After the tournament at Ashford Meadow, Lyonel returns to Storm's End with a hedge knight and a bald boy. You and Lyonel take them in and treat them like family.
In this chapter, you visit Salt Shore in Dorne.
Pairing : You (AFAB) x Lyonel Baratheon, You x Dunk, Dunk x Lyonel (MFM & MMF scenes)
WARNINGS (whole fic) : no use of Y/N, smut, violence, ethical non-monogamy, alcohol, voyeurism, masturbation (m and f), slow burn,
Word Count : 3,247
Sandstorm Masterlist
Chapter Seven - “Salt Shore”
A day comes when you are only a day's ride from Salt Shore. The place where performers stopped as they worked their way up and down the coast. You remembered your promise to Dunk and how he spoke of Tanselle. You slow Darkfire's pace and guide your sand steed beside Dunk's, Swifbolt. Dunk is quiet for a moment, the only sound is the creak of leather and the crunch of hooves on dry earth. Dunk spent a lot of the ride telling you stories and truths about Ser Arlan. Egg rides ahead with Lyonel, their voices carrying back in easy conversation.
"Have you ever heard of Salt Shore?" You glance at Dunk, whose brow furrows in thought. "It's not far off the main road. Half a day's detour, maybe less. There's a cove there, and the innkeep puts on a spread that'd make a Dornish lord weep.”
Dunk shifts in his saddle, considering. "Can't say I have. Is it worth the detour?”
"The mummers pass through often. Puppeteers, singers, the occasional fire-breather." You shrug. "I used to sneak off there when I was a girl. Watch the performances. Once, a mummer caught me and put me to work holding up a puppet dragon.”
Dunk laughs. "A dragon?”
"A very unconvincing one. It had one eye and a tail that kept falling off. But the crowd didn't care. They cheered all the same.”
He's quiet for a moment, eyes on the road ahead. "I'd like that. Seeing a place that matters to you.” The words are simple, but they land with a weight that surprises you.
You glance at him-at the way the sun catches the ginger in his hair, the earnest set of his jaw. "Then we'll stop." You urge Darkfire forward a few paces, raising your voice. "Lyonel! Egg! We're making a detour."
Lyonel twists in his saddle, a grin spreading across his face. "Salt Shore? You're taking us to Salt Shore?”
"You've been?”
"Once. Got into a brawl with a Tyroshi merchant over a card game." He chuckles. "Worth it."
You turn to Dunk. ”There's a small chance, but... We may find her troupe there. Tanselle’s. Lyonel told me more about the puppet shows. It seems the world is smaller than we all once thought. Does it not?"
Dunk’s head turns sharply. ”Tanselle?" His voice is rougher than before. "You think she might be there?”
"I said there's a small chance.” You shrug, keeping your tone light. "The mummers travel up and down the coast. Salt Shore's a common stop. They perform for a few days, move on to the next holding, circle back before the season turns." You glance at him. "Lyonel told me more about what happened at Ashford. The shield, the dragon puppet, Aerion.”
Dunk's jaw tightens. His hands grip the reins a little harder.
"The world is smaller than we think," you continue. "Salt Shore is on the way to Sunspear anyway. If she's there, you could thank her properly. If she's not..." You shrug again. "We'll have a good meal and a night of puppetry regardless.”
Dunk is quiet for a long stretch. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I never got to thank her. After everything, she just left. Left the shield with the blacksmith and disappeared." He rubs the back of his neck. "I think about her sometimes. Hope she's alright.”
Egg glances back from ahead, but says nothing.
"What would you say to her? If she's there.”
"I don't know." He lets out a breath. "I've thought about it, but every time I try to find the words… I'd want to thank her. For the shield. For trusting me when she had no reason to.” He looks back at the road. "She just looked at me like I was… Someone worth looking at.”
There’s an ache took over your chest. You want Dunk to feel that way when you look at him. You want him to know you have feelings for him, that you want to kiss him. However, the last thing you want is to scare him away. "You're very worth looking at.”
Dunk's head turns. His blue eyes find yours, and for a long, breathless moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the creak of saddle leather, the crunch of hooves on dry earth. His ears go red. “I…” He clears his throat, looking away, then back, like he can't decide where to land. "I don't know what to say to that."
Lyonel and Egg have pulled a good distance ahead, their voices faint and indistinct. For a moment, it's just the two of you, the dust, the sun, and the weight of what was just said.
Dunk rides in silence for a long stretch. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you've ever heard it. "I... I don't know how to do this.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. "Whatever this is. I'm a hedge knight with nothing to my name but two horses and a sword. I'm not—“ He stops, struggling for words. "I'm not someone people look at. Not like this." He glances at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "But I'd like to be. For you."
You reach out. Your fingers brush his, light at first, then settle. His hand is rough. He looks down at where you touch, then up to meet your eyes. There's a stillness in him, like he's afraid to breathe and break whatever this is.
"I don't lie," you say, holding his gaze. You pause, and a smile curves the corner of your mouth. “Often.”
The tension cracks. A laugh escapes him. He shakes his head, but he doesn't pull his hand away.
"Often," he repeats. "How often?"
"Only when it's funny." You squeeze his fingers once, then let go, settling back in your saddle. "Or when it's polite. Or when a Dornish merchant tries to sell me a horse he claims is three years old but has the teeth of a ten-year-old."
Dunk laughs again, fuller this time. His ears are still red, but the stiffness in his shoulders has eased. "I'll keep that in mind," he says.
Ahead, Lyonel has reined in, waiting at a bend in the road. Egg is beside him, and even from here, you can see the knowing smirk on Lyonel's face. He doesn't say anything. He just watches the two of you approach. "You two making friends back there?" He calls out.
"We're discussing horses.” You answer.
"Horses." Lyonel's grin widens. "Is that what they call it in Dorne? We'll see the sea before sunset.”
You nod, letting your gaze follow the line of the road.
"Let's race to the coast!” You don't wait for an answer. You dig your heels into Darkfire’s flanks, and the sand steed surges forward. The wind catches your hair, the sun warm on your face, and for a moment there's nothing but the thunder of hooves.
Behind you, Lyonel booms. "She's off!" Stormfire thunders after you.
Dunk turns toward Egg, "Stay close.”
Raindancer and Swiftbolt speed up, but you're already pulling ahead, Darkfire's stride lengthening as she finds her rhythm. The sand steed was born for this. Lean and fast, her hooves barely seeming to touch the earth.
The coast rushes toward you. A stretch of pale sand, a cluster of buildings nestled against the shore. Salt Shore. The road takes you onto a street lined with low stone buildings and a few trees. You pull Darkfire to a halt at the edge of the village, breathing hard, a laugh bubbling out of you.
Lyonel clatters up beside you moments later, chest heaving. "Gods be good, woman.” He says, reining in.
"Compliment received.”
Dunk and Egg arrive a minute later, Egg looking delighted, Dunk's face flushed from more than just exertion. He slows beside you.
”Salt Shore," you announce, gesturing at the village before you. "Told you we'd make it."
Egg slides off his steed, Raindancer, glancing between you and Dunk with curious eyes. He says nothing, but takes Moonbolt's reins when Dunk finally dismounts.
You click your tongue and urge your sand steed forward down the hill, the Salt Shore sprawled before you.
The sea air hits you properly now-salt and fish and the distant tang of spices from the docks. "Tanselle's troupe," you say over your shoulder. "If they're anywhere, they'll be near the market square or the harbor. Mummers always find the crowds.”
Lyonel grunts, adjusting his seat. "And how do you plan to find them among all these tents and stalls?”
"You'll know a Dornish puppeteer troupe when you see it.” You lead the way into the heart of Salt Shore, past spice stalls and fishmongers, past a merchant haggling over the price of silk. The streets are alive with bodies and noise; you hear accents of Essos in addition to Dornish and a few from elsewhere in Westeros. There’s so much that can distract you but you maintain your focus. It takes the better part of the morning, working your way from one pocket of entertainers to the next. A trio of fire-breathers, a singer with a voice like honey, a man who makes his monkey dance in tiny clothes. But no Tanselle.
By the time the sun climbs low and the heat presses down, you're sweating through your tunic. Lyonel's patience has worn thin. Egg's enthusiasm has dimmed to dogged determination. Then you round a corner near the harbour and hear it. A burst of laughter, a child's squeal of delight, and a familiar voice narrating with theatrical flair. “…and the dragon swooped down, smoke curling from its nostrils, its great wings blotting out the sun!”
You slow your horse. There. A crowd has gathered around a makeshift stage of painted canvas and wooden poles. And atop it, a massive dragon puppet weaves and dips, controlled by unseen hands. On the stage, you catch a glimpse of a tall figure. Familiar. Dark hair, olive skin. Tanselle Too Tall. You swing down from your saddle and loop the reins over a weathered hitching post.
Lyonel follows suit with a grunt, Egg sliding off his own horse with the quiet ease.
The crowd is twenty deep around the painted stage, children perched on shoulders. But the puppet dragon commands all their attention. It's beautifully made. Scales of black and red leather, wings that catch the light, smoke puffing from its nostrils through some clever mechanism hidden in the puppeteer's rigging. A knight puppet faces it, wobbling bravely on its strings as Tanselle's voice rings out. The dragon lunges. The crowd gasps. Children shriek with delight. Even Lyonel, who has seen a hundred mummers shows in a hundred keeps across the Stormlands, watches with grudging interest. The puppet knight strikes. The dragon rears back, smoke billowing, and collapses in a heap of leather and string. The crowd erupts in cheers and applause.
Tanselle steps out from the stage, bowing low, a grin splitting her olive face. She's tall, as her name suggests, with black hair and dark eyes that sweep the crowd. Her gaze catches on Dunk. She blinks, recognition flickering. You lean slightly toward Dunk, keeping your voice low enough that only he can hear. "She remembers you, Dunk.”
Dunk's ears go red. Whether from the heat or something else, it's hard to tell. He doesn't answer, but his eyes haven't left Tanselle since she stepped out from the stage. Tanselle finishes her bow, accepts a few tossed coins, and says something to one of her troupe. This time, her gaze lands on Dunk and stays there. Her face breaks into a grin, bright and genuine. She weaves through the dispersing crowd, closing the distance. "Ser Duncan," she says, stopping a few feet away. Her voice is warmer than the performance voice, less theatrical. "I thought that was you. You're a long way from Ashford.”
Dunk clears his throat. "Tanselle. You’re— You look well.”
"I am well." She smiles, and there's something easy in it, something unguarded. Her eyes flick to you, then to Lyonel and Egg, assessing. Then back to Dunk. "I heard what happened. After. With the prince.” Her smile fades a little. "I'm sorry.”
You step back, letting Dunk have the space.
Dunk shifts his weight, that familiar awkwardness settling in. "It wasn't your fault," he says. "None of it. You didn't deserve— I'm glad you got out safe."
Tanselle's smile returns, softer now. "I'm glad you got out too. I heard they wanted your head"
"They wanted a lot of things.”
Tanselle glances back at her stage, where the shorter woman is packing up the dragon puppet. "We're performing again at sunset. A different story. You should stay. Watch." Her eyes flick to you and the others, including you in the invitation. "All of you." She holds Dunk's gaze a moment longer, then inclines her head and turns, padding back toward her troupe.
Dunk exhales. He doesn't look at you.
The afternoon slips away.
You watch the sunset performance with the rest of the crowd. Afterward, Dunk approaches Tanselle properly, and you make the introductions.
"Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End." He offers a hand, and Tanselle takes it with a raised brow.
"A Stormlander lord who likes Dornish puppet shows. That's new.”
"I like anything well-made," Lyonel says, grinning.
"And Lady Sandstorm." Tanselle turns to you. "I've heard your name. They say you breed the fastest sand steeds.
"They say a lot of things.”
Tanselle laughs and gestures to her troupe. The shorter woman steps forward.
"This is Maren. My partner. In the troupe. And in life." Maren offers a small smile, her hand finding Tanselle's waist.
Dunk's face flickers. A quiet exhale, a settling of something in his chest. He nods, offers his hand to Maren. "Your show was beautiful. Both of you."
The evening stretches on. You share a bottle of Dornish red with the troupe, listening to Egg ask Maren about the puppet mechanisms until the boy's eyes grow heavy.
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You grab a clay jug of the inn's house red and two cups, sliding onto the bench across from Dunk.
Lyonel has already found a game worth gambling over in the corner, and Egg is dozing by the fire.
You pour. Push a cup toward Dunk. He takes it, wraps his big hands around it, stares. "She's well," he says finally. "Tanselle. Her hand healed. She's got a woman now. One of the puppeteers. They're happy.”
“Disappointed?”
“No.”
You lift your cup. "That's good.”
"It is." He takes a long drink, sets the cup down. "She said she thinks of me sometimes. Wonders if I'm alright. I told her I am."
Somewhere in the corner, Lyonel laughs at something, slapping the table. "She asked about you." Dunk glances up. "Said she saw us ride in together. Asked if you were my lady."
Your throat tightens. “What did you tell her?"
Dunk holds your gaze for a long moment. "I told her you were someone worth looking at."
You're surprised. "Really?"
Dunk's ears redden, but he holds your gaze. "I did. She asked if you were my lady. I told her…" He clears his throat. "I told her that you were more than that.
That you were someone who looked at me like I was worth seeing. She smiled at that. Said she understood."
You lift your cup. "And what did she say to that?"
"She said..." Dunk pauses, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “She said a woman who looks at a man like that isn't looking to let him go. And that I'd be a fool to walk away from it.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you keep your voice light. "She sounds like a clever woman."
"She is." Dunk takes a long drink, then sets the cup down. "And she's right."
The words hang between you, heavy and warm. The common room hums with quiet life. Across the room, Lyonel catches your eye from his game, raises his cup in a small salute, and turns back to his opponents.
"She's not wrong.” You hold his gaze across the table.
Dunk's breath catches. He holds your eyes for a long, heavy moment, and the common room seems to fall away. "You mean that?"
"Yes.”
Dunk looks at you. Something shifts in his expression. Wariness giving way to something softer, more open. He reaches across the table, his hand stopping just short of yours, palm up. An offering. "Then I'd like to know what you mean, whenever you're ready to tell me."
You look down at his hand. Rough, calloused, scarred from a lifetime of work and struggle. He's holding it out to you, waiting. You reach across the table. Your fingers find his and you let your hand rest in his palm.
His eyes drop to where you touch, then rise slowly to meet yours. The common room sounds around you all fade to a distant hum. His hand closes around yours. Gently. Like he's holding something precious. "I don't know what I'm doing,” he admits. "I've never—" He stops. "I've never had someone look at me the way you do. Touch me like this.”
"Then let me show you."
His thumb traces a slow line across your knuckles. Lyonel is absorbed in his l game, giving you this moment without interference or comment.
Dunk's eyes never leave yours. "I'd like that," he says quietly. "To be shown."
The game across the room winds down, coins changing hands. Through it all, Dunk's hand stays wrapped around yours. He talks, quietly, about Tanselle, gratitude in his voice, relief. She's happy. Her hand healed. She found someone who loves her. It's a good ending, the kind that doesn't come often in this world.
"She said something else," Dunk murmurs, eyes on where your fingers interlace. "Before I left. Said she could tell I'd found someone worth staying for."
Your chest tightens. "And what did you say?"
"I said I hoped so." He looks up then, and there's no hesitation in his blue eyes. Just warmth. Just want.
Lyonel rises from his game, stretching with a groan that cracks his spine. He catches your eye, then Dunk's, a knowing grin tugging at his mouth. "I'm for bed. Egg's already dead to the world. Don't stay up too late, you two." He climbs the stairs, boots heavy on the wood. The common room is nearly empty now.
Dunk's thumb traces another slow circle across your skin. You lean in. He meets you halfway. The kiss is soft. Tentative. His lips are warm, and he tastes of wine. He makes a small sound against your mouth. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw. When you break apart, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm on your skin. "I've wanted to do that since I first saw you standing on that table in Storm's End.”
A laugh escapes you. You pull back just enough to see his face. His ears are red, but he's smiling. You rise slowly, hesitantly, your hand slipping from his. "Come find me in the morning. Before we ride out."
He nods, still wearing that smile. "I will."
