
Valarr let out a short breath, something like a laugh, but it did not quite land.
"You need not dress it in kindness, nor call it concern for me. I can bear the truth well enough. I shall not break over it."
Lyonel's brows pulled together slightly.
"And what truth is that?"
"That you do not want me, as I do you. And it is well enough. I was mistaken."
"Don't put that on me," Lyonel snapped. "I do want you."
Lyonel might have laughed. As if he'd go around kissing men he didn't want.
Valarr turned to him fully then, eyes searching his face, plainly trying to make sense of him.
"Then why not have me?"
That caught Lyonel more squarely than he cared to admit. And really, the prince had a talent for saying things he ought not to say aloud.
"Because this sort of thing never stays simple," Lyonel said. "It starts with a kiss beside a river somewhere and ends with somebody bloodied, or married, or furious, or dead."
Valarr's brows drew together.
"You leap to the end of the tale," he said softly, not taking his eyes off Lyonel's. "We have not yet even reached the beginning. And I am neither afraid nor a fool."
Lyonel snorted. That was easy enough for a prince to say beside a pretty waterfall with the sun on his face.
"It's easy not to fear it when you haven't paid for it yet."
Lyonel preferred his pleasures simpler than this. Good wine, fighting against worthy foes, a warm bed, a willing body. Not dragon heirs with romantic notions.
There was also the small matter of who Valarr was. Getting tangled up with the heir to the Iron Throne felt less like bedding a man and more like stepping barefoot into a bear trap.
Yet his reasons sounded less and less convincing to himself the longer he stood there.
"The dragons bring enough trouble without me climbing into the nest myself," Lyonel said, crossing his arms. "And stop looking at me like that."
He said it sharply, hoping to knock some sense into Valarr, and himself. But Valarr merely continued to watch him. It was fortunate the prince tolerated liberties that would have earned another man a flogging.
"Fair enough, Ser Lyonel," Valarr said at last. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "But you do want me."
Lyonel snorted. As if Valarr was particularly hard to want.
"Doesn't everyone?"
Valarr only smiled wider at that. Mismatched eyes bright beneath the afternoon light, looking altogether too pleased with himself for Lyonel's peace of mind. As though he had just won some private little battle.
Lyonel might have groaned. The prince took his admission for a victory and disregarded the rest. Convenient hearing, that.
Valarr watched him a moment longer, head tilting slightly as though quietly taking stock. Lyonel let his own eyes wander shamelessly in return.
He had barely found the sense to stop the kiss. Expecting him not to look afterward felt unnecessarily ambitious. Especially with Valarr standing there in fitted riding leathers, smug as you please, plainly aware now that Lyonel's restraint had precious little to do with lack of interest.
At last, the prince seemed to reach some conclusion of his own. Gods knew what it was.
"We should return now," the prince said lightly, already turning toward the horses. "I would not have us late for the joust. I am a champion, after all."
Lyonel laughed quietly.
"Aye. Before I do something stupid," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Valarr looked at him, almost startled into a smile.
Then he cleared his throat.
"Lyonel... I am glad you came with me. I hope it was to your liking."
"It was. A fine spot," Lyonel said. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Found the company enjoyable, too."
Valarr nodded, and his smile grew wider.
"I am pleased to hear it." He hesitated only a heartbeat. "Perhaps we might ride out again. Another day."
"I reckon we might."
The smile that answered was even brighter than before.
Together they made their way back to the horses. They walked in silence, side by side, at a slow pace. Lyonel caught Valarr stealing sidelong glances at him.
The prince's shoulder brushed softly against his upper arm. When Lyonel turned to look, Valarr was already smiling at the ground, all shy on him. The urge to say fuck it, wind a hand through that feathery silver streak, and show the prince what a proper kiss looked like was becoming damned difficult to ignore.
Instead, he settled for drifting closer and giving Valarr a light nudge in return.
As they approached their horses, Lyonel found his stallion making a nuisance of himself, stretching his neck to nose at Valarr's mare. The mare tolerated the attentions with queenly patience, though she did flick an unimpressed ear.
"Leave the poor girl be," Lyonel muttered, moving to untie his horse and rescue the mare from the big oaf.
After untying their horses, they led them down to the stream to drink. While the horses lowered their heads to the water, Valarr opened one of his saddlebags. He drew out two red apples, polished one against his sleeve, and held it out.
"Would you care for one? They're quite sweet."
Lyonel looked at the offered fruit. He had never cared much for apples, but this one seemed worth having.
"I'll not say no to that," Lyonel said, taking the apple. He let his gaze rake slowly over the prince. "You'll spoil a man. Taking me riding, keeping me fed. Pretty thing like you."
Lyonel saw no harm in letting his tongue run a little. The prince was practically asking for it.
Valarr huffed a small laugh and found the apple in his hands terribly interesting all of a sudden, turning it over with great concentration.
"Well..." Valarr turned the apple over once more. "I'd like to. Spoil you."
Lyonel looked at him for a moment. The prince kept his eyes firmly fixed on the apple in his hands.
Lyonel snorted quietly through his nose, and bit into the apple. It was sweet enough that he had to concede the prince knew a good one when he found it. Beside him, Valarr took a bite of his own apple, his cheeks matching its color.
The horses had not been forgotten either. A moment later, once they were done drinking, each was rewarded with an apple of its own.
Then they mounted once more, and Valarr took the lead as they rode back toward the main road.
The prince soon found his tongue again, though this time he allowed Lyonel a word every so often. Valarr asked after Storm's End, what had changed since last they'd seen each other at Maidenpool.
Valarr admitted that he had never seen a true storm, such as Lyonel described them. He said it lightly enough, but there was something hopeful beneath it all the same. As though Lyonel might offer to remedy that failing himself.
Lyonel only hummed.
When he had first become acquainted with the prince some two years earlier, they had discovered a shared fondness for sailing and the sea.
Valarr had often spoken of Dragonstone and the black cliffs and smoking mountain rising from the sea. Of standing on the castle battlements watching ships vanish into the horizon and wondering where they might go beyond the Narrow Sea.
The prince had sailed often between Dragonstone and King's Landing, enough to know the pull of salt air. Though his stories were always of calmer waters and close to home.
Valarr had once told him, rather gravely, that he and Prince Baelor had nearly been attacked by pirates while sailing near Dragonstone. Lyonel, admittedly intrigued by this revelation, had asked what the nearly entailed. He had imagined a heroic confrontation and perhaps even bloodshed, father and son side by side against cutthroats upon the Narrow Sea.
Under further questioning, this terrifying ordeal proved to involve a suspicious-looking ship somewhere upon the horizon that Prince Baelor said may be pirates, and deciding, with commendable speed, to go elsewhere. Valarr still seemed to regard the affair as a perilously narrow escape.
Lyonel's experiences on the sea were somewhat different. Back home, Shipbreaker Bay had earned its name. He had seen waves split galleys apart against the rocks below Storm's End and storms roll in furious and violent enough to swallow whole ships.
He knew the Narrow Sea beyond the safety of the coast, knew the thrill of standing upon a ship's deck while the sea tried its best to drag everyone aboard into the depths. Lyonel delighted in the powerful winds, the black walls of rolling water, the sense that one wrong step might send him vanishing beneath the waves forever. A man learned a lot of himself in such conditions.
His father laughed at storms too, standing at the rail as though daring the gods themselves to strike him down. He was the one who had taught Lyonel to sail. Not a patient teacher, but an effective one.
Lyonel remembered being a boy and caught in a storm so fierce the men on board had resorted to praying. He had clung to a rope with both hands while the deck heaved beneath his feet and rain lashed hard enough to sting. His father stood at the helm roaring orders into the wind, lit now and again by lightning strikes. Lyonel had been certain the old bastard would go into the sea that day.
When at last the storm released them, Lyonel had stared at his father through the mist and thought there could not possibly be a man alive harder to kill.
He had once told Valarr that story as well. At first the prince had seemed delighted, but then fell oddly silent by the end of it, which had disappointed Lyonel somewhat. It was a good story.
They rode on, and Lyonel reckoned they could lose half a day to talk of ships and seas, if no one stopped them. No wonder, really. The prince was half Stormlander, after all.
Perhaps that was why Lyonel found himself so partial to this particular Targaryen.
The road narrowed there beneath the trees, forcing Lyonel to let the prince ride ahead again while he fell back behind him.
Every so often, Valarr glanced back over his shoulder, as though checking Lyonel was still there. Each time their eyes met, that same small, foolish smile returned to the prince's face, warm as the spring sun above them.
Lyonel caught himself smiling back before he could think better of it. Damnable thing, that smile.
So the prince had a taste for men. Hells, Lyonel of all people ought to have seen it. It was hardly unfamiliar ground. Yet somehow he had never looked at the little dragon and reached the obvious conclusion.
Lyonel had to suppress a grin. It all made sense now, really.
He needn't wonder any longer whether Valarr took offense at being called pretty. Quite the opposite, by the look of it. At least when Lyonel was the one saying it. Had the prince blushing to the ears and all. A grown man.
His thoughts kept straying back to the prince's words, and to the almost-kiss by the waterfall. Now that they'd left it behind, the whole thing felt half imagined. His wits were all over the bloody place. Something had changed between them, and there was no riding back to what they'd been before.
His eyes drifted to Valarr riding ahead of him. A door stood cracked open, and his thoughts kept slipping through it.
Seven hells. Lyonel had a joust to ride in a couple of hours. He'd better come to his senses before some cunt with a lance knocked them back for him.
His stallion stretched his neck toward Valarr's horse, letting out a hopeful nicker. Lyonel had little room to mock him anymore, so he gave the beast a sympathetic pat instead.
Finally the trees thinned and the last stretch of road back toward Ashford opened before them. There were wide meadows on either side, scattered with pale spring flowers swaying in the wind. Their scent carried upon the wind, sweet and strangely familiar, just as it had on their way out earlier. Lyonel spent a moment trying to place it before the thought slipped away again.
When the tourney grounds came into view, Lyonel urged his horse forward until he rode alongside the prince.
"Keep up."
And before Valarr could so much as answer, Lyonel spurred his mount and tore off down the road.
He heard a startled laugh break loose behind him.
"Lyonel–!"
Then came the thunder of hooves as Valarr kicked his horse into motion and gave chase.
Later, with the evening's tilts finally at hand, Lyonel set about making himself ready. His men laid out his armor while he stripped off his riding clothes.
It was then he remembered the pebble from the waterfall still tucked away in his pocket.
He drew it out and turned it over in his palm. Small and smooth, its colors had dulled now that it had dried. But when Lyonel had first plucked it from the stream, cold and wet beneath the water, it had gleamed brightly in his hand. Warm reddish brown, crossed through by a vein of blue-grey.
Lyonel looked at it a moment longer, before closing his fist around it.