It had been a hard-earned victory, Ser Loras reflected. The cut across his forearm stung as he struggled to remove his armour. Across the door to the bathroom, the bath steamed seduction. Ser Loras' breastplate, however, was not cooperating. He cursed under his breath.

"Congratulations, Ser Loras."

Renly Baratheon leaned against the doorframe. That and the upturned corner of his mouth were the only giveaways in his otherwise solemn expression.

"Thank you, my lord."

Renly offered a full smile before inviting himself in. Loras heard the sound of drinks being poured behind him. He didn't turn; Renly was never keen on protocol, and the damn buckle was nearly off.

It came completely undone when a pair of hands came to help him from behind. Loras raised an eyebrow.

"I think this situation should be the other way round, my lord," he noted.

"Now, now, Loras. A lord-squire relationship should always involve one removing the other's armour after a sweeping victory in a tournament. Isn't this so?" Loras was silent, unresisting. This was partly due to the fact that he and Renly were too close for standard rules to apply—he had only really objected for the sake of argument.

"And since I think we both agree I won't be having any sweeping victories any time soon, I might as well make sure you don't have to sleep in that thing."
Loras' snarky reply died in his throat when Renly, having taken off the rest of his armour—gods, the man worked fast—went on to Loras' tunic as if it were perfectly natural.

In his head, Loras cursed. He had walked straight into the trap, and now there was hard evidence pressing against him that there was no easy way out. To be fair, he had never suspected until a second ago—he could fool himself into thinking he was a victim.

"My lord," he said, "you don't have to resort to this. There are many pretty servants who find you very becoming, I could call—"

"Always so polite, Loras. There are many pretty servants, yes, but I'm sure none of them find me becoming. And I assure you, I would never bed someone unwilling. Besides, you may have noticed," he pressed against Loras, "that I prefer the company of my own gender. Like you do."

Loras pushed away from Renly quickly, and stared him in the eye.

"You're mistaken, my lord. But if that is what you like, I'm sure you can find a previous, willing partner for tonight."

Renly laughed. It was loud and graceless, and the longing it sparked in Loras was completely uncalled for.

"You think you aren't the first one I invite into my bed?" Renly raised an eyebrow. Apparently, he had decided to ignore Loras' protest that he didn't like men. "If I have been able to keep this secret, it's precisely because I haven't been spreading solid evidence around. Not to mention the fact that it could get me killed—I could only ever ask someone who has my absolute trust."

"It has been a long time since anyone died from bedding the wrong sort," Loras said, although he did not sound amused, "but it can certainly ruin a reputation and dishonour a man."

Renly snorted.

"What with Robert squandering the people's money and Stannis being a stony gargoyle, I don't think I have any alternative but to be the favourite brother. So don't worry about my honour, it is more than taken care of."

"Your honour ." Loras' voice was cold.

Renly raised both eyebrows this time.

"Oh." There was a moment of silence, tense as a bowstring. "What will it be, then, Ser Loras? Your honour or me?"

Loras thought he had made his choice clear throughout the conversation. Apparently Renly begged to differ—and so did his body, which took one too many steps towards Renly.

"So. You want me in your bed tonight." He snorted lightly.

Renly was wearing that fake serious face again, and he reached out to resume divesting Loras of his tunic. His voice was neutral when he said,

"I want you in my bed every night."

Renly was being honest, Loras knew—the man couldn't lie to save his life. It was almost too much.

"If we proceed with this, my lord, we will have to be extremely cautious," Loras warned.

Renly threaded a hand through Loras' hair, and his eyelids drooped. It was clearly something he had been wishing to do for a long time. He didn't look like a man in lust right now, Loras thought, he looked like he was caught in a perfect moment. Not that he could talk; he probably looked the same.

"I'm not stupid," Renly rumbled eventually.

"I will have to keep up appearances." But now it was for arguments' sake again.

Renly's legs were warm against Loras'. So were his hips, and his chest, and his arms.

"We both will. The only appearance I care about is the one you will make in my quarters."

In a gesture of mutual acquiescence they both leaned forward and melded together, and said no more; the hot bath was beckoning.