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Lyonel is good at spotting strays. He’d noticed Ser Duncan, hadn't he, though the man could hardly escape notice; gods, the size of him.
He’s also good at spotting princes.
The boy had come in late, and he'd worn a cap tipped to one side over his messy dark hair, sat in a corner near the tent flap and stared at Lyonel over a goblet of Lyonel’s own wine.
Ser Duncan stumbles off to see about his squire, and Lyonel is drunk enough that he feels bereft for a minute before he remembers his audience.
The tent is quieter, now, nearly empty. Manfred is gone off with his whores—probably why the princeling deemed it safe to stay—the Humfreys are arguing the finer points of mead (or means?) over the long table, a Gower boy is throwing dice with Edric Lonmouth’s eldest son at the other end, and there are servants stacking the cleared trestles.
Lyonel gets to his feet with an exaggerated stretch, picks up his horned circlet from the table, and makes a slow circle of the tent. He waves off the musicians, chucks one Humfrey under the chin, claps the other on the cheek, gives one of the scullery girls a silver stag with a wink, and sidles up to the last table.
“My lord,” he says.
Valarr lifts his chin, fixing those eery mismatched eyes on him.
“Oh,” Lyonel says, pretending surprise. “My apologies, your grace. I couldn't tell who it was under that magnificent cap.”
“Not so magnificent as your own,” the boy says, tipping his goblet towards the coronet in Lyonel’s hand.
“This wee rustic coif?”
“Some might call it a crown.”
“Sounds like a problem you ought take up with them, whoever they are.”
The boy rolls his eyes, but his voice is droll. “Yes, clearly the fault lies with the observer, rather than the one wearing a crown while not of the blood. You are no king.”
“Nor a prince. I hear princes may also wear crowns, though oddly they seem not to travel with them.”
“Mm. I heard it was for the value of walking in humility and refraining from holding pomp and stature over others that they might leave such signifiers of rank behind.”
Lyonel laughs. “I heard that was a load of shit.”
Valarr still does not smile, but his mouth presses narrower. A concession.
“Come,” Lyonel says. “I have better wine than this.”
“Thank the gods.” The boy sets the goblet down heavily, and rises to follow him.
Lyonel drapes an arm around the princeling’s shoulders as they approach, draws him in against his chest so that his face is hidden from the guardsman as they enter.
His tent smells of hyssop and anise above the usual leather and polish of his tourney accoutrements—and fuck his maester for pottering about but the herbs do smell better than the sweat and smoked meat of the feasting.
Valarr shoves away from him, and his little cap falls to the floor between them. Lyonel chuckles. “Rather a poor disguise, as they go, my prince.”
“Fuck off,” he says, flushed. “I hadn't planned on— but they said you were feasting—”
“And you just had to come and see me?” Oh, Lyonel likes that. “Just had to creep out of your lady wife’s bed and come down here to… well. You tell me, your grace.”
“She knows where I am,” Valarr says, looking less embarrassed than Lyonel had anticipated. He sees Lyonel catch it, too, and smiles for the first time, a sharp edge of teeth at the corner of those damnably pink lips.
“Well then,” Lyonel says, drawing it out. “And with whom?”
Valarr nods. “She thinks you quite handsome.”
“She has good taste.” Lyonel lets his eyes run the length of the prince—not quite so tall as him, but taller than the last time they had seen each other, and his shoulders filled out, too.
“She asked if it was because you saw my mother in me.”
Lyonel blinks, and laughs again. “Bring her, next time, and she can ask me herself.” He narrows his eyes. “Is that what you think?”
Valarr shrugs, unhooking his cape and setting it over the back of a camp chair. “We both know I resemble my father more.”
Lyonel turns him around with a hand in his curling brown hair, and kisses that infernal smugness off his princely mouth.