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The first time Lyonel understood that Duncan became dangerously honest when he drank had begun like a completely ordinary night after a tournament, with too many tired men locked inside a hall too warm and too many jugs of wine passing between tables full of grease, gnawed bones, and bread crumbs crushed against the wood.
Lyonel already had several cups in him and felt that slow and pleasant heaviness behind the eyes that made everything a little softer, the noise more distant, the heat of the fire thicker against the skin, and even so he remained attentive enough to watch Duncan from the other end of the bench because he could never help himself, no matter how many years he had spent looking at him.
Duncan was sitting almost sprawled against one of the table legs, enormous even at ease, with his long legs stretched out and a cup held loosely between his fingers while he listened to Raymun tell some foolish story about a knight from the Westerlands who had fallen asleep inside a stable and awakened covered in straw and vomit.
Duncan laughed with that low and heavy laugh that always came out of him when he was tired and had drunk too much, a laugh that moved his whole chest and made him narrow his eyes until they nearly vanished.
Lyonel had been watching him all night because Duncan changed enough when he drank wine for the change to become hypnotic. He did not grow louder or more arrogant like other men, he did not try to fight nor become sentimental. He simply seemed to loosen from the inside, as though all the enormous and constant tension with which he crossed through the world slowly melted away and let someone softer, warmer, and far more talkative emerge.
And Lyonel already knew that was dangerous.
He had discovered it months ago, after a dinner at Storm’s End, when Duncan had mentioned before half the table that Lyonel could not sleep unless he had something to hold in his hands and that for weeks he had been waking with his fingers tangled in Duncan’s shirt or gripping his wrist even while asleep. He had said it without malice, without even realizing he was revealing something intimate, while continuing to eat as though it were nothing at all.
Since then Lyonel had learned to keep watch over him.
The problem was that Duncan never seemed to understand which things could be said in front of others and which could not.
—You’re falling asleep —said Raymun, tapping his knee with the tip of his boot.
—I’m not fallin’ asleep —Duncan muttered immediately, though the words came out slow and slurred.
—You are, very well.
—I’m only comfortable.
Raymun let out a laugh and Beesbury, who was bent over the table trying to pour himself more wine without spilling it, gave an amused snort.
Lyonel watched them over the rim of his cup while Hardyng kept talking about horses with another knight beyond the fire. The entire hall smelled of damp smoke, spilled wine, and tired bodies. Outside it must have been cold because every time some servant opened the door an icy draft came in that stirred the candle flames and drew complaints from more than one man.
Duncan dragged a huge hand across his face and then rested his head against the edge of the bench behind him with his eyes half closed.
—You certainly look comfortable —said Raymun, amused—. Ever since you started sharing a bed with Baratheon you’ve become useless… You used to be able to sleep on stones.
Lyonel felt the danger immediately even before Duncan answered because drunk Duncan never avoided a conversation.
Duncan slowly opened one eye.
—I can still sleep on stones.
—Then Lyonel spoils you.
—He doesn’t spoil me.
—He looks at you like you’re some lost puppy he found in the rain.
That made Duncan smile in a small distracted way that stirred something hot and painful beneath Lyonel’s ribs.
—Well… —Duncan murmured—. I like it when he looks at me.
Raymun let out an exaggerated sound of disgust while Beesbury gave a weary laugh.
—Holy gods, listen to that, he’s in love.
Duncan frowned, confused and offended by the mocking tone.
—Yes, you already know that.
Lyonel felt heat climb up his neck, not because Duncan had said anything terrible but because there was something devastating in the simplicity with which he spoke of such things, as though he did not understand why anyone would try to hide them.
Raymun shifted more comfortably on the bench, clearly entertained now.
—And what is it you like most about our proud stag?
Lyonel was already opening his mouth to send Raymun to the seven hells when Duncan answered immediately, without even thinking.
—When he hugs me while he sleeps.
There was a small silence, Duncan still speaking before noticing the faces around him.
—Because he always acts so big and proud during the day and then at night he clings to me so much he nearly pushes me out of the bed and weighs a ton… Once I woke up unable to move my arm because he was lying on top of it and when I tried to pull it free he started growling at me in his sleep.
Beesbury started laughing so hard he nearly spat wine across the table and Raymun slowly turned his head toward Lyonel with an expression of absolute delight.
—You growl in your sleep at him?
—I’ll kill you —said Lyonel, feeling his ears burn.
But Duncan still had not finished.
—And his feet are always cold —he continued with complete calm—. Always, it does not matter if it’s warm, he puts his freezing feet on my legs and then pretends it wasn’t him.
Lyonel wanted to throw the cup at his head but he also wanted to kiss his face, though he also wanted to drag him out of the hall before he kept speaking. All at once, so fiercely that his chest physically ached.
Raymun was practically crying with laughter.
—I cannot believe you’re telling all this in front of everyone.
Duncan finally seemed to notice something strange in the others’ expressions because he lifted his head, looking around slowly.
—What?
—Nothing, Dunk —said Beesbury through laughter—. Keep talking.
And that was precisely the problem, because Duncan obeyed.
—Besides now I can’t sleep alone because Lyonel takes up too much space and then when he isn’t there the bed feels empty and I don’t like it.
The laughter around the table faded because Duncan kept speaking with that enormous and unguarded honesty that always seemed to take whoever listened to him by surprise. He was not trying to impress anyone, he was not making a joke nor did he even seem to understand he had just said something intimate.
He was simply sharing a thought.
And Lyonel felt that strange and suffocating sensation Duncan always provoked in him when he did things like this, as though someone had slipped a hand between his ribs and was squeezing his heart directly.
Duncan never spoke of love like the bards, he did not say pretty things, he did not know how to flirt but he spoke of need with such absolute naturalness that sometimes Lyonel did not know what to do with it.
—Seven hells —Hardyng murmured from the other side of the table—. Ly looks close to fainting.
Lyonel realized too late that everyone was looking at him now.
—Shut your mouths —he growled.
That only made things worse. Raymun draped an arm over Duncan’s shoulders.
—Dunk, I think you should keep telling us things about your dear stag.
—Raymun.
—What? I’m learning a great deal.
Duncan looked at Lyonel then, at last, and Lyonel felt the full blow of those blue eyes still softened by wine and weariness. Duncan smiled and it was worse, because there was something so open in that expression, so calm and certain, that Lyonel suddenly felt the absurd urge to throw every man out of the hall just to remain there watching Duncan breathe.
—Lyonel becomes unbearable when he thinks someone is flirting with me —Duncan said then.
Lyonel closed his eyes, Beesbury dropping his head onto the table laughing.
—That’s not true.
—Yes, it is.
—Duncan.
—Last week he nearly started a fight because a squire told me my freckles were pretty.
—Because the squire was looking at you like he wanted to climb into your bed.
—Well, yes, he probably did.
Raymun was already pounding the table with laughter while Lyonel felt the heat rise all the way across his face and Duncan remained sitting on the floor as though none of this were strange, large and relaxed and completely unaware of the disaster he was causing simply because he had drunk enough wine to stop watching every word.
Lyonel understood then, with a slow and terrible clarity, that this was exactly what destroyed him about Duncan: Duncan never played with affection, never used it to manipulate or to show himself off… Duncan loved with the same physical honesty with which he breathed or slept or sat too close beside him near the fire and when wine loosened his tongue, all of it simply spilled outward before whoever happened to be listening.
Duncan tilted his head, still watching him.
—Why are you red?
The whole table burst again.
And Lyonel, who had survived battles, wounds, and tournaments, discovered that none of those things had prepared him to fall in love with a huge clumsy man who drank too much wine and lost control of his tongue.
The second time was during a rainy night in an inn far too small for the number of people trying to shelter there and the entire hall felt heavy with the damp heat of cloaks drying near the fire, muddy boots abandoned beneath the tables and the constant smell of spilled beer mixing with smoke and boiled meat.
Duncan had spent the whole night far too pressed against Lyonel. Duncan never truly seemed to notice how much he sought to touch him when he was tired or relaxed or dizzy from wine.
It began with small things, a knee nudging against his beneath the table, an arm resting behind him along the back of the bench, his head leaning toward Lyonel’s shoulder while listening to someone speaking from the other end of the hall, and after a few hours Lyonel would realize Duncan was practically on top of him like some enormous animal seeking warmth without realizing his own weight.
And Lyonel felt everything too much.
His heat through the sleeve where their arms brushed, the damp scent of rain still caught in his reddish blond hair, the heavy and familiar weight of his leg resting against his own. Even the slow movement of his breathing because Duncan was so close Lyonel could feel the enormous chest rising and falling beside him.
Raymun and Hardyng were enjoying that far more than necessary.
Red still sat on Raymun’s lap with a cup between her hands and her hair falling loose over her shoulders because she too had drunk quite a bit, though unlike Duncan the wine only seemed to sharpen her further.
She had spent the last half hour laughing at Hardyng because Hardyng insisted noblewomen were more romantic than prostitutes and Red kept calling him an idiot every time he opened his mouth.
—Noblewomen only lie better —she said while stealing wine from Raymun without even looking at him—. Believe me, I’ve known men in love and men in heat and they are not the same thing.
Beesbury let out a laugh from the other side of the table where he was eating a strange sandwich Duncan had made for him from leftovers when he complained of being hungry.
—And now you’re the great expert?
—Yes because while you lot were learning to hold swords I was listening to naked men cry after getting off.
Hardyng made a face of absolute suffering while Raymun nearly choked laughing.
Duncan let out a laugh against Lyonel’s shoulder and the sound vibrated directly through his chest because he was still leaning against him, large and warm and completely at ease.
Lyonel watched Duncan’s profile lit by the fire and felt again that ridiculous pressure beneath his ribs. Duncan’s cheeks were flushed from the wine and the heat of the hall and his blue eyes softer than usual, heavy with weariness. He had removed his sword belt long ago and now looked too comfortable, disarmed in a way that still managed to affect Lyonel physically.
Relaxed Duncan always felt more intimate than naked Duncan, because when he stopped guarding himself things began to slip out of him, not secrets exactly. Duncan did not think in terms of secrets but rather soft parts of himself that other men buried deep and he simply laid upon the table without understanding why everyone reacted as though he had shown them an open wound.
Red took another drink of wine before continuing.
—Men in love always look differently, no matter how much they try to act normal.
Raymun smiled immediately and Lyonel felt the danger before the bastard even opened his mouth.
—Differently how?
—Like they want to touch you even when they’re already touching you.
And there it was.
Because Red said it distractedly, thinking aloud more than trying to provoke anyone, but Lyonel felt Duncan move beside him and lowered his gaze just in time to see the enormous hand rest distractedly on his thigh as though the thought had crossed Duncan’s body before it crossed his mind.
Red let out a short laugh the moment she noticed.
—Exactly that.
Duncan lifted his head, confused because he had been distracted fighting Beesbury over a piece of cheese.
—What?
—Nothing, big man… Only that you’re in love up to your ears.
Duncan frowned slightly as though trying to understand why that would be something amusing.
—Yes… And?
Raymun was smiling like a demon.
—I think Ser Lyonel is rather lost too.
—I’m not lost —Lyonel growled.
Red laughed directly in his face.
—Darling, you look at him like you want to crawl beneath his skin.
Duncan immediately turned toward Lyonel again.
—Yes, he does that.
Lyonel closed his eyes for a second.
—Duncan.
—What? Sometimes he looks at me strangely.
—Strangely how? —Hardyng asked far too quickly.
And Duncan, because the wine had already completely loosened his tongue, truly took a moment to think about the answer while still absentmindedly stroking Lyonel’s thigh with his thumb.
—Like he wants to eat me.
The entire table made some sort of sound, Hardyng began coughing into his cup, Beesbury dropped his head into one hand laughing and Red looked delighted.
Lyonel could feel his face growing hotter and hotter while Duncan kept sitting pressed against him completely unaware of the effect he was causing simply because he was saying exactly what he thought.
—Well —said Red, still smiling—, that still sounds more in love than horny.
Duncan took another swallow of wine and then rested his head heavily against Lyonel’s shoulder, settling more comfortably against him in a way so automatic it stirred something painful in his chest.
—I don’t know —he murmured—. He’s also rather hot.
Raymun completely lost his composure laughing and Beesbury only avoided falling from the bench because of Duncan’s clumsy hand holding him upright while the other man laughed.
Lyonel felt the urge to murder everyone present but at the same time he had Duncan practically melting over him, enormous and trusting and sleepy from wine, and he could feel the warmth of his cheek even through the fabric of the tunic.
Red kept watching them with a strange expression now, softer beneath all the amusement.
—And how do you know when it’s love and not just wanting to fuck? —she asked then.
Duncan lifted his head again and Lyonel immediately felt the danger because that was exactly the sort of question Duncan answered honestly. He stayed silent for a long moment while the noise of the inn continued around them, the crackling fire, someone arguing near the bar, rain striking outside.
Then Duncan spoke slowly:
—Because when Lyonel touches me he never wants to stop.
The hall around them kept making noise but the table grew stiller and Duncan kept watching the fire while he spoke, distracted, as though trying to sort something out within himself.
—Even when we’re already finished he keeps touching me, he fixes my hair or runs his hand over my legs or stays on top of me like he doesn’t want to leave.
Lyonel felt his chest tighten so hard it almost hurt because Duncan was speaking of things Lyonel had not even known he did. Red was no longer laughing in quite the same way and Duncan kept speaking.
—And he looks at me a lot, too much… Like he still doesn’t understand that I’m already his.
Lyonel stopped breathing for a second.
He felt his entire body go still while Duncan remained leaned heavily and warmly against him without understanding the enormity of what he had just said.
Even Raymun had stopped smiling somewhat, while Hardyng stared at Duncan with his mouth open in shock and Beesbury had paused in his eating to listen more carefully, because that was the problem with Duncan. Sometimes he began speaking of something obscene or embarrassing and suddenly said something so open and sincere it left everyone defenseless.
Red took a slow drink before murmuring:
—Oh… You truly are in love.
Duncan looked confused again by the softness in her voice.
—Yes. I already said that.
And then, as though only just remembering something, he added with complete calm:
—Though he also fucks me like he wants to live inside my body, so it’s probably both things.
The whole table exploded again.
Raymun outright struck the wood laughing, Hardyng dropped his forehead against his cup, Beesbury was red up to his ears. And Lyonel felt the heat climb violently up his neck while Duncan kept watching them in confusion, still with the enormous hand resting upon his thigh.
—What?
—Dunk —Raymun gasped through laughter—. Someday someone is going to kill you for talking like that.
Duncan frowned.
—Why? Lyonel knows it’s true.
And Lyonel, feeling the warm weight of Duncan leaning against him and the smell of rain still caught in his hair and all that enormous and unguarded honesty spilling before their friends without the slightest defense, understood once again that he was completely lost because no matter how much shame Duncan put him through when he drank, he always ended up falling even harder in love with him.
The third time happened in New Barrel, at Raymun’s house. Raymun’s property was built on damp ground near an overflowing stream and everything around it constantly smelled of wet earth, dogs, damp hay and chimney smoke.
It was not a noble house properly speaking, not like Storm’s End or Summerhall, but rather a broad construction that had grown disorderly over the years, adding stables, rooms and sheds wherever they were needed, until it had become something warm and chaotic where there always seemed to be someone laughing in another room or a muddy boot abandoned near a doorway.
Lyonel suspected Raymun preferred it that way deliberately.
The house felt used, lived in, there were badly sharpened knives on the tables, cloaks drying near the fire, enormous dogs asleep across the hallways and the smell of food even deep into the early hours of morning. Red walked barefoot as though she had owned the place for years and she probably already did. There were flowers hanging to dry near the kitchen windows and a red shawl forgotten over the back of a chair for two days now because Raymun seemed incapable of passing by a single one of Red’s belongings without getting distracted touching it.
And Duncan was far too comfortable there, that was dangerous and Lyonel had been noticing it for days. Duncan relaxing more and more as though the entire place had been built specifically for tired men who had never truly been allowed to rest.
He took off his boots the moment he entered, slept late, helped in the stables even though he had no reason to do so and let the dogs sleep on top of him while he drank ale by the fire but above all he touched Lyonel constantly.
He sought him out all the time, a huge hand resting distractedly against his back while they crossed a room, his knee pressed against Lyonel’s during meals or his head resting heavily against his shoulder the moment the wine started making him drowsy.
The hall was full of heavy warmth and tired noise.
Raymun had been drinking and arguing nonsense with Hardyng for hours while Beesbury dozed half-sunken in an armchair near the fire with an empty cup tipping dangerously between his fingers. Red was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed over a blanket stolen from the sofa and her red hair falling messily down her back while she cleaned greasy cards from a game that clearly nobody was going to finish that night.
And Duncan was relaxed.
Lyonel had already learned that there was an enormous difference between drunken Duncan and relaxed Duncan. Drunk he only became slower, more cheerful, clumsier around cups but relaxed was something entirely different and Duncan had never been good at understanding other people’s embarrassment.
—I swear the horse was possessed —Raymun was saying while pouring himself more wine—. It bit a septon on the arse.
Duncan let out a deep rough laugh that vibrated directly against Lyonel’s arm because he was still practically leaning against him.
—Maybe the septon deserved it.
—You always say that because you like animals more than people.
—Most people bite worse.
Raymun laughed again and then turned toward Lyonel.
—See? That’s how it started… First Duncan defended stray dogs and now he defends Ly.
Lyonel snorted without much desire to indulge them, too occupied watching the way the fire turned certain damp strands of Duncan’s hair golden. Lyonel could feel his damp scent mixed with wine and smoke and wet leather and it was taking him a ridiculous amount of effort to remain still.
—I don’t need anyone defending me —he muttered at last.
—Yes you do —Duncan said immediately, utterly convinced—. Sometimes you’re unbearable.
Hardyng let out a laugh that startled Beesbury from his sleepy state, and Lyonel turned his head toward Duncan.
—Unbearable?
—When you’re jealous.
And there it was… That exact moment where Lyonel felt danger approaching and could do absolutely nothing to stop it because Duncan kept speaking already distractedly, moving the cup between his enormous fingers while thinking aloud.
—He gets weird.
—Weird how? —Raymun asked immediately, the damned bastard.
—Like he wants to fight someone all the time.
—That means nothing, Dunk, Ly always wants to fight someone.
—No, but with me it’s different… He starts touching me more.
Hardyng let out a muffled laugh while shifting to lie back on the carpet and watch Duncan more attentively.
—Poor you.
—And he keeps staring at me a lot —Duncan continued—. Like he’s thinking things.
Raymun was already smiling even while Beesbury used him for support so he could also lower himself onto the floor, now completely awake but too dizzy to coordinate himself.
—What kind of things?
Duncan finally lifted his head and Lyonel immediately saw those blue eyes he loved, open and bright in a way no man should be allowed to look.
—Mmm.. Things about fucking me, probably.
Beesbury choked on his wine and Hardyng let out a muffled sound and then started laughing directly into his arm while Red hid her face behind a few cards trying not to laugh openly.
—Duncan —he growled.
—What?
—You can’t say things like that.
—What things?
The question came out completely sincere and Lyonel felt that unbearable mixture of humiliation and tenderness rise into his chest because Duncan truly did not understand where the problem was. He was tired and warm from the wine and relaxed among people he considered safe and because of that he spoke exactly the same way he spoke when they were alone in bed, exactly the same way he spoke half-asleep against Lyonel’s neck during the early hours of morning.
Raymun seemed to be enjoying all of this far too much.
—Dunk, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone embarrass Lyonel Baratheon this badly.
—I’m not embarrassing him.
—You’re turning him red up to his ears.
Duncan looked back at him then and Lyonel immediately felt the full weight of his attention fall upon him, Duncan studied his face for a long slow moment and then smiled, tired and drunk and far too beautiful for Lyonel’s own good.
—Well now.. He is red.
Lyonel wanted to strangle him but he also wanted to kiss that smile directly off his face.
—Well —Raymun murmured, still smiling over his cup—. At least now we know Ly still desires you.
Duncan started letting out little giggles with his eyes even brighter and his cheeks flushed.
—Yeah.. Quite a lot.
—Duncan.
—What? It’s true.
And before Lyonel could stop him, before he could even understand where that conversation was going, Duncan kept speaking between little giggles too sweet for such a large man in Lyonel’s opinion.
—Ever since I accepted Lyonel, the muscles in my thighs have been sore aaaall the time because the idiot likes spreading my legs and holding them against the bed because he loves watching himself fuck me.
The silence fell so fast that the wind outside suddenly became deafening.
Lyonel choked violently on his wine, felt the liquid burning his throat while he started coughing and the entire bench moved because Raymun had just doubled over laughing practically on top of the table.
Beesbury’s face was completely red while he rolled across the carpet laughing so hard there were tears on his cheeks and Hardyng was staring fixedly at Duncan as though he had just heard a particularly traumatic religious confession.
—What?
—Holy gods, Dunk —Raymun gasped between laughter—. You can’t say that like that.
—Why not?
—Because you just told everyone how Lyonel fucks you!
Duncan blinked slowly, clearly trying to follow the thread of the conversation through the wine, then looked at Lyonel again, and Lyonel felt the direct blow of those eyes still soft and open and honest.
—But he does do that —Duncan finally said, as though genuinely confused by the discussion—. He likes it a lot.
The entire table exploded again.
Lyonel could feel his face burning, his neck, his ears, even his chest beneath the tunic while Duncan kept sitting pressed against him without fully understanding why everyone was losing their minds.
And the worst part was that Duncan was right. Of course he was right.
Lyonel could remember perfectly the last time, Duncan open beneath him and enormous even like that, his long legs held against Lyonel’s sides because Lyonel became half sick with need when he could see him completely undone for him, flushed and panting and looking at him with those blue eyes blurred with pleasure while Lyonel sank inside him.
And now Raymun was going to mock him for the rest of his life.
Duncan kept watching him, the confusion on his face slowly began to unravel replaced by something smaller and more uncertain.
—Did you get angry?
The question came out low this time and Lyonel immediately felt guilt pierce through him because he knew that expression. He knew the exact moment where Duncan started thinking he had done something wrong and began folding in on himself.
Lyonel hated that, hated anything that made Duncan hide parts of himself.
He passed a hand over the damp nape of Duncan’s neck, sinking his fingers into the reddish blond strands while he still felt the hot echo of embarrassment burning across his face.
—I’m not angry.
—You look angry.
—I’m dying of embarrassment because you are incapable of keeping a single thought inside your head when you drink.
That made Duncan smile again, slow and warm against his shoulder and then, because clearly he still had not finished destroying him, he leaned closer until Lyonel felt his warm breath against his neck.
—Well —he murmured distractedly —You do not keep many thoughts to yourself either when you have me open beneath you… You talk so much, sometimes I do not even understand half the things you say.
Raymun quite literally fell off the bench laughing and Lyonel understood, with a weary and wholly lovestruck despair, that he would never again survive a dinner where Duncan had free access to wine.