Chapter Text
Dunk knows that Lord Lyonel’s emotions can swing from one extreme to the other as fast as a lightning strike. The hedge knight can only imagine how stressful it has to be watching over so many minor houses when they have disputes with one another. He’s been at Storm’s End for the better part of a month when the Baratheon Lord enters his personal chambers while muttering curses and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the chandelier above his head.
Lyonel must get into this mood often because the house staff quiets down and Dunk knows something is wrong.
“Has something bad happened?” the young knight whispers to Hilda, the old headmistress of all of the maids.
“You need not worry, ser,” Hilda murmurs, drying the clean goblets with a rag. “Lord Lyonel gets like this sometimes. It’s only natural he’d get this irritated over grain disputes here in the Stormlands.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Dunk asks with a frown.
“It is sometimes best to leave him be until he calms down,” the headmistress says. Dunk nods and heads off to his own chambers, forming a plan in his head.
****
The hedge knight admits he’s never been the best at planning, especially when it comes to trying to make a major lord feel better. He thinks back to the women he has seen at various inns when they wanted to keep a man happy; the way they would giggle and flutter their lashes. Dunk remembers all of the men looking happy with that. So that should work with Lyonel, right?
Thinking he has this all figured out, Dunk combs through the closet in his chambers for the most feminine thing that he owns: the cream colored nightgown with the lace edges. He changes into it, running his scarred fingers over the cloth. Dunk double checks that his hair is still neat enough before going to Lyonel.
Dunk is surprised at how much he’s come to care about his appearance now. He remembers how Flea Bottom smelled in his youth; the sickly sweet scent of cheap wine and mud mixed with animal waste that grew rancid in the summer. How the various male and female prostitutes would entice anyone with a coin for a good time.
He shakes the memory away, wanting to focus on the present. Dunk exits his chambers and heads towards Lyonel’s sleeping chambers down the hall. Part of the hedge knight is glad the house staff is staying away from their Lord’s room. The sound of cursing and slamming doors seems to have stopped for the moment. Dunk hesitates before shyly knocking on the wooden door.
“What is it?” Lyonel snaps through the oak, still annoyed. Dunk presses his head against the wood, cheeks already pink.
“It’s Ser Dunk, m’lord. May I come in?” he asks, trying to keep his tone even. He hears Lyonel sigh, the sound exhausted.
“You may…”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dunk enters and closes the door. Lyonel paces in front of the fireplace, his golden Baratheon cape lashing like the angry tail of a dragon.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lyonel turns to face the hedge knight, asking a question in a tight tone before it abruptly dies in his throat. “What do you need–?”
Dunk looks every inch like the timid maiden Lyonel met back at Ashford, this is only emphasized by the younger man half lying on the bed with his legs bent towards him. He tries to make himself look smaller (nevermind that he takes up half of the bed and the bedframe is subtly groaning in protest).
Lyonel is so momentarily stunned that he forgets to be angry.
“What… are you doing?”
Dunk shyly glances away and giggles, the sound surprisingly highpitched despite his size.
“Trying to cheer you up,” he manages to explain, hiding his mouth behind his hand like the ladies in the Red Keep would do with their fans, if he remembers correctly. “I cannot stand to see you upset, m’lord.”
The Lord Paramount stares at Dunk for a solid three seconds before blurting out: “Are you drunk? Truly, you can admit to me if you are.”
“Nay, my lord,” the young knight admits, keeping up the shy maiden facade by glancing at the older man and letting out another giggle.
Lyonel throws his hands up in the air with a look of amused bewilderment.
“Did you ingest Shade of the Evening from a warlock?” the Lord demands, but Dunk can see the hint of a smile upturning the corners of his mouth. The hedge knight playfully shakes his head, almost laughing himself but managing to keep it together.
“Then why enter my chambers?” Lyonel whispers teasingly, his mood lightening as he walks over.
“Is a maiden such as myself not allowed to seek comfort from her Lord?” Dunk asks with a fluttery, overtly exaggerated sigh. He remembers various women twirling their hair and tries to replicate it before realizing his hair is too short to recreate the motion.
Lyonel makes a wheezing sound, close to tears of laughter.
“Oh, you came in for comfort?” the Lord muses with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Dunk feels his face drain of color before growing hot once more. He doesn’t have to fake being shy this time.
Dunk tries to backpedal off the bed with a timid shriek but Lyonel is faster due to his size. He is soon laughing while his face is peppered with enough kisses to make him see stars.
“My lord!” Dunk laughs, playfully pinned to the bed despite his larger size. He melts into the kiss that leaves him feeling lightheaded.
By the time Lyonel pulls back, Dunk is gasping for breath.
“Do you feel any better?” the knight manages to ask between puffs of air. The Baratheon lord smiles down at him, his eyes softening.
“Quite a bit better,” Lyonel murmurs, completely calm now.
Dunk looks relieved, pulling the older man into a hug. He feels Lyonel tense up briefly before hugging him back.
****
The next day, Dunk watches as one of the staff feeds Cassandra her oatmeal over breakfast. The Main Hall is warm from the massive fireplace. Dunk sips his spiced cider while Lyonel peels a hardboiled egg.
Dunk stirs his own bowl of oatmeal, praying to the Old Gods and the New that the Baratheon staff didn’t hear him giggling the night prior. If any of them did, none of the staff mentioned it to his face.
Rain hammers down on the curved dome of Storm’s End. Dunk jolts when thunder cracks across the sky loud enough to echo through the stone.
Lyonel laughs from his main seat, biting into his egg.
“Skittish with thunder and lightning?” Lyonel teases. Dunk manages to nod, part of him worried about Sweetfoot, Chestnut, and Thunder. The three horses are used to the rain, but Dunk isn’t aware if the animals will freak out or not from the sound alone.
By the time lunch comes around, the sky clears up enough to the point that the knight rushes out to the stables. He heaves out a sigh in relief when he sees the three horses looking fine. Even so, Dunk double checks just to be sure. He pets Chestnut, grinning as she makes an affectionate noise.
“I’m so glad you three are safe,” he sighs, watching as Thunder practically inhales a sack of oats with alarming speed. Sweetfoot, being the most lovable of the three, walks over and rests her head on Dunk’s shoulder, the force and weight nearly toppling him over. “Easy, sweet girl!” he laughs, the sound clear and genuine.
Lyonel watches from one of the windows overlooking the stables, holding Cassandra in his arms with a soft smile. He remembers his wife calling their daughter sweet girl all the time. That familiar ache in his chest is still there, but the Lord Paramount notices it is bearable whenever Dunk is around. Especially when he hears the hedge knight laugh or pitch his voice to sound feminine, even if he makes a fool of himself in the process.