#ft. halfgigas.

[lyonelb-a]

CLOSED STARTER. STORM'S END. SER DUNCAN THE TALL / HIS HEDGE KNIGHT VIA @halfgigas.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the smell of wood yet clings to his leathers, soil upon his fingertips, boots scuffed from the forest foor, arms fatigued from guiding the horse when they arrive to summon the lord baratheon. ere the first cock had crowed they rode forth to the hunting grounds, amidst the wildwood, within reach of the mainland ramparts of storm's end, arranged the beaters and hounds, and thus began the patient game of track and pursuit. it kept lyonel and his company, numbering about thirty strong, occupied the day long, and only at eventide they rejourneyed, triumphant, with the spoil of the chase: a boar, struck down with spears and then borne to court upon a horse. a lusty beast, this one, grown and bulked. and yet does the hunt abide, vivid in lyonel's memory, as is the wind sweeping through his hair and the broad-backed steed's stout frame beneath him, and scarce has he crossed the castle threshold when they call for him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀a traitor!, comes a terse account, exultant at the capture of this supposed turncoat, boastful of the quarry, but lyonel cares naught, for traitors are abound, and he might bid them all beheaded or put to the sword or otherwise ended, in due order, and rid the stormlands of treachery once and for all, or he might be scrubbing the grime and dirt from his body and then taking seat by the hearth, and gorging upon roasted boar and quaffing bitter, golden ale. more than any henious wrongdoer, the banquet beckons the lord baratheon. but duty binds him, and brooks little delay, and lyonel bends to its call. and thus, to the high hall he now wends his way, along the vaulted corridors, torchlight leaping across the stone, with a host of men circling about as though the king daeron himself stands in wait for him, as he is tugging off the leather gloves with his teeth and wiping the sweat-damp curls from his brow with the back of his hand. " it best be worth my time, cunts. " he is muttering, sourly, for few such matters might trouble a lord even in tempestuous times, and fewer still that might provoke such a stir and set tongues wagging.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀storm's end's throne room is a vast hall, with vaulted ceilings soaring aloft and walls of sombre, inimicitious gray adorned with sconces and tapestries of the baratheon sigil, and arches that meet the ceiling in ribs. at the far end the lord's throne stands, upon a dais of heavy stone, broad and austere. but 'tis the sight set squarely in the midst of the hall that draws the lord baratheon's eye⸻a man broad of shoulder and thick of limb knelt upon the stone floor, forced there, no doubt, for his hands sit shackled in iron behind his back and around him, armed guards stand firm, swords drawn, as though a single man, though of mighty frame, might best a host of steel-clad knights. but this man of might is neither stranger, nor traitor, nor miscreant that ought sit in irons.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀a sorrier sight than on the former occasion, this hedge knight is. many a moon has passed since ashford's revelries drew to a dreary close, as did the ember of warmth that had begun to kindle betwixt the two men; refusal it was, that marked their bitter parting, and then forth the hedge knight set, on horseback, with a puny stripling of a lad in his escort. and thenceforth saw lyonel him no more. and here he kneels, againward, seized and delivered unto his second trial; for the heir slain, no less (and for the dagger sticking out of lyonel's back). and albeit mournful is the sight that lay before him, and albeit joyful is the heart upon his hedge knight's return, a foul contentment stirs low within the leather-clad chest, for ill is best requited with ill, and there is little else that could mend a heart jilted. withal, a simper breaks across the lord paramount's face and a hearty cackle springs forth. " chained again, are you, hedge knight ? " he approaches to the clacking of heeled boots upon cold flagstones. " i would have preferred to welcome you a free man, you know. "

[lyonelb-a]

@halfgigas, closed starter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀one son had the dragons devoured, swallowed not by cinder and ash but the wettest of tombs and traded away for a scaled fledgling unworthy of the breath of a sun-born child. crowned in levin's glorious flame and borne away upon the howling wind, this boy of gold, atop the storm-scoured precipice where lyonel's blood had long been crowned thus and laid to rest beneath the heavens' choler. in the taloned hands of dragons did he find his end, and 'tis in the cavern of such scaled fiends wherein the second-born boy may likewise soon be lost.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀twofold travestied and twofold forsaken, lyonel stands before the travester and the forsaker and clamps his hand upon the man's jaw to hale him nearer and holds it fierce as a bear trap around a boot. and fierce as the tempest within is the tempest without, for the verdant soils of the stormlands have endured unrelenting downpour now for three sennights unbroken, with the heavens raging and levin tearing through earth and tree and tower alike, as hammer-blows of gods descending upon mortal sin. and no gentler has been the bloodletting, laving field and burg alike with crimson and unburied dead, and more yet shall crimson flow and more yet shall perish in the name of the golden-eyed boy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" what gall. " marvels the older man in the bitterest disdain, through the bitterest of smiles. " what fucking reason could you possibly have to show your face? " had come on the most wrathful of eventides, the throne's faithful hound had, as a visitor most disagreeable, for the last lyonel knew of him, he'd purposed to bear off the stripling heir to storm's end and deliver him unto the snapping jaw of his treasured beasts. he cocks his head which bears no diadem of branching antlers, but a humbler circlet of gold, shaped unto a stag's head, draped in layered chains and crowned with lesser ones. " you've come for my son, haven't you? " had forgotten and forsaken lyonel and four fawns of sable hair and one of duncan's own amber the hour he donned the kingsguard's white helm, the erst a hedge knight and now a turncloak had, and forsworn the mantle of fatherhood and slain the hedge knight of lyonel's heart's keeping. thus no son of ser duncan's the lordling is, but lyonel's alone. " you'll have to butcher me, then. "

[lyonelb-a]

VIA THE SYSTEM OF TOUCH. DANCE. DUNCAN DOE PENNYTREE (BARATHEON) VIA @halfgigas.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀duncan cuts a fine figure in a suit, lyonel had determined ⸻ aggravatingly so. and fine he had looked throughout the wedding, through the words of the ceremony and the banquet and the toasts and the dancing, and then amidst lyonel's family, a slender glass of gold poised in his hand, hair of ember past his ears and combed back, shifting beams of violet and tangerine playing over his freckled face. the groom, the youngest of lyonel's brothers and his bride were granted but a meager share of the man's regard, for the amber sight was claimed entirely, and openly and brazenly by his lover; so boldly had he held his stare that his cousin, a niece of his mother's, did jab an elbow at his ribs and, biting back laughter, besought lyonel to show some measure of decency. and he might have laid the blame upon alcohol, had he not chosen to abstain.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and now he stares anew, cheek resting upon a clenched fist, seated at one of the small, round tables, beholding duncan amid the wedding guests upon the dance floor with their daughter cradled against his breast, her small fingers clasped within his large palm and swaying in a gentle dance, as though she were a woman grown; and lyonel reckons that in time she shall be so, and that duncan shall dance with her thus at her own wedding.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and when the song runs its course and they return to lyonel's side at the table, he watches as rosalie nestles her head upon duncan's shoulder, tucks her face into the crook of his neck, for the melody has dwindled and the children have grown weary and a handful of guests have already departed, lyonel had marked. " been holding up quite well, hasn't she? " he leans back in his seat, gaze sweeping over the ebbing revels as he rubs his chin. " gowen already left with his kids, so, reckon we should go, too. " at his daughter he looks then. " what do you think, love? " and from the hollow of duncan's shoulder issues a muffled sound, drowsy and sullen: ' nuh-uh! ' a subtle nod of his head then, a wordless of course, before lyonel rises from his chair with a grunt, plucks his phone from the table and slips it into his pocket. " m'gonna have a fag and get us a taxi back to mum's. " and, heading past duncan, touches a palm to his cheek.

[lyonelb-a]

COLLEGE/UNIVERSITY-BASED DIALOGUE. " YOU WANNA SIT TOGETHER, OR IS THAT WEIRD? " DUNCAN DOE PENNYTREE VIA @halfgigas.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the hour has waxed late and dusk must surely have extended across the sky, had the hall possessed windows to discern it, as lyonel finds himself idly observing a troupe of undergraduates stumble through rehearsal of a midsummer night's dream. they had progressed beyond the need of lyonel's broader guidance, and his labour now lay in its trifles and details, rather than its whole; and thus he has retired to a seat among the rear rows, in lieu of the front from whence he might command them more comfortably. slumped in his seat, cheek propped upon clenched knuckles he watches on, doubtful whether the company remains aware of his muted presence, for he has offered neither note nor interruption for nigh half an hour; though he deems it best left thus ⸻ he prefers them candid, unburdened by a professor's grave inspection. the lesson lies in missteps, not in the desperate evasion thereof. and perhaps he might be more disposed to shift closer to the front, had he not clashed with emma in the hours of today's morning, scant minutes before lyonel was to leave for the campus. though brief, this heated strife, fiery and shrill, yet rings within his mind. he supposes he takes solace in the hush of solitude.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the torrents of light shot forth toward the expanse of the stage scarcely touch the furthermost rows and lyonel discerns the approaching figure only as it stands beside him, tall and ungainly, and amid the stage's din rising behind him, asks to sit beside lyonel. the second term has only begun to stir, but lyonel knows the students sufficiently enough ⸻ a timid sort, this boy, albeit with a latent talent that lyonel could scarce convey, were he to even strive to explain. he glances upward from atop his fist, hums a " sure. " and watches the boy sink down beside him. the velvet seat scarcely contains him, broad thighs straining against its bounds, and lyonel frowns against the thought and promptly directs his sight back toward the stage.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀in quiet observance they remain, amber eye dancing across the fledgling thespians scattered over the boards until lyonel brings a hand upward to gaze at his wristwatch, palm clasped about a roll of manuscripts, and it reads precisely seven fourty-five. head turns to look at duncan, then. duncan doe pennytree. a timid sort indeed, proficient, yet fearful of a crowd. lyonel had begun to contemplate the notion of offering the boy personal tutelage in the intervals of their free time, though he reckons it too soon to discern whether such solitary lessons would avail him or turn to his disservice. " what's keeping you here so late? " a brow arches. " lecture hours are over.

[lyonelb-a]

MEDIEVAL TOURNAMENT SENTENCES. " YOU ARE HURT. AT LEAST LET ME TEND TO YOUR WOUND. " SER DUNCAN THE TALL VIA @halfgigas.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the woolen hose on the inward side of lyonel's thigh is sodden, darkened to a bruised sangria as the cloth clings to marred flesh as though stitched to sinew and skin with seeping blood. a wet sound emits whenever the fabric (or the soft flesh) shifts, and the crimson blot has stilled in size but the pooling red beneath still swells and presses to ooze through the wool, stark as a shadow against the milk-white linen⸻all this carnage, wrought by naught but a single blade. perhaps such is the cost of victory. lyonel had slipped the point of his sword past a knight's visor and drawn a shriek of terror and a hasty surrender, and he had not felt heat nor sting until the squires had peeled away his armor, and their hands were stained red. nor could he recall a sword ever striking the soft inside of his thigh. in any case, he had urged the squires aside and dragged his encrimsoned leg to the pavilion of the maesters with a boy, tall as the tower at storm's end, close upon his heels; were the circumstances otherwise, dunk's hovering, unquiet presence would prove most agreeable⸻beyond agreeable, even, were he able to gather the flesh and stitch it whole.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the pavilion lay empty upon their arrival, but lyonel prefers it so, for the burn of the wound pricks at his patience and further company might well compel the lord baratheon to draw his sword anew. in that same instant, two cross into the pavilion, but scarce past the threshold they are when a hand raises and bids them gone in a curt gesture, fingertips stained crimson. " out. " lyonel says, and cautiously comes a troubled objection, perplexed and uneasy: ser, you're⸻" out, cunts ! " thunderous and cutting this time, nigh a bark, and the amber eye sears their disquiet until they dare not linger much longer. a lightweight wooden frame with a thin canvas stretched atop lay in the heart of the pavilion and with it for brace, lyonel loosens the laces at his waist with unsteady fingers and, unhurriedly, peels the blood-matted hose from thigh to ankle and in doing so, he senses a flame mounting his cheeks, as though fevered. little is left to the eye beneath it but red, red, red. it ceases not to amaze him, the torrent of blood a man may shed, and yet defy the stranger himself.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you are hurt. breath scarce and curls clinging in damp strands to his skin, lyonel wets his lips, manages a grin without averting his eyes from the ruin of his flesh. " 'tis but a scratch, hedge knight. " at least let me tend to your wound, he presses, and lyonel gestures to the side, where a bronze cauldron rests upon a low brazier, surface simmering and smoke curling skyward, and beside it lay strips of linen cloth. many a time has lyonel beheld the maesters at their tending, with pads and spatulas and ladles; and many a time has the boiling wine scorched his flesh and set his blood aflame as the wine-drenched linen was set to his wound, hissing, nigh bubbling, and as oft as ever he would pray for the slice of a sword a thousandfold over the searing fires from the pits of the seven hells themselves. " do so, then. " a strained mutter, a clipped nod towards the cauldron, and a grunt pushes past his lips as he heaves himself atop the canvas.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀he blinks through the hammering of his pulse between his ears, thighs parted, a blood-slick hand holding the flesh taut. a hasty glance about for a bottle to wet his parched throat, a chalice, but there is none to be had, for the maesters have scant cause for such comforts while tending the wounded in the lists, and a vexed groan tears from the lord baratheon's throat. to dunk he looks then. yet again, a squire. " hold it there firm, eh, boy ? " a winded exhalation, lids heavy and lungs spent of breath, weary gaze fixed upon his young maester-of-haste. " or i'll pour the whole lot of it down your pretty throat. "

[lyonelb]

@halfgigas, " i've killed before. "

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀lyonel'd glimpsed him at the bouts before, difficult as he is to overlook, tall as an utility pole with a mane of fiery hair and enough arm on him for five men, and slick as oil with sweat and blood. there's a savage exhilaration in it, a brutal sort of rapture to the breaking of bones and the spilling of blood, to the young men lyonel wagers on as racehorses brought to the brink of death or beyond it. he comes for the delirium of it, then, with the drink and the cocaine additional inducements besides.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀lyonel had beckoned him over as a purchaser at an auction come to inspect the horse before the sale, though he coveted not so much the fighter but the boy beneath and the company, however sparse a boxer's stock of words and wits may be, he might provide. he'd waded through blood tonight, his and the other lad's, a young man of duncan's proportions with hair shorn down to the scalp and fists clad in blood-red grappling gloves, and came forth the victor. and once the night was spent and the last of stragglers had bled out of the derelict warehouse resurrected as a fighting pit and word had trickled through the locker rooms that lyonel, the lyonel baratheon, had sent for him, he came.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀his third cigarette lyonel is tapping into the ashtray, lolled back in his chair a half-hour later, the redhead beautifully battered sat beside him at a round table near the cage, recounting to him the night's carnage. " you almost killed him. " i've killed before, he confesses promptly, too boyish for such butchery, and lyonel smiles a cloying thing. he'd lap cocaine from lyonel's cupped palm as a dog at a water bowl, should he so much as ask. " i bet. " he says, sucks in another lungful of smoke and reaches forth to paw at the meat of the boy's upper arm. " gotta be easy for you, huh? you're a big guy. "

[lyonelb]

@halfgigas, " it hurts to miss you. but it’s worse to know that i’m the reason. "

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀rotten drunk he'd been when duncan came to him, reeking of lager and bent beneath its weight and ill with anguish. and on the sofa they'd sat as they had so often before and exasperated had the boy been with his drinking and his neglect and had spoken of rosalie, too, and how eagerly she'd awaited seeing daddy and of her lingering unease with travelling by plane and that with rafe he'd left her, the poor thing, when she ought to be here with two fathers sober and stable. and rubbing his face and murmurring sorry after sorry was lyonel 'til the word lost its weight. hadn't reached for the bottle in years, lyonel had, 'til the dark tides of grief near closed over his head the week before and he drove himself out of london and to the house, and sat beneath the porch light with a cigarette burning and whiskey scorching his gut, and let jonathan's anxious messages go unread.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it hurts to miss you, duncan says, sullen and bruised. but it's worse to know that i'm the reason. and lyonel laughs a hollow sound, rubs futilely at his eyes to lift the haze of drink. " it's fine, doesn't even work, the drinkin', doesn't ⸻ " but slips through his grasp the thread of thought and he looks at the boy, freckled face swimming before him. " d'you remember when you told me you were pregnant? i was a right fuckin' prick, wasn't i? i said horrible things. i was ⸻ i said we have no future. i made you cry. you were cryin' when we had sex on your sofa. " and a palm cradles the side of the boy's face and into the hollow of his warm throat and in a rain of wet, unruly kisses lyonel mumbles. " m'sorry, duncan. m'sorry. " buckling beneath the guilt he'd been, drinking and reminiscing and grieving, thinking back to the night he near drove the sweet boy back to ireland, awful young and bearing their daughter. " you were so beautiful, duncan, you ⸻ you were so lovely that night. " though bleeding together at the edges the nights are and beautiful duncan'd been in every one of them. and to the clean edge of his jaw the older man then confesses, a hand curling along the curve of a broad thigh, " i still wait, y'know, that maybe you'll come back. the house is so empty without you, but, fuck, i can't fuckin' sell it. i can't. it's still our home, it's ⸻ " and kisses him, aching and urgent.

[lyonelb]

@halfgigas, " i never considered myself tough. "

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀two moons have waxed and waned since the levin fell and struck, two moons since its fire made ash and blackened bone of lyonel's eldest boy, and two moons since the storm swept his ashes across the sea and sky. so ended the son of tempests, with skyfire for his pyre and shipbreaker's bay his sepulchre, born beneath a blistering sandstorm scourging the dunes of the south and reared amid salt and sea, from the waters of the womb unto the waters of death; thus spoke the maester monfryd in parting from the fallen, but lyonel recalls naught save the terrible din of wind, ringing hollowly through his hearing 'til it drew itself into a thin-boned, tormented strand, one taut string of a lute stretched ceaselessly and trembling through his skull. the wind, and his son's flesh melting from his face, sliding slick and sagging from his bones.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀at times, 'tis brienne's face that melts, too; the ruddy flesh of plump cheeks puckering and curling like scorched parchment and the sea-blue eyes running as water from the two hollows of her little skull. revellent these visions be and lyonel stands as beset by ghosts, throttled by grief and wrath alike, scarce a man now but a storm seething and slaughtering. recalls not monfryd's words, nor the precise day nor hour wherein the war was kindled but undying and bloody it now gnaws at the realm's bones, raging and howling. but rages and howls duncan not, but unmoving he stands as though wrought of the very steel that girds him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" tough as iron, are you? " lyonel says from astride his mount as they'd met him, lyonel's retinue and the kingsguard's own beneath a rain-swollen sky. i never considered myself tough. " i never considered you a dragon. " he makes a face as eyes of honeyed amber settle upon the man within whose palms his brittle, blackened heart sits and where laughter was once wont to flicker. " no men, but honourless dogs, the cunts in their white gowns. " he declares, cocks his head and looks upon the plates of white steel that encase this ser duncan. " it fits you well. "