In Your Heart Shall Burn
The warmest day Lyon remembered riding, he was but a boy of seven on a horse too large for him and with a saddle worn from many years of use. He rode alongside his father, Dram, a warrior feared across all the Houses and kingdoms, and recalled that the breeze on his face soothed the heat of the sun and hushed the desert wildlife, until all he could hear across the rolling sands were his father's wise words, echoed over decades.
"The Stranger is the unknown," he had told him, his thick beard knotted with sand and flies, "It is all around us, permeated into our very souls. To worship it, first must we remove ourselves from the known, from the comfort it provides, and embrace the fear of death as readily as we would the knowledge that the sun shall rise tomorrow."
"Yes, Father." Lyon had said in a voice uncracked by puberty, awestruck by the man that led him through the harsh deserts of Dorne.
"But we do not choose the Stranger; it chooses us. Baptised in our mothers' blood, we are handpicked by death at birth. Do you understand that, boy?"
"I do, Father."
"No." He dismissed, "You don't. It will take even the best of us until our death-day to truly understand the enormity of the Stranger's touch."
As Lyon rode on a warm day into King's Landing with his own son Raskel, he felt a pang of loss for the man he had called Father.
The journey from the monastery was always difficult, no matter how long the road ahead. Located deep in the Red Mountains, many a Yesh-born had fallen from a narrow path or slipped and found his training at an abrupt end. Lyon had buried far too many small bodies from those accidents alone. He had even chosen for Raskel to sit with him on his horse for the trek, to limit the risk. But after the mountains, one then had to compete with a number of hostile forces – bandits, wildlife, murderers of all names – that either did not recognise their colours or thought themselves better with a sword than Yeshen men.
But that journey had drawn to a close. Now a new unknown was ahead of them, and Lyon wondered if Raskel was as prepared to embrace it as he had taught him to be.
"Father," asked the boy as they hoofed through the narrow streets and past the wide-eyed peasants, "Why are people staring at us?"
"Because we are Yeshen, son."
"I thought you said people respect Yeshen."
"They do," he soothed, "but very few have seen us in person, especially this far from Dorne."
"Why did we leave the monastery?"
Lyon's eyes softened and he ruffled the boy's hair, "Because it was time. Come, hush now. We've still a little farther to go."
Raskel opened his mouth to respond, but snapped it closed at his father's stern look. Instead, he turned his head to the peasant-folk around them, watching as their eyes flicked from him to the warrior behind him. There was admiration there, perhaps even jealousy, but mostly, there was fear. He felt Lyon give his arm a gentle squeeze and was comforted that, if nothing else, at least he was there.
Once he heard the sound of music and saw the streets suddenly expand before them, allowing more room for their horse amongst the numerous Golden Cloaks in their painted armour, Raskel noticed his father let out a low and long exhale. It was a Yeshen technique – a way of steeling oneself against the unknown. Raskel tried it, but he could not quite quell the fear in his heart. Instead, he focused himself on his surroundings and took note of the decorations, the golden bunting, the stag and lion crests that sat within strands of ribbons tied to every free space available. Benches were outfitted with bouquets of wildflowers and servants wandered, hands laden with platters of food and drink. A few cast them glances and started to whisper, but his father rode on.
"We're here," Lyon said. "Now, do not speak unless spoken to, Raskel. Do not take what someone hands you without my permission. And, above all—"
"Don't allow the words of fools to steer your sword," he cut in. Rather than rebuke him for his interruption, Lyon smiled.
"Yes," he said, "and we are in King's Landing now, my son. There are many fools here who love to speak."
He had not dealt with Lannister men before, but Lyon found little resistance from them when he approached. An elder one – some forty years old, he thought – gestured towards his bloody-sword crest and black armour when he saw the pair ride in.
"A Yeshen?" he said, a note of amazement in his voice, "What the fuck is a Yeshen doing here?"
"Did King Joffrey invite 'im?" asked another, a dullard with a large gut and a bulbous, red-splotched nose.
"I've no invitation, only intentions," Lyon told them as he dismounted. As he steadied Raskel with one hand, he used the other to pull a small note from a satchel fastened to the horse's saddle. He presented it to them without flourish or fuss, though he would have preferred if the dullard had not snatched it away from the elder guard he had actually handed it to.
He unfurled it and started to scan through the page. As he did, his eyebrows furrowed together and he occasionally glanced up at him, apparently confused.
"Can you read?" Lyon asked.
"Of course I can fuckin' read," he replied, handing it to his companion, "Just doesn't make sense."
"I, Lyon, man of the Yeshen of the Red Mountains, with my son Raskel, Yesh-born, seek an audience with King Joffrey, of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, to discuss possible servitude in this time of change, if the King is so found worthy of a Yeshen sword."
The elder man pursed his lips and peered at Lyon. He found his gaze met, cool and calm, with no hint of the fear that the Lannister colours usually inspired.
"Lyon of the Yeshen," he said at length. "I've heard that name. We've all heard that name."
"You're that one killed two hundred wildlings in one fight outside the Shadow Tower."
"Four hundred," his companion corrected. Lyon let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword, Mother's Son, and nodded brusquely in response. After a moment's pause, the elder guard rolled the letter up and handed it back to him.
"I'll lead you to the king, since you're a Yeshen," he said. "The feast's on, so he might be in a good mood."
After their horse had been sequestered in a stable, Lyon and Raskel followed the guard until they were among rows upon rows of feasters and revellers. The wedding guests watched them pass with intrigue and, for some, shock, and whispered amongst each other in the din of noise, perhaps swapping tales or igniting rumours that would spread much further than they should.
"Alright," the elder guard said, "I'll inform the Kingsguard. When you hear your name called, walk up the carpet there and announce yourself in front of the king."
Lyon nodded and watched as he walked away. As he cast a sweeping glance over the crowd before him, his eyes were caught by a glint of gold that had caught the sun, and he found himself gazing upon a man that even he had heard much about.
"Oberyn Martell," he murmured to himself.
Oberyn, the Prince of Dorne; a man who appeared stern in all regards, with neatly cropped hair and a sharp and severe jawline, but his deeds both on the battlefield and in the bedroom were legendary. Even now he had a woman on his arm, feeding him grapes with a redolent smile, dressed in clothes that revealed the tight curves and svelte shape of her body. The Yeshen respected him, insofar as his order respected men of renown. But Lyon noticed, locked in that stare, a strange stirring deep in the pit of his stomach, and he fought to control it as he offered him a polite bow of the head.
The prince eyed him lasciviously, and Lyon's eyebrow rose without him consciously willing it.
"Your Grace," he heard a voice call out, "May I present, from the Red Mountains of Dorne, the Yeshen of famed regard for his prowess at the Shadow Tower against the Wildlings of the North, Lyon, and his son, Raskel, Yesh-born."
That was his cue, and he gestured for his son to follow.
Lyon marched up to the small enclosure in front of the main table with all the discipline that his father had instilled in him. Raskel tried to match his stride, but after a few seconds under the weight of the people's silent stares he fell in behind him, slowing in a sign of respect of his father's position. That and he was uncomfortable in front of so many eyes, all so different in their shapes and sizes.
Once he was a few feet away from the king himself, Lyon came to a sharp halt and stood firm, his hands behind his back and his posture ramrod straight. His son did not copy him quite, but he was close.
"King Joffrey," he announced. His voice was deep and powerful; the rows of guests could hear him quite clearly. "I am Lyon of the Yesh, and with me is my son, Raskel."
"We welcome you, Lyon, to the celebration of our wedding, and are honoured by your presence. Your deeds are legend in the halls of King's Landing," said the woman in front of him, adorned with fine jewellery – Margaery Tyrell, now of Baratheon. She was beautiful, with her soft-coloured hair and her large and kind eyes, but her husband beside her reminded him of a petulant child. His chin was round and he had no strength in his jaw, and when he looked at him he could see no fire in his eyes – not a fire that told him he was in the company of a valiant man, at least.
"Thank you, Queen Margaery."
"Quite curious for a Yeshen man to come so far from the Red Mountains," said another woman, Cersei, he recalled, who appeared to him as lovely as a sharp sun cresting on the horizon, "especially without an invitation."
"This is a time of change in all of Westeros. I thought it appropriate that this be marked by our own deviation."
"Why have you come, then, Lyon of the Yesh?" Joffrey asked. Lyon thought he heard a scoff in his voice, but he kept to the wisdom he had been taught – 'Do not allow the words of fools to steer your sword'.
"To see for myself King Joffrey of Westeros," he replied, "and, if I deem him worthy, to offer my sword in service."
Oberyn, with his paramour Ellaria on his lap, watched the scene in front of him develop with faint interest. In truth, he was more focused on Lyon. A handsome man; broad across his shoulders with a finely tapered waist, and a complexion that hinted at Dornish heritage, though not entirely. His hair was short and neat – a product of a regimented life, he assumed – and almost as dark as Oberyn's own. The prince hardly noticed that Joffrey had turned a faint shade of scarlet. He was enjoying the desire Lyon stirred in him.
"What a sweet boy he has with him," remarked Ellaria as she slipped another grape through her lover's lips, "Hardly a fearsome Yeshen, is he?"
"Not yet," he replied, "but he will grow to be one."
Joffrey leaned forward in his chair, his elbows rested on the arms and his ring on full display in what Lyon recognised as a show of dominance. He had not bowed or knelt – Yeshen men did not recognise kingships, only merit – and perhaps it unsettled him to be met with a man who did not swear immediate fealty.
"Deem me worthy?" he said. "I am the king! You do not deem me worthy – I deem you worthy!"
He stood so fast that his chair almost flew back into the drapery behind him, but Lyon stood firm. Raskel took a step closer to his father. When Joffrey's hands slammed down on the table, Margaery's eyes closed for a brief second and she took in a sharp inhale of breath. The elderly woman beside her tried to hide her displeasure; perhaps no one but Lyon saw it.
"You come here, to my wedding, without an invitation, do not kneel before me, and then dare to question my worthiness?"
"I did not question it, Your Grace, merely stated that I haven't yet seen it."
"I don't need to prove myself to you. No – you need to prove yourself to me, to see if you're worthy to be part of my guard."
Joffrey gestured to a three-men group of the Golden Cloaks near the enclosure. The men approached and knelt at the side of the table, their heads bowed low to the floor and their swords gleaming in the sun.
"Let's see if the tales of Yeshen men are true," he said. "You will fight these men, all of them, together, until only one of you is left standing."
"My Lord, perhaps this isn't the best—" Margaery started, but was cut off by her husband.
"Without your armour."
Lyon paused for a moment. Behind him, Raskel looked up and searched the side of his father's face for answers, hoping that perhaps the pair could abandon the endeavour and return to their monastery. But it was a challenge. Yeshen rarely turned down a challenge.
"Very well."
As the man started to pull apart the strappings of his armour, Oberyn watched him with intent. Ellaria absent-mindedly put grapes to her lover's lips and her lover absent-mindedly ate them. Lyon's armour fell away to show a filthy shirt, but underneath it was naught but sculpted muscle, crafted and forged in the heat of battle and many hours spent in training. The prince's desire burned ever hotter the more the Yeshen shed.
Lyon crouched down to collect his sword from his sheath. As he did, he spoke softly to his son.
"If anything should happen, Raskel, and I can't reach you, run to the horse and start for the monastery. Do not trust anyone until you're there."
"But this will be an easy fight," his son replied as he gathered up his armour.
"It's not the fight that worries me."
His father stood and gestured for Raskel to stand near the wall. Once he had reluctantly left his side, the boy realised that from that spot it was a clear path through the crowds and guards; a perfect place to be if one needed to escape.
Lyon stood with Mother's Son clutched in hand.
"Come, then," he said as he readied it, "Let's begin."
Oberyn was thrilled with the show Lyon put on. He was as acrobatic and nimble as the Yeshen were famed to be, and amidst the flips and twirls and one-armed handsprings he cut down each man before him with such elegance and grace that even the prince was impressed. The sprays of blood stained Lyon's shirt and sweat beaded on his skin, accentuating every fine detail that Oberyn's imagination had had to fill.
Lyon sliced through the last man's stomach while crouched low to the floor, and he held his pose as his opponent convulsed, dropping his weapon and shaking so fiercely, it seemed for a moment that he would vomit. Then he dropped to the floor. He landed with a heavy thud.
The warrior rose slowly. The warm spray of blood that had painted his lips now felt cold. He turned to Joffrey, who sat with an unimpressed and quietly enraged expression as Lyon lowered his blade to his side.
"Impressive," said the king with a sneer, picking up his goblet and gesturing to the corpses, "Very good work, yes."
He took a long draw of his drink.
"Now the boy."
The crowd gasped and uttered sharp cries of horror that were quickly silenced.
"What?" shouted Tyrion, the Lannister who sat the furthest from the king. His sentiment was echoed by his brother and wife. Margaery opened her mouth as if to protest, but the old woman beside her clutched her arm and shook her head.
"If I'm to have more mouths to feed, they should at least be useful," he said as he plucked a grape from his plate and bit into it. "Two men against the boy. I command it."
Lyon looked at Joffrey, and then at his son. Raskel met his gaze with his thin lips parted, waiting for his order.
When Lyon turned his attention back to the tables, he did so with a firm and defiant nod.
"Raskel," he called, "Come here."
The boy hurried up to him. Oberyn noticed he was attempting his father's confident stride, but it was haphazard and unrefined; not with the benefit of a few decades' worth of training.
Lyon crouched down to meet his son. He looked at him with the sort of wisdom Raskel desperately wanted to have.
"Yeshen rise up to their challenges," he said. "This is a challenge."
He held out his sword. Raskel took it with reverence. He let his hand glide over the bloodied steel and saw in it his distorted reflection.
"Do as I taught you. No more, no less."
Lyon stood and went to the wall, folding his arms and letting out a long, low exhale. He watched as Raskel readied the blade in his hands, balancing its weight, testing his own strength, and noted how comically large it seemed against him.
Do as I taught you, Raskel thought as he clutched Mother's Son, No more, no less.
The two men that approached were clad in heavy armour. Ellaria turned her face into Oberyn's shoulder as Raskel reared up the sword.
"I don't want to watch this," she said, "He's much too sweet."
The first Cloak lunged. Raskel avoided it with nimble footwork, spinning on his heels until he was on the man's left and slicing at him. He just barely missed. Not as elegant as his father, but he would be someday, perhaps. The second Cloak went for his legs, to which the boy flipped and came down with a clean swipe to the man's head. He fell in a spray of gore.
The first came again and caught Raskel by surprise. Oberyn's eyes flicked to Lyon, but he saw no fear on his face, not even a twinge of a muscle in his neck or arms. Oberyn certainly would have noticed that.
The boy's scruff was grabbed and he was thrown to the floor. The man came down on him, but Raskel, momentarily disorientated, gathered his wits enough to roll to the side. The sword came down on the earth and threw up a thin cloud of dust directly into the Cloak's eyes. He hurried to clear it, but Raskel was fast. The boy rose up and tried to cut down on his back. His blade was blocked, the sound of steel-on-steel cutting through the air, and the child was thrown back. He slid across the floor and laid for a moment, his long hair in his eyes, attempting to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him.
A shadow fell across his vision in the vague shape of a man, quickly becoming larger.
He did not think, only reacted. Raskel's hand gripped Mother's Son and he sat up with a half-wild shout of defiance, pointing it out- and upwards.
He felt the weight before he felt the blood. It was so heavy he thought he might be crushed by it. Then it came – the warm trickles running from the blade to his hands, slipping down his wrists and sleeves until he could feel it on his elbows. Raskel looked up to see the terrified eyes of a dying man, and a strangled stuttering forced itself from his throat.
Oberyn nudged his lover as the child threw the sword aside, still embedded in the Cloak's chest. She looked up in time to see Lyon stride into the enclosure and put his foot on the dying man's shoulder, pulling his sword free and offering his hand to his son. When Raskel took it and was on his feet, his father fixed him with a stern glare.
"What was that?" he asked in a voice that sent chills through every guest's spine, "Those pivots, those turns, that footwork – amateurish, raw, crude. That was not the work of a Yeshen."
"I'm sorry, Father," Raskel said.
"Don't be sorry; be better."
There was a pause. Raskel lowered his head in shame. Then Lyon put his hand on his shoulder and jostled him, a faint smile gracing his lips.
"But well done, my son."
The pair enjoyed a quiet moment between themselves before Lyon turned his attention once more to the tables looming over them. He fixed his stare on Joffrey, whose face flicked between wounded pride and unimaginable rage, tapping his fingers on the table as he weighed up in his mind the benefits of ordering their execution.
But Margaery, who could feel the anger rolling off of her husband in waves, stood before he could make another of his famously rash decisions and smiled at the people before her.
"That was an impressive display, Lyon, from both yourself and your son," she praised, and her voice was light and genuine, her smile radiant even compared to her fine jewels, "It was an honour to see it at our wedding. But, please, this is not the time to make important decisions – it is for celebration. You have had a long journey here. You both must be exhausted and hungry. Rest and enjoy the banquet, and once this happy day is past us we can discuss further a potential partnership."
Lyon and Joffrey held each other's stares for a long moment. It seemed as though neither wanted to break it, as if it would be an admittance of defeat. Then the warrior looked at Margaery, and nodded as he gestured his son to the side of the enclosure.
"Thank you, Queen Margaery," he said, "I'll be sure to remember your generosity."
The pair left the enclosure under the watchful eyes of the wedding guests, and it was not until the hushed whispers gained strength to become a din of noise again that he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
Lyon wiped the blood from Raskel's face with a cloth and a basin of water the servants had provided him. His armour laid beside them in a jumbled heap. The bodies of the men that had fought against them had been cleared and the enclosure itself quickly washed of all their remnants. He could almost not smell the blood. He was gentle as he brushed the hair of his son's eyes, lifting his chin to find the rivulets that had dried there.
"Do we have to stay here?" the boy asked.
"Hush," Lyon soothed, "Go and eat. But stay where I can see you, do you understand me?"
He hesitated, but acquiesced and hurried over to the tables laden with food; colourful fruit stands shaped as swans; baked treats that smelt like heaven; even the water seemed crystal clear, unlike any he had seen before. Lyon watched as Raskel started to fill himself on food they had not been able to find in the wilds.
He started to clean himself while his son ate. He was focused enough that he did not notice Oberyn approach, grape in hand and a swagger in his walk that befitted a prince of Dorne. From his seat Ellaria looked on, a wane and knowing smile on her face.
"An impressive boy you have there," he said. Lyon looked up from his cloth and nodded.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"What did you say his name was, Raskel? Mm. He will be a credit to the Yeshen, when he's large enough to fill out his armour."
Lyon glanced at the boy filling his plate. "There's a long road ahead before that."
"Ah, you are too dour, my friend. Come – you embarrassed the king at his own wedding and live the tell the tale. I'd consider that a personal victory."
"I didn't come here to embarrass Joffrey."
"No, no, you came to ally yourself with him."
"To see if he was worthy of it."
"And? What does the great Lyon of the Yeshen think about the Lannister's pet throne-keeper?"
The warrior set aside his cloth and cupped the water in his hands, splashing it into his face to clear the last remnants of blood. It refreshed him. "We leave at first light."
Oberyn chuckled.
"So soon?" he said, "A night in the Crownlands hardly seems worth the trip from the Red Mountains."
"If not for Raskel, I would leave now. This is the first proper meal he's had since we left the monastery. He's a growing boy. He needs food and a warm bed, at least for the night."
"And you? What do you need?"
He spoke in a hushed, husky voice, the grape between his fingers, and every word seemed to almost drip from his lips. Lyon felt that odd stir again, but forced it down.
"I need to cut his hair," he replied. "It's far too long. I should stop neglecting it."
The prince chuckled and came closer, close enough that Lyon could smell the faint scent of Ellaria's perfume on him and the juices of the grape as he bit into it, "A man is more than duty, no? He is passion and desire, driven by urges that we Dornishmen embrace."
"Not the Yeshen, your Grace."
"Ah, yes, your vow not to share your bed," he said, "I find all these vows of chastity rather tedious, no? But perhaps we can discuss this philosophy later, in my private quarters. I would love to hear your thoughts on the matter."
He noticed the corner of Lyon's mouth jerk up, just for a split second, into a smirk.
"To the Stranger we are born, to the Stranger we commit. As in life, as in death, boys born of blood are to the Yeshen, and not by mortal comforts are forged men, but by the embracement of the unknown, of the unknowable, 'til fear is as familiar as a heartbeat." He set down his cloth and nodded at the prince. "A simple philosophy to follow."
Before Oberyn could respond, there was a shout. Both men looked to see Joffrey spluttering, clutching at his throat and dropping a goblet he was holding to the floor. The scene went almost in slow motion. Margaery screamed; Cersei leapt to her feet and rushed towards her son; Tyrion stared, stunned in shock; and Lyon instinctively pulled his sword from its sheath.
"Raskel!" he called, and the boy abandoned his food to run over to him. He found safety in the arm Lyon draped over him.
Oberyn watched as Joffrey laid dying in the arms of his mother. His ringed fingers pointed at Tyrion, his eyes bulging from their sockets and blood pouring out of his nose, and he fought to utter a word – a single word that no one would hear, as it died in his throat with the last of his breath.
There was a sweeping silence, a terrible stillness that stretched out and devoured all that sat at the celebration. Lyon crouched to his son and pulled him close, that protective arm still over him, watching for someone to explain what had happened. When Cersei's screams of accusation finally broke, Raskel whimpered:
"Can we leave now?"
"Shh," his father soothed in a low and steady voice, "Embrace the fear. Embrace the fear."