Chapter Text
The Trial of Seven hung over him like a blade suspended by a single thread. Dunk counted everything. Each minute as it slipped by. Each breath as it left his lungs, shallow and unsteady. Each heavy beat of his heart, pounding so loudly beneath his ribs. He feared the others might hear it through steel and mail. This field would either grant him his freedom...or his execution. His blood soaking into the mud. His bones left to bleach beneath indifferent skies. A hedge knight’s end, watched by lords and smallfolk alike. Despite the men who stepped forward for him. Despite the unlikely champions, Egg and the others had gathered. Despite Lyonel’s presence, solid and defiant as a storm wall at his side. It was all too much. Egg had kept him grounded as best he could, the boy’s voice sharp with insistence and stubborn loyalty. But even Egg’s fierce faith could not quiet the cold twisting in Dunk’s gut. It sat there like a stone, heavy and immovable.
As the others began to gather, Dunk opened his mouth. He meant to say something. Anything. A vow. A reassurance. A jest to ease the tension. Nothing came. His throat tightened painfully, closing around words that would not form.
“Ser Duncan...”
Egg lowered the axe he had been idly swinging beside Lyonel’s shield. The scrape of metal against wood seemed to echo louder than it should. He stepped closer, eyes searching Dunk’s face with open concern.
“Are you all right?”
Dunk blinked at him. The boy looked so certain. So ready.
“I-...I’m fine,” Dunk hesitated, “Really..”
The words came out strained, thinner than he intended. He could feel the lie in them. From the edge of the group, the Mad Knight, Ser Robyn Rhysling, tilted his head, studying Dunk with unsettling sharpness, “You need a moment, boy?”
There was no mockery in the question. Only quiet understanding. That almost undid him more. All of them were looking at him now. Even Lyonel. Dunk felt suddenly too large inside his own skin, as though the armor weighed twice what it should. He managed a brief nod and turned away before anyone could press him further. His boots sank into churned mud as he strode from the entrance, each step stiff with contained panic. Behind him, he heard Egg move quickly.
“I’ll go after him-”
A gauntleted hand settled on the boy’s shoulder.
“I have him covered,” Lyonel said easily, though there was a firmness beneath his tone that allowed no argument. “Don’t you worry. Let them know it’ll be a moment.”
He flashed Egg a reassuring grin, the sort that suggested he feared nothing at all, before turning and following Dunk.
Outside the lists, the roar of the crowd dulled to a distant rumble. The air felt heavier away from the press of bodies, thick with dust and anticipation. Lyonel paused just long enough to scan the ground. The tracks were unmistakable, large, deep impressions veering toward a row of empty pavilions. He followed them without hesitation. When he lifted the entrance flap, he found Dunk inside. The hedge knight sat hunched on a wooden bench, one elbow braced on his knee, hand supporting his brow as he stared at the ground. His shoulders were tight. Drawn inward. As if he were trying to make himself smaller despite his towering frame. Lyonel had seen that look before. On men before battle, On boys before their first charge. It was not cowardice.
It was the weight of consequence.
He let the flap fall closed and approached slowly, the faint clink of his armor announcing him. He lowered himself beside Dunk, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
“Today is going to be something, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.
Dunk nodded. The movement was stiff. His fingers dragged briefly down his face before dropping back to his knee. Silence stretched between them. Not awkward, just heavy.
Lyonel leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “You aren’t the only maiden who cowered on her wedding night,” he said at last, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
Dunk shot him a look, equal parts of confusion and disbelief.
“My first battles were hell,” Lyonel continued, gaze toward the tent’s ceiling as if remembering something far older than this day, “I thought I’d shame myself before I ever drew blood. My mother used to send me into them regardless, convinced it would burn the fear out.”
A quiet huff of a breath escaped him.
“It never did.”
Dunk’s eyes shifted to him, listening despite himself.
“Fear doesn’t vanish,” Lyonel said more thoughtfully. “It waits. Sits in your chest like rot.”
He rested his forearms on his knees, staring ahead.
“Until she told me the only way to face it was to laugh.”
Dunk’s brow furrowed faintly.
“’Laugh it off, Lyo,’ she’d say. ‘Laugh like the thunder when the storm breaks. Show them you’re having the better time.’” A softer smile touched Lyonel’s mouth at the memory. Slowly, he placed a hand over Dunk’s. The warmth of it was immediate. Solid. Steady.
“From then on that’s what I did,” Lyonel murmured, “Every charge. Every clash."
Dunk looked down at their joined hands. He hadn’t realized his own had been trembling until they began to still. “And the last thing those poor lads heard,” Dunk said quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself, “was your laugh.”
Lyonel’s grin sharpened, “Of course. I wanted it carved into them. Something to carry into whatever hell awaited them. A reminder not to fuck with me or mine.”
Dunk shook his head, a breath of genuine amusement escaping him, “You’re mental, Lyonel.”
“Mental enough to make you breathe again,” Lyonel replied, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “There’s that foolish smile. Thought I’d have to pull it out of you another way.”
There was something else beneath the jest, something warmer.
Dunk’s brows lifted slightly, “What other way?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lyonel said, giving him a sideways glance. “Are you still feeling like before?”
Dunk paused. He took inventory of himself, the tightness of in his chest, the weight in his stomach. He shook his head slowly.
“Not as much. Still...a little.”
“Well,” Lyonel said, voice lowering, “as I've said, fear doesn’t go easily. Perhaps finding something that matters more than it does would help.”
Dunk leaned back slightly, eyes drifting for a moment as he thought. Egg came to mind first, stubborn, loyal, unyielding Egg, who had chosen to stand with him no matter the cost. Then his gaze shifted back to Lyonel. Sunlight slipped through the seams of the pavilion, catching along the curves of Lyonel’s golden armor. It lit the edge of his jaw, the sharpness of his eyes. Dunk remembered the first time he had stepped into Lyonel’s tent, the way those eyes had assessed him, the unexpected invitation to dance, the laughter that had followed. The way Lyonel had stood beside him since.
From the beginning.
“I think I have two in mind,” Dunk said quietly.
Lyonel arched a brow, though his hand did not move from Dunk’s. “Oh? And what would those two things be?”
“Well...my squire. Despite everything he’s learned, he’s still chosen to stand with me. Because he cares.”
He swallowed once before continuing, “Secondly...you.”
“Me?” Lyonel smiled, though something softer flickered beneath it, something almost unguarded.
Dunk held his gaze this time. Not the shy glances he’d stolen before. Not the hesitant looks of a hedge knight standing too close to a lord. Steady, “Yes. You.”
The pavilion felt smaller suddenly. The air warmer. Lyonel did not withdraw his hand. Dunk swallowed, jaw tightening briefly before he forced himself to continue.
“When I first walked into your tent,” he said slowly, “I thought you were going to immediately toss me out or even worse...kill me,” a faint breath of amusement left him, “You didn’t.” His thumb shifted unconsciously against Lyonel’s knuckles. “You saw me. Not my patched garments. Not where I came from. Not what I lacked,” his voice thickened slightly, “You looked at me like I belonged in the same room as you.”
Lyonel’s expression stilled.
Dunk pressed on, the words coming easier now that they’d begun.
“When you stand beside me, I don’t feel like some hedge knight waiting to be measured and found waiting. I feel...” he hesitated, searching, “Equal.”
The word lingered between them.
“You don’t laugh at me,” Dunk added quietly, “You laugh with me. You walk into storms like they’re invitations. And when I’m near you...it feels like whatever’s waiting out there...” he tilted his head slightly toward the distant roar of the crowd, “Is something we face together.”
Lyonel had gone very still. There was no jest in his eyes now. No swagger. Only something raw and startling open.
“You believe I deserve to stand in that field,” Dunk said, “and when you believe it...I start to.”
Silence fell, heavy and intimate. Lyonel’s thumb shifted slightly against Dunk’s hand, almost without his notice. His pulse quicked, not from battle, not from fear, but from something far less familiar.
“You great, impossible fool,” Lyonel whispered, voice low.
But there was no insult in it.
Dunk’s lips twitched faintly, “I mean it.”
“I know,” Lyonel said.
That was the problem. He could hear the sincerity in every word. There was no ambition in it. No calculation. Just truth, offered plainly, without armor. It struck him harder than any lance. For a moment, Lyonel only looked at him. At the earnest set of his brow. The way his shoulders had loosened without him realizing. The trust in his eyes.
Something inside Lyonel gave away. He moved before pride could stop him. His hand slid to Dunk’s jaw, fingers warm and firm against his skin, then he leaned in.
The kiss was sudden.
Not teasing.
Not playful.
It was heat and certainty and something almost fierce beneath it, as if Lyonel were answering words Dunk hadn’t even known he’d spoken. The hedge knight froze for the briefest breath, surprise flashing through him. His heart lurched, not with fear this time, but with something brighter. Warmer. Then he leaned into it. One of his large hands rose instinctively, settling at Lyonel’s waist, careful but sure. His thumb pressed lightly against the curve of armor at his side as if grounding himself in the reality of it. The tension that had coiled inside him all morning unraveled. The crowd’s distant roar faded into nothing. There was only the warmth of Lyonel’s mouth against his, the steady grip at his jaw, the solid presence that had chased him into this tent without hesitation.
When Lyonel finally pulled back, his breath brushed warm against Dunk’s lips.
For once, he did not smirk.
“You are not facing that field alone,” he said quietly, “not while I draw breath.”
Dunk’s grip tightened slightly at his waist.
“I know,” he answered, and this time, there was no tremor in his voice.
The moment lingered only a breath longer. Then the world returned. The roar of the crowd rolled faintly through the canvas walls once more. Cheers rising somewhere beyond the pavilion. A horn sounded in the distance, low and impatient. Lyonel drew back first, though his hand remained at Dunk’s jaw a heartbeat longer than necessary. His thumb brushed his skin once more before falling away.
“We should return,” he said, though his voice had lost none of its warmth.
Dunk nodded, The fear had not vanished, he could still feel it there, quiet and coiled, but it no longer owned him. It sat behind something steadier now. He rose to his full height, ducking slightly beneath the pavilion’s beam. For a moment, he glanced down at Lyonel, and there was something different in his eyes.
Not panic. Purpose.
Lyonel stood as well, adjusting his gauntlets, settling his shoulders as if donning another kind of armor entirely.
Together, they stepped back into the light.
The noise struck them at once, cheers, wagers being shouted, the restless shifting of hundreds of bodies waiting for violence. The other champions were already gathered. Steel gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. Banners snapped overhead. Dunk slowed only briefly before separating from Lyonel, stepping forward toward the field where the seven would stand. He did not look back. He did not need to. Lyonel remained with the others for a moment longer, watching as Dunk took his place. The hedge knight rolled his shoulders once, adjusting his grip on his weapon. His posture was straighter now. Steadier. Lyonel allowed himself a small, private smile. Then his gaze shifted and found Egg. The boy stood near the edge of the group, trying his best to appear composed, though the tension in his small frame betrayed him. His eyes flickered constantly between Dunk and the opposing champions.
Lyonel stepped toward him.
Egg glanced up at him, “Ser Duncan looks calm. Is he ok now?”
“He does and he is.”
Lyonel folded his arms loosely across his chest, looking out toward the field.
“When the trial is over,” he began, voice casual but deliberate, “and if we all walk away from it breathing, I would like to extend an invitation.”
Egg blinked, “An invitation?”
“To Storm’s End,” Lyonel said simply, “For you and for Ser Duncan.”
Egg’s eyes widened slightly, “I- I don’t know. Its too soon for this...”
“I am not extending immediately, boy,” he said, “this will be something to think about afterwards. Just wanted to announce a little early. To keep you up in light spirits.”
Egg followed his gaze to Dunk. His expression softened, “of course. Then we better survive this first.”
Lyonel huffed a faint laugh, “we will.”
A horn sounded again, louder this time. One the field, Dunk lifted his head. And as the Trial of the Seven began, the stormlord of the Stormlands stood among his companions. Already planning a future that stretched beyond blood and dust, beyond this day, toward stone walls, crashing waves, and a castle waiting on the edge of the sea.
They will make it out alive. Together.