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The rumors are not verified.
The Lord and Lady Baratheon will not admit to it publicly. After all, no one’s ever tried. But once or twice, when some poor lordling’s son or daughter has gotten close enough to a betrothal, Lyonel’s told them plainly, without secrecy or humility—a bond won’t be possible.
You see, he’d felt the flood of blood and lymph and emotion that day. It had been before his presentation, when it shouldn’t have been possible to set a bond. He’d bitten that boy and he’d meant it, wanted nothing more than to keep him; forget and forbid the mention of his common blood.
They’d spent months together. The boy was a squire to a no-name no-land knight, some old man just a bit better off than a homeless mule.
They were the two of them stuck in the Dornish Marches, along with hundreds of knights and men at arms. Lyonel was squiring for his uncle, a boy just a few years his senior. Every day was hotter and dustier than the last and when they came upon a poorly trickle of a creek, Lyonel had off with all of his clothes and dove in. The lad followed.
It wasn’t the lad’s fault he hadn’t seen Lyonel downstream, but Lyonel made it his problem.
“Hey! Don’t you know you’re using all the cold water?”
The lad jumped five feet in the air. He screeched, “What?!”
“Don’t tell me what!”
He’d made to toss the boy in the water, but the boy was larger; he was stronger; he wasn’t spitting and out of his mind with resentment the way little Lyonel had been. He was nothing but a font of strength and tranquility wrapped in the skin of a ten year old boy, standing on the legs of a foal, but trained up from birth to scrabble for his life’s worth.
The two of them went plunging into the water and though it was not more than a foot at its deepest point, it seemed almost sure to Lyonel that he’d drown under the weight of this mystery boy.
“Ey, now! Are you done?” the boy asked, his knees on Lyonel’s chest and his hand at Lyonel’s throat, and Lyonel, feeling like a bagged cat, nodded reluctantly. Coming out of the water and into the hands of the boy, Lyonel stared into his enormous eyes.
Blue. Bright blue, not like a sky but like panes of stained glass before a sunrise, glowing with brilliance.
Lyonel calmed—an eerie, soul-settling calm. He’d later seek that same calm at the bottom of bottles and atop horses, behind lance and sword. He’d tussle with men and women both; he’d lie with them, and then he’d come away from them just as furious and confused as he’d always been.
That season of his life was spent chasing Dunk. He wasn’t old enough to grab for him with anything more than a friend’s desire, but he grabbed for him nonetheless. Dunk worked hard. Dunk was quiet unless he wanted not to be. He loved animals. He was taller and stronger than Lyonel, though he was perhaps a year or two younger.
He could dance, and he could fight, and he could laugh when Lyonel felt like raging, or like crying. Lyonel wasn’t an alpha yet; he and the boy weren’t anything but boys and no one cared to tell them what to do or where to be beyond their squires’ duties.
Lyonel protected him from the scornful glances of Lyonel’s extended family, who knew that Lyonel shouldn’t be cavorting with common boys, no matter who they were squiring for. Dunk’s blood only mattered to Lyonel in that it flowed through Dunk, and so it gave them both life.
Dunk didn’t know how to treat a lord’s son, and so he never treated Lyonel like a lord’s son. Dunk only knew him as Lyonel, the mad boy who’d become his friend.
Dunk stood with him in shallow water and caught fish. Dunk climbed trees. Dunk didn’t wear shoes, because it was summer time, and he didn’t want to wear out his boots before the winter. Dunk smelled like copper and autumn leaves, rich with humanity.
Dunk’s master took a wound in service to their cause, and for a brilliant moment Lyonel dreamed of his death.
Lyonel could tell Dunk was afraid, and so he assured him: should the old man expire, Lyonel would take Dunk to Storm’s End. Lyonel would force his father to foster Dunk. Lyonel knew Dunk as a packmate, and they shouldn’t be separated.
“Pack can be separated,” Dunk said, “You’re thinking of bonded pairs.”
Only Dunk could tell him he was wrong.
Alas, the grizzled old knight was stubborn. He lived, just as Dunk insisted he would. Though Dunk worried over little things, the strength of his Ser was a truth he banked upon, a truth as sturdy and enduring as steel.
Dunk was grounded upon such truths: His Ser, Knighthood, Chivalry. In him Lyonel found serenity, honesty, love.
At a time in his life when Lyonel knew naught but rage and aching loneliness, Dunk gave him peace.
Then, a terrible fate befell him: their forces won their cause. It was perhaps the worst news of his young life that they’d have to pack up camp and march home.
Lyonel found Dunk at his duties.
“Please, convince your Ser to come east to Storms End. My Lord Father will take him into service and you can live at the castle, with me,” he said to Dunk—or something near like it. He was descending into a pit of misery, angry, his teeth sharp with the need to defend from the rending of his pack.
“We’re bound for the Reach, not for the shore,” Dunk told him sadly. “We’re not for castles, my Ser says.”
Lyonel groused, “Your master needn’t be for castles; it’s you I want.”
“No one but my Ser will keep me, Lyonel. I’m just a flea from the bottom of the world,” Dunk said slowly, in that sad lilt of his, as if Lyonel wouldn’t believe him.
Lyonel didn’t.
“You’re not nothing,” Lyonel growled, “and I’ll prove it!”
So he took the boy by the shoulders—his packmate, his best friend—and bit him, savagely.
His jaws were strong. He’d present within the year, but he didn’t know. He knew only that he wouldn’t be parted from Dunk, his sweet friend, his peace in the maelstrom of rage he felt endlessly.
Dunk didn’t scream. He gasped with surprise when Lyonel’s jaws closed around the side of his neck, ripping through flesh intently into the immature mating gland just beneath.
Lyonel felt it. The language wasn’t one he needed to learn in order to speak: Dunk’s feelings and sensations were plain as day.
Plain, uncompromising justice.
A swollen storm of love.
Overwhelming, agonizing fear.
Dunk’s arms closed around him, but didn’t resist, and Lyonel was sure to bite firm and deep. He’d make a bond, nevermind that they’re too young. Bonded pairs couldn’t be torn asunder, and Dunk wouldn’t be taken from him.
An indignant cry came from over his shoulder, and adult hands ripped them apart. Lyonel felt the rip of Dunk’s flesh as his teeth were torn from his mate.
“Lyonel,” his uncle cried, moaning with pity and with anger, “What have you done?”
Blood dripped from his mouth and his fingers as he tried to wipe his face. Dunk moaned with pain and with fear, and Lyonel felt it, clearly discernible from his own.
“Dunk!” he cried, but his uncle was accompanied by several Baratheon men who’d been sent to look for him.
“What have you done?!” his uncle repeated, as they carried him readily away, “Are you mad?”
“Please!” he remembers crying, but other than that, only the tumult of raised voices, indignant roaring on the part of his uncle, his cousins, and later, his parents.
His moans for Dunk went unanswered.
“They’ve gone, Lyonel,” his uncle said to him, as he lay insensate with the rejection sickness of an incomplete bond. He said, “Your father would’ve had the poor boy killed! What a fool you’ve been.”
The maester tended to him. He tried his best to reverse the bond—letting his blood with knives and leeches, lighting a roaring fire and bundling him up to sweat it out. None of it worked, but his parents convinced themselves it was just a matter of time. A bond between two children wouldn’t hold. Lyonel was too young, they said, the boy just a pup as well; none of it would hold.
The only one who knew the truth of it was Lyonel, who felt that same lingering sense of fear, of pride, of love—the pattern of the boy’s mind, stamped indelibly upon his.
Lyonel swam through rejection sickness. It took him fiercely for the months following his bond, and he was abed for the better of it.
His parents insisted that when those initial waves were through, that would be the end of it—the bond would be absorbed by his body, gone completely.
But it never did leave. The feverish sickness fell to a dull and ever-present ache. It was a toothsome, gnawing thing. Worse than the ache, though, was the denial; maester and family alike refused the reality that he was half-bonded to a common squire of a nameless knight, dismissing his bite as an act of childish rebellion.
The sickness meant that once he presented, his first rut was hot and raging. After, his hackles were perpetually at the edge of raising. Like a warhorse, he wanted to gnash and kick at the slightest touch.
He could only concentrate when exhausted, and so fighting became his favorite pastime. He beat his cousins and friends, packmates or no. Without a sparring partner, he ran wildly in all directions of the wood, trying to soothe the perpetual tug just under his breastbone.
So, upon his knighthood, he chased tournaments. He seemed to choose spontaneously, and would never admit for the shame of it that he was simply following the pull he felt in his chest, the cry of an unfinished bond.
He was a wealthy, handsome and strong young man and it helped that he kept winning—his hand was sought by every nobleman and woman with an eligible child.
It was a circle of a dance. Someone would entreat with a possible suit, and his parents would assent, and he’d meet his intended and he’d tell them, plainly and immovably: it won’t work. Don’t bother. I belong to another, and though I may never see him again, I’ll never bite you, either.
“What are you looking for?” his brothers would ask, and he’d bray with cynical laughter, knowing that if told the truth he’d be laughed down in turn. He knew within that he was looking for someone who might be dead, or imprisoned, or married to some innocent peasant, fallen from their prospects as so many had.
The thought turned him to his cups, or to his sword, and he tried not to think about blue eyes like panes of stained glass as he bludgeoned himself repeatedly with drinking or fighting or fucking.
Old enough to reflect upon it, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the bite. His parents told him he would settle once he was mated, but with every lecture, the same thought came roaring to the fore: I am mated already.
Not only was Dunk the soft home that would soothe his tormented mind—Lyonel had seen into Dunk’s being, and Dunk, underneath his convictions and his love, was a creature of perpetual fear. He needed Lyonel, too. He needed Lyonel to be strong for him.
So if it were possible, Lyonel knew he’d have him back. They were meant to be joined, he thought; that’s why the bond took—Dunk was the only fit, the only one.
Arriving at Ashford, he’s strangely serene—enough that his brother is asking,
“And what could have you in such a gay disposition?”
“The merriments will be lush,” Lyonel rationalizes. “There’s a cup of wine for every hand, birds for every table.”
His cousin adds, “Perhaps the promise of lance and sword is tempering his blood already.”
“Perhaps,” Lyonel agrees, uncommonly amiable.
That night, he calls a tall man to the high table.
He doesn’t expect him to be anything but some hired blade, green enough to be shit at slinking about. He might not even kill the man; it’s sad enough to see him skulking so aimlessly.
Then, as he approaches, Lyonel stares unblinking at blue eyes, like panes of stained glass.
He rises in his seat; his companions at the high table fall silent.
Lyonel waits for the words to come, but not a one does. He stares instead at the pastry in the over-large hand of the man who is most assuredly his bonded mate.
He stands on his chair, then swings one foot onto the table, then the other, stepping around plates and chalices.
“By the crone’s blessed cunt,” he says, towering over Dunk, now. “It’s you.”
The same nose, the same face, all grown into a man the height of a horse, broad and lean and smelling like copper and the sweetness of autumn leaves. And there, along the column of Dunk’s long, muscled neck, is the red and pink imprint of Lyonel’s own bite.
Lyonel’s heart seizes. He stares at the bite, feeling his soul sway inside of him like a tall tree in a swirling storm.
The boy—the man—blinks up at him. He takes a breath, says, “Aye.”
Lyonel steps down. He’s mere inches from Dunk’s face.
He reaches out, to touch the bite. Dunk simply closes his eyes, trustingly leans his head on to Lyonel’s hand.
“I missed you,” Lyonel says simply. He realizes that the tent has gone quiet, despite the swell of the crowd. Still, he’s spoken quiet enough that he’s not sure Dunk can hear.
But Dunk can feel him. Lyonel is sure that he can. His eyes open, and stare directly at him.
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” Dunk says.
Lyonel chokes through a bitter laugh.
“How could I forget?” he asks, a pitiful sigh. His thumb strokes Dunk’s cheek, a grown man’s cheek.
“I hoped,” Dunk says, “hoped you’d remember.”
“You feel it?” Lyonel asks, “The ache? The pull?”
Dunk nods, and Lyonel feels wetness in his eyes, the relief of letting loose the storm inside of him as it seeks its mate.
“Why do you think I’m here?” Dunk asks.
Lyonel nods to the morsel Dunk is cradling in his enormous fist. He suggests, “Supper?”
Dunk smiles, and Lyonel feels it. It’s weak, just the suggestion of what it should be.
“Bite me,” Lyonel says, simply.
Dunk stares into his unshifting eyes. He drops the pastry.
His jammy thumb is in Lyonel’s beard, his other hand on Lyonel’s waist as he dives for the exposed column of Lyonel’s neck.
Dunk’s mature omega teeth carve quickly, neatly into the flesh of his neck.
Lyonel’s knees buckle. He shouts, high and quick. It feels so divine, so unfailingly perfect, the docking of an aimless ship, the light of a distant shore coming suddenly into view. He groans helplessly, a long open wound closed firmly around the teeth of his promised mate.
Because, of course, Dunk is an omega. Lyonel would’ve claimed Dunk in any form, but it is only fitting that Dunk, towering above all, would possess the nature of the mother herself.
He hears the shouts and shuffles of a dozen men, all drawing their weapons at once.
“Don’t!” Lyonel shouts, flailing a desperate arm to bid obedience. He cries, limply, “He’s mine. Don’t.”
He wraps an arm around Dunk, shivering through the pulses of satisfaction given him. The bond, long awaited, relaxes into place. Dunk’s pride, his peace, his penance, it all settles around the periphery of Lyonel’s mind—once a pitiful cry, it’s now a choir, graceful and harmonized.
“I’ve got you,” Lyonel says.
Dunk’s mouth is still clamped to his neck. Warmth floods him as Dunk’s satisfaction becomes obvious, and a tension finds his groin, his entire abdomen.
“Come to my tent,” Lyonel says. Dunk nods. His teeth, wet and sharp, separate from Lyonel’s neck.
In the back of his mind, Lyonel registers the open-mouthed stares of his family and companions as he drags his mate beyond the great pavilion and toward his own quarters. He’s of a single mind: secret away his mate, his beloved, the soul taken from him when he most needed him.
The tent’s curtains close behind them and Lyonel should light candles, should offer Dunk something to drink, should tell the men guarding the camp where he’s gone, but he knows nothing but a raw, fiery need.
He turns on Dunk, who stares at him with soft eyes, an open mouth.
“How did you survive it?” Lyonel asks, reaching again for the scar of his bite.
“Just—kept on,” Dunk says. He huffs a laugh, looking at Lyonel with a dazed contentment. “The old man said—your father would kill us both.”
“He won’t, now,” Lyonel says, nevermind what Lord Baratheon would’ve done. “You’d best be intent on living. I’ll not let you go.”
“Don’t,” Dunk says, shaking his great head, “Please.”
Lyonel takes his head in both hands and drags him forth for a claiming kiss. His own blood is in Dunk’s mouth, rich and metallic, his lips smooth with wetness.
His mouth is still, like he hasn’t had a kiss in his life, and isn’t that a thought?
“Have you had anyone?” he asks against the warmth of Dunk’s mouth.
“No,” Dunk chokes, “Hurts.”
His heart aches for his mate, who lived with the same hurt he did, without the comfort of another person’s body. Still, the selfish beast of his heart surges with greed, satisfied that no one has touched him like Lyonel will.
“Again?” Dunk asks, and Lyonel happily pulls him forth, taking greedily from a slack mouth that trembles beneath him. Within moments, his mate learns how to move.
“That’s it,” he sighs.
So Lyonel coaxes his mate to the bed he takes with him to tourney, the bed that will be theirs, because he’ll go nowhere without him, now that they’ve found one another.
“M’sorry,” his mate says. His body shakes with arousal, his nerves brightening with every one of Lyonel’s touches. “I don’t know how to do anything.”
“That’s perfect,” Lyonel dismisses. “You’re perfect, you know?”
He lays his mate out upon the bedding, one beautiful length of muscle and skin. Lyonel watches him pant, the great plane of his chest rising and falling, as he rids him of his scrappy boots.
The belt is offensive. For years he searched for this man, and he’s been wearing a belt of rope.
“The longsword,” Lyonel gestures. “The old man?”
“Passed,” Dunk says, “Days ago.”
“Regrettable,” Lyonel concedes. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve no one else to keep me,” Dunk says, nodding. “And nothing to keep me from you.”
Lyonel falls upon him.
He’s never felt wetness like what he feels underneath Dunk’s clothes. It’s spread up around the handful of his cock, soaked the hair that coats his sex.
Lyonel groans with a gravelly depth when he touches it, and eagerly pulls at Dunk’s breeches so that he might see and feel.
“For me?” he asks with incredulity. Dunk nods frantically, despite the absurdity. His poor darling, without a touch, without a mate, for so long.
“I’ve got you,” Lyonel says, holding his body close, laying himself along his naked mate. He touches the slickness of his cunt, just the pads of his fingers along the broad lip of it before the rest of his fingers seek the silken insides.
Dunk whimpers, his huge hands shaking and then clenching the bedclothes.
Lyonel kisses him as he slides two fingers inside, the heel of his palm massaging his prick. He presses up, holding his love tight between his thumb and fingers.
Dunk cries out suddenly, his whole enormous body seizing. Lyonel feels the insides of him jerk with sudden spasms, Dunk clenching around his fingers like a vise.
“My darling,” he whispers, staring at the subtle shine of his mouth, his eyes in the darkness.
“Lyonel?” Dunk asks, and Lyonel surges forth to kiss him again, a gesture of comfort and of admiration, awe.
“Can I..?” his lover entreats him, reaching for Lyonel’s own breeches.
“I won’t last a moment,” Lyonel warns, but Dunk rids him of his clothes anyhow, and stares open mouthed at the reaches of his skin that are exposed.
As he promised, Lyonel’s orgasm is the work of a moment. He gratefully collapses upon his mate, who he pulls to his side to lie next to him.
“You’re happy,” he pronounces, and watches Dunk smile, a delightfully crooked thing that tugs at his sore heart.
“Yes,” Dunk agrees, “and you’re smug.”
Lyonel laughs with the fullness of his chest, and it feels like the first lungful of air he’s been able to take in ten years.
“Be sure to inure yourself to that,” Lyonel says. “I’m mated to the tallest man in the seven kingdoms, and I’ve made him come in seven seconds.”
Dunk laughs, and what must be more smugness blooms in Lyonel—a whirl of pride, and love, and peace. Lyonel pushes aside his hair, taking in the whole of his handsome face.
“I thought I’d never find you,” Lyonel says, soft as a whisper in the stillness of the night. “Like I must have dreamt you, for all the hope I had.”
“At least I had the scar to prove that you were real,” Dunk says, the lilting voice that Lyonel had nearly forgotten such a comfort that Lyonel could weep. Lyonel touches the scar of his bite on his mate’s skin, and though it’s long healed, it’s warm with life.
“I hope you felt it,” Lyonel says, unthinkingly. The words slip from him as easily as blood from a wound. “I hope you felt that I loved you.”
“Yes,” Dunk nods. “I knew.”