Chapter Text
When Lyonel woke up, he was not in his pavilion, or his home. His head was dizzy as seven hells, like a hangover man had taken a Warhammer at his hangover head, and seven did it hurt. He was head down on the ground, leg tangled together up high, arms under his head, with a headache so fierce he swore that he could see light coming from behind his eyes. There was sweet oblivion calling him from abyss of nothingness, letting him forget, letting him drift, unshackling him from the prison of himself, but against all odds, he manifested himself into this mess of human presence, into this limping body tangling under a mess of a table of feast, his neck cranked against a piece of cold, hard wood.
“Help me up!” he ordered, but only mumbling ever came out, and of course no one was there to listen. There was muffled noise from outside this little darkened alcove below the table, happy noises singing just beyond tent’s drape. Jovial merrymakers were everywhere around him.
“Oh, fuck.” He cursed, and scrambled to get up on his elbow. His neck cracked with loud protest. Oh, Seven hells. There were spilled food at his fingertips, cold and slimy. Mother’s mercy, what a party, pity he remembered nothing of it. Or this place. Or how he got here. Where the fuck was this happy place?
And Lyonel finally got on his feet, legs shaking in jittering sloppiness. He could see his house emblem everywhere on the table he steadied himself on that was once above him, little stags dancing on drapes and plates and silverware, antler’s motifs etched on every possible surface. Spilled wine dyed the fabric in to the red of blood, roasted leftovers sat cold in front of him. Is this his feast? Damn, he had been a terrible party host for passing out like this. He followed those dancing little stags with crowns into the mess ahead, he had been so out of his own party for long enough, he should be back on his throne of fig branches and flowing wines. The moon was still low and the night was young!
But this leftover of a party was cold and gloomy and the chatters outside the tent was too alien, like he was a foreigner. The wind slipped into this tent was making his eyes watery, and he hesitated to go outside, outside was too loud, too bright, too good, and the sober he got, the funnier the head above his neck was. His tongue was a useless gag in his own mouth, foul stench rising from underneath his nostrils, all sensory of him was high with all the unpleasantry of this reality. And he hated this Baratheon pavilion he had found himself in, too. Everything was too green, too rosy, like him and the Leo fucking “Longthorn” was going to marry under it. Since when do I suffer flowers?
There was footstep behind him, but he did not care to look back, did not want to, in fact, putting his back between him and the world outside. Some part deep within him just trusted that sound of footstep, even though he did not recognize it at all. The footstep drew closer, breathes leaned in, and a warm hand was on his shoulder.
“Renly.” The intruder pressed his forehead onto his shoulder. This is his name, Lyonel suddenly jumped to this conclusion, with a certainty a man usually finds himself possessing when making decisions in deep dreams. So it must be a dream, then. Or a vision sent by the Seven. Or just the Dornish red playing tricks. But who was this?
A wave of brown curl, that was. It flowed down, and revealed a pair of bright, brown eyes that were looking at him with his own reflection in the middle of the pupil. He could trust those eyes even more than those footsteps, he decided.
Who are you? “Who am I?” He asked instead. He felt like he need not to know that man, just to love him. To love him is enough, any logical reasoning was a waste of a good party.
“You’ve drank too much.” The young man did not mind his drunkenness. He helped Lyonel to his feet, the jitters still followed his every step. “Let’s go home.”
But home was such a dull place, Lyonel wanted to protest, and who am I, this ‘I’ I found myself in? What was this ‘I’’s home?
“Where the fuck is home? It’s Storm’s End, no?”
“Yes, it’s home. Too far away to return, though. Let’s go back to our tent.”
“I am Lord of it, right?”
“You are. And the King, too. My king.” The words were pronounced with cautious reverence.
King? What’s good in that? He hated that damned title. Like that ever bought him things he wanted.
“I hate to be King. I would rather trade it for something else. I want to be loved. To be forgotten with my bliss.”
“I know, Renly. I am here.”
The teeth biting his innards fastened. “I am scared.” He did not know why he was saying this, but this felt right. The fright was so alive he thought he could ride it into the deep wood and never look back. It’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time, this daring getaway.
“Margaery respected you. And us.”
“It’s never about her.” Who is she anyway?
“I know.” The young man inhaled shakily. There was sadness in his cautiousness, now Lyonel can see it. He hated to see sadness, not at his party, not around him, not now. The red flow within him could not abide this, so he reached out his hand aggressively, and held the exposed vulnerability under that pretty face, that strong but slender neck with blood humming underneath, into his hold. Then he nibbled on it, just hard enough to redden it, to let the color match what’s within him. Dornish Red. Stormlander’s red.
The movement of his brown-haired youth started to match his, hot lips pressed to his eyelids and earlobes. He fell onto the table, let go of his waistband, then his jerkin, his lover peeled off his layers impatiently, like all the youth his age. Lyonel was then exposed, baring a strip of flesh from chest to navel, then through the crack he opened, his lover freed more and more of him from underneath the garment, his back, his hip, his prick. Then his lover devoured it hastily, with Lyonel’s leggings and breeches still trapped under his ankles and shirts high up above his chest, bare skin pressed onto hard wood. Lyonel tried to raise his head from the tabletop and look down, but all he could see was a wave of brown dived down into his black curls on his belly in the shadow, and then, he was taken into a hot, wet place. White void shocked his mind like the bony fingerbone of the Stranger. He felt as if death itself beckoned.
There were images in the light of death, hot and white, with a shadow of a castle in the front. He could see an impossibly tall shadow walked right into the flames, but the brightness soon expanded till no shadow remained, and then he was back on his back again, sweating profusely under an eager mouth. The memories started to surge within the depth of his mind, of both Renly’s and his, or his and the uninvited guest’s, he did not know.
“I saw death, Loras, of my greatest love vanished in fire so bright that it’s white and green.”
“My house color? Stop this nonsense, Renly. The only fire that will engulf me is the one started by you.” And he swallowed deep, until the tip of the nose was buried in his dark curl underneath.
To surrender one’s most sensitive tip to the unknown between two rolls of teeth was thrilling in a dangerous way, but he trusted those teeth more than he trusted himself. It was as if he was adrift and the white-hot shivers sending to his toe and scalp were tethers anchoring him to there and then. It’s like dancing when you all tired out, drinking when you almost black out.
And Loras retreated for air, and he suddenly felt cold. His private was wobbling with his heartbeat, dangling half soft. All the wine was still fucking with him.
“Don’t leave me. Don’t ever fucking leave me, ser.” Lyonel croaked. He reached down to Loras’ collar, and yanked him to his face. He had him in his hold now, and the hold was tight.
“You have my word.” And then they opened their mouth for each other, biting down and chewing and tonguing the other’s biting, chewing, tonguing counterpart. They feasted on this imitation of feasting, feasted on each other’s sensory. Loras tasted like spiced wine and hot blood and foamy dream, it was like the best part of Lyonel and Duncan intertwined into a hotheaded youth, and he was sucking on it like his life was depend on it.
“Get those fucking clothes off the way, and fuck me.” He demanded, and his knight obliged. More air greeted his skin, and his legs were free. Ser Loras was looking right into him now, his vigorous enthusiasm pinned him into that feast table hard, it’s too good and too much, with part of himself embedded in part of him, and he’s too drunk to notice the initial breach. His legs flew to the air, along with most of his soul. Those plates and goblets rocked by his side, fell down with a clang. He was seeing vision again, and what fell beside him was debris of crumbling buildings. The city was on fire, and the dragon burnt along with it. The city gate was compromised with relentless ramming, and knights with full armor rode in, with their steel shone white. The corrupted heart of a dying dynasty was at the mercy of their blade tip, and they pressed in deep. The violence swept through each and every place in a deadly momentum, leaving death and void in its wake, and when the dragon finally died, he crowned himself king. The crown of reality weighted heavily above his brow after all the adrenaline pumped up by victories. He breathed, all salty smell in the air got inhaled in.
It's not the crown to the Storm King. It’s to the King of the Iron Throne. He’s King to all seven kingdoms. What did everyone do?
A bigger, better rebellion, he remembered, not like the one he called off, with so many deaths and so little changed. Names. Faces. His brothers. Loras. Margaery.
Those empty question now had answers, but now he understood why wine took him over in the first place. He hated those answers. He did not want to have a wife, things should not be like this, he and Loras could be together till the end with no other interfering between them……
And the end arrived, a sudden halt in his being, the young man collapsed on top of him, and all vision receded. The brown hair was now scattered on his chest, and he was compelled to press his palm on it, to consolidate him, to tell him he did great and everything was fine.
The scent in Loras’s hair was calming, the faint lingering smell of rose. To stuck in that possible scenario where he and Loras stayed unremarkable third sons was naïvely foolish now, in this dull recession of hot blood. The ecstasy started retreating, giving way to sobriety and reason. Renly breathed into Loras’ ear, and he promised.
“Let me be the fucking king then. I will fucking brave it all. I will be king, those bastards will not stop me.” Renly spoke evenly. “I will be the best king since Aegon the Conqueror. And you will be there always, by the side of mine.”