Okay so um. Yeah. I actually wrote this over a week ago but only had the chance to post it now. Thank you @hungryriverbeast this prompt totally infected my brain and would not leave me alone, also I will take any excuse to write homoerotic sword fights. (I kinda left it on a cliffhanger and this is only T rated so far, but I did outline for more with actual smut in it, let me know if you’re interested and I can try to write it) 🙏
“Don’t you find it rather annoying?”
Baelor raised an eyebrow as he settled further back into his chair. They were high up on the dais, looking down at the lists and the throng of cheering smallfolk below.
“They do call him the Laughing Storm, brother.”
Maekar scoffed. “Yes, I am bloody well aware of that. Just…” He paused as Lyonel thundered past, a vision of black and gold, his antlered realm piercing up towards the sky. He roared with delight as his lance shattered against Lord Lannister’s shield, sending splinters flying through the air as the crowd erupted with applause. “Does he have to be so obnoxious about it?”
Baelor propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin in his hand, watching as the horses wheeled about, rushing to take their positions.
“I’m not the kind of man to make a wager, but if I was—” started Baelor, only to be interrupted by more peals of raucous laughter as the mounted knights raced towards each other once more. Lyonel struck true, sending the Grey Lion careening to the ground, his shield ruined and discarded in the mud. “Well, my purse would be a little heavier right now.”
Maekar folded his arms. “I’d sooner lose my coin than back someone like him.”
The Grey Lion’s squire and maester rushed onto the field, though Lord Lannister swatted them away, brushing dirt from his newly dented armour. Lyonel rode to the centre of the list upon his great destrier, its tassels and ribbons streaming with the black and gold of his house. He kept one hand on the reins as he waved to the crowd, then came to a stop before the dais, removing his stag headed helm. He smiled as the wind blew through his reckless curls, his teeth white and sharp even from a distance.
He bowed his head towards Baelor, before turning and doing the same to Maekar — but, as he raised his head, Maekar could have sworn he saw him wink.
Maekar did not have time to react before Lyonel was charging off towards the stables, laughing as he blew kisses at the passing crowd.
“Show off,” Maekar muttered. He felt Baelor’s eyes upon him and quickly turned away, and prayed his brother had not noticed how pink his cheeks had gotten.
The stars were shining overhead as Maekar trudged through the campsite. Each tent he passed seemed to be more raucous than the last, full of drunken revellers singing and laughing and dancing. Several new champions had been made that day, but, to Maekar at least, the festivities seemed to be somewhat outsized compared to their achievements, particularly so early on in the tournament.
He did not want to be out at all, suffering from this drunken racket of second sons and older knights soon to be let out to pasture. His own sons were still missing, and he had grown tired of the meager efforts of his Kingsguard, who had seen neither hide nor hair of either of them for three days. Maekar thought that, perhaps, Daeron may have been drawn to the merrymaking, a chance to drink as much wine and beer and mead as he could stomach without too much judgement from the surrounding cavorters. Maekar hoped, somewhat vainly, that he may have Aegon in tow, and that he could finally rest easy knowing his sons were alive and safe.
He could hear it before he saw, the sound of fiddles, drums and tambourines mixed with the thudding of dancing feet that rang throughout the camp. The Baratheon pavilion was covered in more antlers than Maekar had seen in his life, their sharp points gleaming in the light from the braziers. He wanted to take it for the warning that it was — a threat that he would be pierced if he dared to approach, left bloodied and wounded should he dare to lock horns. But he was a dragon, Maekar reminded himself, and a dragon cared not for the capriciousness of stags. And Maekar knew he would not be able to sleep if he passed by, knowing there was a chance, small as it may be, that Daeron or Aegon were in there.
Maekar sighed and stepped inside.
He was greeted by the sight of three dozen dancers, all jumping and swaying and spinning to the music. The band were loud, playing a tune Maekar had never heard before, something fast and high that had everyone singing and clapping along. Nobody had noticed him enter — all eyes were fixed on the dance floor, where the antlered crown of Lyonel Baratheon was spinning around that damnable tall knight who had interrupted their arrival at Ashford. The crowd parted, and Maekar watched as they spun and twirled about, the music almost drowned out by the sound of cheers and applause as they reached their crescendo. It was mesmerising — the rhythm of the music and the movement of their bodies, completely uninhibited, as if the music was within them, bursting to be free. The song finished, and Lyonel and the tall knight fell about laughing, before turning and bowing theatrically to the crowd.
Maekar blinked, and pulled his cloak closer around his throat. He quickly looked about the crowd, but no one was looking at him — all were still singing and dancing, or returning to their cups as the musicians prepared for another song. It seemed obvious now that this was not the kind of tent that Daeron or Aegon would find themselves in, and Maekar ducked his head, slipping out as easily as he had entered.
The cool night air was a welcome relief, a balm from the din behind him. Maekar rubbed his brow and took quick steps away from the pavilion, lest one of the antlers snag on his cloak.
Maekar flinched. A cold dread filled him — he had half a mind to continue walking, pretend he had not heard them and not look back. But then he heard footsteps rushing up behind him, followed by a hand on his shoulder.
“My my, your grace, you are a sight for sore eyes.” Lyonel’s hand was warm upon his shoulder, and he gave it a quick squeeze before clapping Maekar on the back. “What brings you out at this hour? Looking for some fun?”
Lyonel smiled, and Maekar had to suppress the urge to punch him, even as it flustered him.
Maekar cleared his throat, and did his best to look Lyonel in the eye, rather than at his mouth. “I’m looking for my sons,” he said, though it sounded rather unconvincing, even to his own ears.
“Still no joy in finding them, your grace?” said Lyonel, folding his arms across his chest, which only served to make obvious how the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the column of his throat and more than a little of his chest hair. “If I had seen them, believe me, I would run over hot coals myself to bring them to you. But alas,” he said, opening his arms wide in a flourish, the torchlight sparkling off the rings on his fingers.
Maekar could feel face going warm, even in the cool of the night. He squeezed his fist tight, hoping that his nails digging into his palm might quell whatever strange feeling was overtaking him.
“If you hear anything…” Maekar started, hoping to extract himself from the conversation as soon as possible. But Lyonel smiled again, warm and genuine, and Maekar noticed for the first time a dimple in his cheek.
“Like I said, your grace. Hot coals.”
Maekar nodded before turning to leave, grateful that Lyonel would not notice the lump in his throat. But Maekar felt a hand at his elbow, and when he turned back to face him, his smile seemed to have grown even more sincere.
“Please, your grace, let me offer you some wine. It’ll calm your nerves some, I promise.”
A roar of laughter and singing erupted from the tent behind them, as the band started playing a new song. Maekar looked over Lyonel’s shoulder, and he could see the silhouettes of the people inside, drinking and dancing, real and alive.
“I think not, ser,” said Maekar, taking half a step back.
“Not in there,” said Lyonel, moving to shield the tent from Maekar’s view. “There’s plenty of wine back in my personal quarters, your grace. I keep the good stuff for myself, naturally.”
Maekar hesitated. He looked around to see if anyone else was about, and sighed when he found they were alone.
“You would not deny me the honour of sharing my wine with you, would you, your grace?”
Maekar swallowed. “No, I mean, yes, of course—”
Lyonel laughed, and it sounded like a summer storm.
“This way, your grace,” said Lyonel, winking as he nodded towards his tent, leaving Maekar to catch up.
His wine was heady and sweet, and Maekar drank it greedily, finishing two cups before Lyonel had finished one. Maekar cursed, pinching himself to slow down as Lyonel rose from his seat across the table to fetch another pitcher.
“Thirsty, your grace?” chuckled Lyonel as he poured them both another cup. He sat down heavily in his chair, long legs stretching out before him, the pleats of his tunic slipping about his knees. Maekar was grateful that he had removed his antlers, at least, leaving them on a clothes chest at the foot of his bed.
“Your performance at the lists today,” said Maekar, desperate to change the subject. “It was… commendable.”
Lyonel smirked behind the rim of his cup, taking a long, slow sip. “I shall take that compliment in the spirit in which it was given, your grace.”
Maekar felt his ears burning. He went to take another mouthful of wine before thinking better of it and pushing it to one side. “Truly, ser,” said Maekar, sitting a little straighter in his chair, hoping his posture might hide some of his nervousness. “You are a gifted lancer. It cannot be denied.”
Lyonel shrugged. “I am merely doing what all Stormlanders were born to do. Jousting, hunting, sailing — the spirit of adventure calls to all of us who were born amidst the salt and storms.” His eyes were dark, and Maekar noticed the pinkness of his tongue darting out to lick a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. “And you live in Summerhall, do you not, your grace? Perhaps that spirit lives within you, too.”
Maekar huffed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “I fear I may have had my fill of adventures, ser.”
Lyonel waved his hand dismissively. “You have breath in your lungs and blood in your veins, your grace. It can never be too late.” Maekar saw a glint in his eye then, and Lyonel leaned forward, folding his arms and resting them upon the table. “Besides, your victory at the Redgrass Field was surely a greater adventure than any I could dream to embark upon.”
Maekar toyed with the stem of his wine cup, and looked at Lyonel sidelong. “Not exactly an adventure as I would see it. It was bloody hard fought and hard fucking won. I don’t revel in the glory of it.”
“No?” said Lyonel, a sly quirk to his eyebrow. “From the tales the bards tell, it sounds like you were one of the most glorious fighters on the field.” He shrugged, raising his wine cup to his lips. “Perhaps they were wrong.”
Maekar could feel his cheeks growing warmer, even as his eyes narrowed. “You weren’t there.”
“No, no…” said Lyonel, almost wistfully. “But if I had been—” he said, pointing at Maekar with his wine cup, so vigorously the wine almost sloshed onto the table. “I doubt there would have been anyone on the field who could best me. Yourself included, your grace.”
Maekar was taken aback, stunned by the sheer audacity, notwithstanding his insolence. It sparked a cold fury in him, made all the worse by Lyonel’s apparent nonchalance. Lyonel tipped his chin up in something akin to defiance, showing the infuriating cut of his jaw. Maekar had to look away, staring into the safety of his wine cup to save himself from further ignominy.
“You know not of what you speak,” said Maekar, looking up at Lyonel through his silvery hair. “I sweated for three days in my armour, I thought I would bloody well die at any moment—”
“Oh, your grace, I’m not denying that,” interrupted Lyonel, holding out his hands placatingly. “I’m just saying, if it had been me, I would have been better.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, before taking another mouthful of wine. “All this history of Targaryen martial prowess… easy when you have dragons, but not so easy without them, hm? Plus you were fighting, who?” he said, holding back a laugh, “A gaggle of upjumped bastards and their coterie? Those cunts wouldn’t have been able to scratch me, of that I’m certain.”
The smile Lyonel gave him was diabolical, smugness oozing from every pore. Maekar had half a mind to get up and storm out, and would have if he knew Lyonel would not have derived some perverse pleasure from it.
“A pity, then, that I was the one to defeat the Blackfyres, and not you.”
Lyonel chuckled, tipping his cup to catch the last drop of wine on his outstretched tongue. “Indeed. I only wish I could have been there. I’m sure you looked so big and strong in your armour. Daddy must have been very proud.”
He had meant it to needle him, Maekar knew it, but it made heat prickle at the back of his neck all the same. Lyonel seemed to notice Maekar steaming, and winked at him, before getting up to fetch another pitcher. Maekar cursed himself under his breath, and crossed his legs under the table.
“I mean it, your grace,” said Lyonel, filling up his cup before coming over to stand behind Maekar. “All that dragonscale, black plate and silver hair…” Lyonel leaned over Maekar’s shoulder with the jug, filling his cup, and Maekar could feel his breath against his cheek as he spoke. “What an honour it would have been to be cut down by you. I bet you looked like The Conqueror reborn. ”
Maekar shifted in his seat, though his body betrayed him. Lyonel smelled of some expensive oil, heady with cedar and smoke, intoxicating enough to make his heart skip a beat. He could feel the warmth of him along his back, tantalisingly close but inexplicably far, and Maekar found himself curling his toes in his boots, just to keep himself grounded.
“Of course,” said Lyonel, laughing to himself as he pulled away suddenly, leaving Maekar reeling, “we both know he never would have been so successful without the aid of my great-great-great-grandsire.”
Maekar shuffled his shoulders, and though Lyonel had walked back to his seat, he could still feel the heat of him on the back of his neck. “They say they were half-brothers. Aegon and Orys.”
Lyonel lounged back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the table with the pitcher still in hand. “That was never proved. I think the historians just wanted an excuse for why Aegon was always showering Orys with gifts.” He flashed a look to Maekar then, before pressing his lips to the edge of the pitcher and drinking straight from it.
Maekar blinked, mouth falling open slightly in disbelief. He shook his head, and was about to speak, but Lyonel cut in first.
“But anyway, all this talk of war and fighting… gets the blood up, does it not, your grace?” He stood, discarding the wine and walking over to his weapons rack on the far side of the tent, where his glorious suit of armour stood in ceremonial repose. He picked up two swords, twirling them both about, before offering one out to Maekar.
Maekar looked at Lyonel incredulously. “Are you asking me to fight you?”
“Oh come on, why not?” Lyonel said, tossing Maekar the sword. Maekar caught it with one hand, which earned a raise of Lyonel’s brow, looking both surprised and impressed. “Why should we wait for the lists to reopen when we could have a bit of bloody fun now?”
Maekar inspected the sword. It was of beautiful make, a typical Stormlands design of dark steel with a long, sharp blade. Maekar stood, testing how it felt in his grip, slicing the air in a large swoop before thrusting forward with a jab.
Lyonel whistled. “Very nice, your grace. It’s not Dark Sister, but I’m sure it will suffice.”
Maekar stood to attention, sword trailing in his offhand. Lyonel was leaning against the weapons rack, his riot of curls sweeping across his forehead. There was something almost dreamy in his gaze, as if he could not believe his luck. It made Maekar hesitate for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure, and brushed a strand of pale hair from his face.
“I can’t believe you’re talking me into this,” said Maekar, leaning his elbow on the back of his chair.
“Please, your grace,” said Lyonel, raking his hand through his hair, and Maekar had to look away to keep himself from blushing. “Would you care to best me? Perhaps you could show me what you learned on the Redgrass.”
Maekar rolled his eyes — he wanted to tell Lyonel that flattery would get him nowhere, but, unfortunately, it already had.
“Come on, your grace,” said Lyonel, walking to the middle of his pavilion, arms wide. “It would be an honour to lose to you.” He winked, and Maekar knew he was little more than a puppet on his string.
Maekar sighed. “Raise your blade, Baratheon.”
Maekar could tell Lyonel was holding back — he parried when he could have lunged, showed restraint rather than pressing his advantage, refrained even when Maekar left himself wide open. Their first few clashes were underwhelming, and Maekar stood with his hand on his hip as he stared at Lyonel.
“Don’t fucking ask if you’re not going to fight.”
Lyonel walked to the table to drain his cup of wine, and Maekar could not help but stare at his throat as he drank. “I’m conserving my energy, your grace. Besides, you need far less effort to defend against than you believe you do, I fear.”
That pricked something in Maekar, as if Lyonel was pressing on a bruise he didn’t know he had. He had been a hero of the Redgrass Field, trained with the finest swordsmen and masters at arms since he was old enough to hold a blade, and would in due time command armies for Baelor as Hand of the King. That he, a mere Baratheon, would deny his prowess—
Lyonel wagged his brows, a lascivious look in his eyes, as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Maekar burned hot — though he did not wish to think whether it was from anger or lust.
He stepped forward, seizing the initiative with a large overhead swing that Lyonel nearly did not deflect. He remained on the attack, exploiting any gap he could find, forcing Lyonel onto his back foot. Whatever infuriating smugness he had worn before had been replaced with mild surprise, and Maekar silently congratulated himself when he saw a bead of sweat roll down Lyonel’s forehead.
Their steels met, the clash of metal resounding through the tent, setting Maekar’s teeth on edge. He leaned his weight into his shoulder, hoping to knock Lyonel off balance, but he held annoyingly firm. Maekar could tell Lyonel was trying to appear effortless, as if this was just too easy for him, but the straining in his neck and tension in his shoulders belied himself. Maekar pushed again, grinding their blades together, but Lyonel did not budge.
“My my,” he laughed, face only an inch or two from Maekar’s own. “What a pretty little stalemate we’ve found ourselves in.”
Maekar huffed, assuring his stance. He could feel the heat of Lyonel’s face against his own, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He watched Lyonel lick his lips, and for a moment, it made Maekar think of something else. He shook the image from his head, already overly flustered, and ground his foot into the floor.
“Do you truly believe the stag can outlast the dragon?”
Lyonel chuckled. “Oh, I’d wager my life on it,” he said, voice smoky and rough. “When we’re locking horns like this, there could only be one winner.”
Maekar tutted. He tried to raise his arm and break out of the stance, but Lyonel pressed on his blade, forcing Maekar back.
“Ah ah, firebreather,” said Lyonel, and Maekar could feel a vein on his forehead starting to throb. “Don’t be so hasty. Let us just imagine it for a moment, hm? A stag defeating a dragon… now, that would be a novel concept—”
But Maekar had had enough. He shoulder barged Lyonel, finally breaking his stance, though not for as long as he had hoped. Lyonel pushed him back with a fury, lunging at him with fast strikes Maekar barely had time to dodge. Maekar took a step back, only to find his calves bumping up against the side of the bed. He saw a glint in Lyonel’s eyes as he darted forward, rushing to knock Maekar back. He was too unbalanced as their steels met once more, and Maekar tumbled backwards. In one last act of desperation, he hooked his foot around Lyonel’s ankle, toppling him over and dragging him down with him.
They landed in a heap, Lyonel crashing on top of Maekar, their swords crushed between them. Lyonel steadied himself, rising just far enough to pin Maekar down by his shoulders, pushing him into the softness of the mattress. They were both breathing hard from the shock of the fall, and Maekar could feel his hair falling into his eyes, though it did not spare him from the sight of Lyonel above him.
They settled for a moment, waiting for their heartbeats to steady. Maekar tried not to look at Lyonel, at the curve of his mouth or the anticipation in his eyes. But he kept coming back to him, that cursed dimple in his cheek as he smiled, equal parts smug and maddening.
Neither of them moved. Maekar felt like some poor hunted animal, finally ensnared, about to be used as a plaything before inevitably being devoured. There was a hunger in Lyonel’s eyes, and it made Maekar shiver, even as heat pooled slowly in his stomach. And then Lyonel winked, eyes dark and full of promise, and he looked so handsome Maekar couldn’t help but feel affronted.
Lyonel sat back a little, curls bouncing as he did. He tossed his sword onto the floor where it fell with an almighty clang, but Lyonel did not look away from Maekar, not for a moment.
Maekar let his own sword slide onto the floor. He willed himself to move, to push Lyonel aside and leave this gods-forsaken tent, but all he could do was flex his hands upon the bedsheets in a feeble attempt to relieve some of the pressure growing inside him. He put his hand on Lyonel’s elbow, in what Maekar justified to himself would be a half-hearted attempt to free himself, but he kept his hand there, unable or unwilling to dislodge him.
Lyonel looked down at Maekar’s hand upon his arm and hummed low in his throat. “I would say I’m surprised, your grace, but…”
Lyonel swept the loose hair from Maekar’s forehead back behind his ear, smoothing it down with his thumb. Maekar was going to say something, finally pick himself up and leave, but Lyonel cupped his face, and all thoughts evaporated from his mind. His palms were warm, calloused from years of holding a sword, fingertips resting behind Maekar’s ear.
Where their lips finally met, it was soft and warm and gentle, and Maekar sank into it, lost in the scratch of Lyonel’s beard and the delicious movement of his mouth.
Lyonel pulled away far too soon, and Maekar tipped his head up to chase his mouth, pulling a laugh from Lyonel.
“Oh, your grace,” said Lyonel, and it sounded like an endearment from his lips. “I think we should make a very, very bad decision together.”
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