Chapter Text
Unexpectedly, the smaller man is an Alpha.
It comes to his attention when he is three cups deep, Raymun Fossoway talking his ear off about his cousin Ser Steffon, unconcerned with if he is being listened to or not, if the people around them are rolling their eyes or not. It comes to him as he catches a whiff of a scent that had invaded his nose that very morning in Ashfod castle, sharp with a hint of smoke, like a freshly extinguished pyre.
Straightening up in his seat, he manages to catch a glimpse of pale hair and red cloth weaving through the gathered crowd.
“Dunk.” Raymun whines, eyes glassy with the wine he’d been going through at an alarming rate all evening.
“Sorry, just.” He shakes his head. “Are they all alphas, then? Even the slight one?”
Ser Fossoway follows his line of sight and grimaces at what he finds at the end. “That’s what they’ll have you believe.”
“Sorry?” He repeats, confused rather than truly apologetic.
The younger’s grimace turns into a sneer and he leans in closer, wafting his own scent all over Dunk in an ill-advised move. He holds his breath while the other speaks in a conspiratorial tone.
“Some of the lords and knights here believe they’re hiding Aerion Targaryen’s true designation. That he’s an omega they’re not keen on marrying off to some house that’s beneath them so they’re lying about it.”
He hums, eyes in the distance again, trying to see where the prince had gone but finding nary a trace of him. If they truly are hiding that he is an omega then they are doing an admirable job of it. Especially considering the scent of him that had had Dunk fighting hard not to bristle.
“I can imagine why.” The other shrugs, motioning to the area around them, the rowdy lords and knights in question. “The lot of them are hardly worth an omega’s attention, let alone a Targaryen’s. And with the prince being deranged as he is, I’d hardly wish that upon anyone either way.”
He bites back on the gasp that wants to leave him. Surely the younger isn’t badmouthing the Iron Throne, and quite so boldly, too. He supposes the other feels safe with him, and to his point, the prince had been rather unpleasant towards Dunk when they’d met.
The pretty ones are always temperamental, the men from the Kingsguard, speaking as if they were not talking about the prince, as if they were instead making a passing comment about some lowborn omega, had noted. Perhaps this is the common opinion, then. Maybe there is truth to what Raymun is claiming, maybe all the gold in King’s Landing can and is being used to cover Aerion Targaryen’s real designation.
“If you ask me.” Raymun slurs, elbow close to slipping off the table. “It’s better this way. We don’t need any more of those white-haired bastards running around, plaguing the land.”
He chooses not to comment further on the issue and instead distracts the younger with another drink and a tale of his travels, talking about his horses and Ser Arlan. It works well enough and soon Raymun is dozing off on the table, leaving Dunk alone with his musings.
The thought stays with him until the next morning, though. It stays with him until he is watching Aerion’s jousting match, Egg on the fence in front of him screaming kill him with such vehemence which takes him by surprise. And when the prince drives his lance through the horse’s neck, the idea that the young dragon’s blood can be anything other than an uncouth, feral alpha promptly laves his mind.
He is unsure of how exactly he lands himself in this situation. He’d been in his cups, watching Lyonel Baratheon dance attractively on top of the tables along with the paid entertainment, unconcerned with what those around him thought of his performance, when someone had approached him from behind.
There had been a hand, small but strong, on the back of his neck and the scent of fire. The combination of such a familiar touch coupled with the incendiary stench assaulting his senses had had him overreacting. He had whirled around, arms outstretched and grasping at whatever was within his reach – which had, unfortunately, ended up being one Aerion Targaryen’s neck.
He had gasped and the prince’s smile had stretched so wide Dunk could see his pink gums and sharp eyeteeth.
“It was an honest mistake, Your Grace. I beg of you.” He pleads for the nth time in a few short minutes but it’s useless. After his unwitting assault, he had been spirited away to a secluded part of Ashford Meadow by two stone-faced guards and the prince himself. He had been ushered into a tent isolated from those around and unmarked by any crest or sigil.
“Then you meant to attack any other highborn in your vicinity that were to approach you? Not very noble of you, Ser.” The prince tutts, mouth pursed.
They’re going to behead me, he thinks, faint. There is sweat beading on his forehead, his knees aching from the impact with the ground and on top of it all, he’s still fighting the instinct in him that keeps urging him to try and overpower the other alpha. That innate thing in him chomping at the bit to prove himself better than the arrogant princeling is persistent, clawing its way to surface. He grapples for something to say, some way to defend himself but it’s all useless. There is nothing to say or do, he’d acted without thinking, that irksome scent adding wood to fire, making him burn up in an instant.
He doesn’t remember the last time he’d reacted so strongly to a scent and anyone could attest that he was a mild-tempered alpha but. But.
“Surely, my prince, there is some way I can make it up to you. There is no need to involve the Kingsguard over my foolish actions.”
The prince sneers down at him but his eyes are alight. They are full with something Dunk would call malice but perhaps is interest instead. With deliberate movements, the other grips his chin, turning his head this way and that. Dunk holds his breath, letting the other observe him to his heart’s content, not daring to incite more ire.
“You reek but you are unclaimed.” The prince hums, licking his lips. “You’ll do.”
“I’ll… do, Your Grace?” His voice comes out muffled due to cold fingers still holding his cheeks.
“Yes. Do this and I will forgive your transgressions against the Dragon.”
The Dragon? He sways as Aerion releases him, remaining on his knees where he’d been put earlier.
Then, much to Dunk’s horror, the prince begins stripping.
“Your Grace!” He yowls, slapping a hand over his eyes and turning away for good measure, afraid to see, afraid of possible further punishment.
Somewhere else in the tent, the prince chuckles. The melodic sound is followed by the rustle of fabrics and clinking of metal; dread pools in Dunk’s stomach.
“It is impolite to refuse a gift one is being offered by the great house Targaryen.”
“My prince, I do not understand what-”
“You are as slow as you are big.” The prince scoffs and then, with those same cold fingers, pries his hand away from his eyes.
The expanse of pale skin in front of him is startling, the unblemished state of it less so. There would be no scars on someone of Aerion’s standing, no mottled bruising or jagged lines from conflicts past. His mouth parts in shock and a wave of that same burnt wood scent invades his senses, making him see red. His eyes clench shut on their own, his muscles tighten. It’s so much more potent up close like this, so much more aggressive.
Once he’s finally managed to calm down, he finds that his hands had acted on their own again and that they’ve anchored themselves on the prince’s slim hips.
“Curious.” Aerion purrs, bending down, wafting more of his scent over, using it as a weapon in its own right. “You must find me particularly repulsive to be losing your composure like this, hedge knight.”
“Your Grace, you are a – a strong alpha and your scent is as such.” He wheezes, knowing that it’s not strictly forbidden to talk about it but that it is uncouth to be bringing the other’s designation and smell up like this.
The prince’s expression sours and his hands come to circle Dunk’s wrists, fingers not able to enclose the entire girth of them.
“Yes. That precisely is the problem, isn’t it?” The other squeezes briefly before running a hand through Dunk’s hair, an airy sigh escaping him. “I presume you’ve heard of what happens when one alpha lies with another, yes?”
Instinctively, he tries to twitch out of the other’s grasp but the man’s hold on his hair grows firmer, his scent lessening in its intensity at the same time.
“My prince, surely this is not – I am sorry, truly! I cannot hope to make up for it but this is-!”
“Silence, oaf!” The Targaryen hisses, shaking him by the grip on his hair. The other’s face is red, Dunk notes. The prince is flushed and his chest is expanding heavily, the hand not on him is shaking at his side. It is all very telling when combined.
“S’pose Your Grace does not mean me, then?” Heat, heady and sudden rushes to his head, his scent flaring. He does not know what the notes of it are but whatever it is, makes the prince bristle.
Teeth bared, the man pushes his nose against the skin of Dunk’s throat. The touch of it is damp, raising bumps along the back of Dunk’s neck. On its own, the action is a clear threat but with everything that he’s gleaned from their conversation so far, he is decently sure the other means him no harm. As absurd as that sounds.
“I need the great big beast of an alpha that you are, to take me.” The prince speaks in a hushed tone, breathing heavily as he does so. “You are to take me even if I fight you, hold me down and knot me until the change takes.”
“My prince, but you – that is, an alpha should not want for-” He splutters, unsure of how to proceed, how to deter the other from this foolish pursuit.
“I do not expect a simpleton like you to understand.” With a scoff, the prince rears back, meeting his eyes. He is surprised to find them clear and clever instead of glazed over with drink or something else considering what is being asked of him.
“But if you must know.” The prince begins loftily, nose upturned. “If it will ease your oh-so-clear conscience, I am doing this for the good of my family. Dragon’s blood runs through my veins and so with this transformation the Dragons of Old Valyria will rise again, brought forth from my own flesh.”
He’s delusional, Dunk thinks, feeling what is, to his mortification, arousal at the idea of the slight prince round with a babe in his belly. It’s impossible, even with the - the bitching, it will not accomplish a thing, and yet the prince has seemingly made up his mind.
“Once I am rid of this alpha designation, they will have no choice but to promise me to Valarr and all will be as it should; the Targaryen rule over the kingdoms secured.”
To Dunk’s horror, the other’s mercurial eyes have gotten wet as if he’s ready to shed tears over this. The hands he still has on the other’s heated skin clench, drawing both their attentions to the point of contact. An alpha wanting to be an omega… Raymun Fossoway couldn’t have been further from the truth with his accusations if he tried.
“Isn’t he-”
“It is this or I have your hands cut off for daring to put them anywhere near me, brute.” Quick as they’d appeared, the tears are gone. Replaced instead by that spiteful, petulant glare.
“Your Grace.” He nods, putting all thoughts of trying to escape the situation out of his mind.
“So there is something in that thick skull of yours after all.” The other walks backwards, leaving his grasp and undoing the tie of his breeches. “Remember, hedge knight. Even if I fight you.”
“And, um, will you try fighting me, my prince?” Not brave enough to move his eyes away from the other’s face, he is treated to the full force of the prince’s menacing grin yet again.
“Of course.” The other states simply. “What kind of an alpha would I be? Do you expect someone of Dragon’s blood to simply roll over for you – a nobody?”
For a moment there he had dared to think that this would be somewhat easy, that, seeing as the prince is in favor of the bitching, he would not pose much of a threat. But, apparently, His Grace enjoyed being difficult and making the lives of those around him a nightmare.
“Undress, Ser hedge knight.” The other instructs and Duncan realizes that the prince is entirely bare for his viewing now.
Away from the oppressive smoke of his scent, the other looks delicate. His fine features, the paleness of his skin and his hair making him more a ghost than a man. Though the limp and considerable length he’s proudly showing to the room at large certainly marks him as one.
“I did not bring you here to gawk at me.” The other notes, eyebrow raised and Dunk nods hurriedly.
While not necessarily embarrassed, he is uneasy about undressing in front of the other. He’s even more so when he remembers that he is being tasked with, well, taming the spoilt prince for the lack of a better phrase. Once he is as nude as the prince, he stands, waiting – hoping for further orders, anything that would tell him how he is supposed to proceed.
“By the Gods, of course you’d have a horse cock.” The prince groans, his stance shifting and Dunk gets the distinct idea that he is about to be attacked.
“You do not need to do this, my prince.” He warns for the last time, solidifying himself against whatever the other has in store for him.
“It is my destiny.” The Targaryen growls, low and threatening and then rushes at him.
Dunk feints to the side, avoiding the direct attack. His breath rattles in his chest as he manages to catch the other by the arm that had been aimed for his gut, twisting it behind the smaller alpha’s back. The scent of smoke invades his nose, unbearable and suffocating but he pushes through it, nudging his leg between the other’s, unbalancing him. He did not think the fighting they’d be doing would be quite so literal.
Aerion shouts, impotent rage as he grapples the prince’s other hand to the small of his back as well. The grip is going to bruise but he feels as though if he were to give the other even a speckle of room, he’d be punished for it. So he keeps his hold relentless, leaves the prince trashing and suspended at a tilt with his legs spread.
It’s not arousal that he feels, not exactly, but there is a certain amount of satisfaction that surges through his blood. To have an alpha of such standing, even a physically smaller one, at his mercy like this pleases those suppressed instincts within him. A rumble leaves his chest and Aerion bristles again, snarling.
“Unhand me.”
“M-my prince!” He splutters, suddenly unsure.
“You idiot! Do not release me!” The other’s following order is immediate, leaving him confused and biting back a whine.
“Seven Hells.” With a disturbed mutter, he jerks the prince around, half-walking and half-dragging him towards the other end of the tent. The prince’s back arches as he is forced over the foot of the bed, displaying his pale arse. Dunk takes a moment to just look, winded from the short exchange.
Aside from lacking certain parts – as far as Dunk knows – the other could truly be an omega. The taper of his waist, the round globes of his behind and the strong thighs make for an appealing sight. And like this, with him away from the other’s scent glands, the whiff of alien alpha is not as strong as it could be, adding to the pretense.
“For what it’s worth, Your Grace, I think you will make for a lovely omega.” And he does mean that, he means it as a genuine compliment but, unfortunately for their situation – it comes across as a taunt instead.
The prince begins trashing anew, anger seemingly stoked by the words. “You dare! You’ll be lucky if you have all of your teeth by the end of this! I will rip that horse cock off of your body and do this myself!”
Wincing, he bends down, shushing the other. He pushes his nose into that silvery hair despite the strong stink of alpha there. “I did not intend the slight, my prince. I only meant that you are, ah, beautiful – if you will permit.”
The other gasps in response, the sound of his throat clicking around an open-mouthed swallow loud in the silent tent. The agitated scent eases, letting Dunk breathe a little easier. He trails down the other’s nape, pressing light kisses to the unmarked skin, tasting the salt of the other’s sweat.
“There is a vial of oil on the tray.” The prince turns his head to the left and Dunk follows. On a low table several paces away that holds a silver platter, a glass carafe filled with wine and a cup is indeed a tall, slim bottle the color of rubies.
He purses his mouth, eyeing the prince who’s taken to looking over his shoulder at him. His hands shift on the other’s wrists. If he releases the prince now, there’s no telling if he’ll be able to get a hold of him again and if it will go as easily as last time.
“Since it seems to have escaped your notice, Ser Duncan, I cannot get slick as an omega would.” The Targaryen urges, an near unnoticeable shake to his voice.
“Will you hold still if I go and get it?”
“No.”
“No, I did not think so.” With a heavy sigh he steps back. It takes a moment for his fingers to unclench around the other’s arms, the skin under them red and irritated. Trying to be a quick as possible, he makes a dash for the low table.
It’s not quick enough. Eyes wild and teeth bared, Aerion jumps at the chance and prone as he is mid-step, the prince manages to unbalance him easily despite their difference in bulk. He yelps as he goes down, the slap of their bare chests together loud and unfortunate. Searing pain lances through his hip as they grapple on the rough and dusty carpeting, the smaller alpha straddling his waist and trying to get hands around his neck.
He growls back, bucking his hips, unseating the other. Lighter than Dunk had expected him to be, the prince is bounced to the side slightly, knocking his elbow into the table, turning it over, spilling the contents onto the ground.
“Stay still, you wretch!” With a groan, he manages to get the crook of his arm around the other’s neck, squeezing him between the muscles there.
Aerion flails impotently, going red in the face, hands grasping for purchase and coming back with the carafe instead.
“Hey, now. No!” He tries to ward the other off but it’s useless and he’s got nothing left to defend himself with as the thing of wine gets slammed into his shoulder.
The carafe shatters with a loud sound, shards of it slicing into his skin and he hisses, the pain sharp and severe. The sight of blood welling up from the wound seems to momentarily stump the prince, his eyes dark and his lips parted.
The moment of stillness passes and Dunk is tumbled onto his back, the prince in the cradle of his hips. He brings his hands up to shield his face from further damage but then – nothing happens. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his lids until he’s blinking up at the other again, taking in the dazed grimace on the smaller alpha’s face.
Slowly, carefully, as if Dunk is the one that needs delicate handling, Aerion leans down until his face is far too close to the sluggishly bleeding wound. With the other kept busy observing the welling of crimson and the drip of it down his arm, he reaches to the side where the bottle had rolled. He’s well on his way to uncorking the thing when he feels wet heat on his skin. He startles, looking to where the other’s tongue is dragging up the trails of blood, lapping them up as if he can’t get enough.
“Seven Hells!” He jolts, that wicked tongue now dangerously close to those clean cuts. “My prince, I- that’s not-”
The other’s lips close around the largest of the wounds and the pain overwhelms him, making him bite down on his tongue to stop from whining as if he were a pup again. When he draws back, Aerion’s mouth is as crimson as the wound, teeth rubies in his mouth and between them a shard of glass.
“Your Grace.” He hushes, reluctantly taken by the sight, by the display of such primal behavior. The forgotten and faint arousal returns, stirring in him anew, the tang of iron heavy in the air overpowering the burnt pyre as the other spits the piece of the carafe out to the side.
“You taste good for a lowborn, Ser Duncan.” The prince purrs, placing his hands onto Dunk’s chest, the entirety of them not covering much skin at all. They’re scorching, though, as if he is being touched by fire itself, as if it will scar.
“Did that satiate your thirst for fight, my prince?”
“Not in the slightest.” With a crazed grin, the other makes for the soft flesh of his neck and Dunk acts before he can think about it further. One hand still on the vial, he winds his other arm around the prince’s waist.
With more force than possibly necessary, he twists, digging bruises into the smaller alpha’s sides as he turns Aerion so that they are front to back. Before the prince can gather his bearings, he follows until the other is on his knees with Dunk behind him once again.
“You insolent peasant!” The prince screeches but it’s useless because they’re now in the same position as before they’d gotten off the bed.
Being unable to see Dunk seems to calm the prince some, though, and he finally manages to catch his breath as the other settles. With a heaved sigh, he uncorks the bottle one-handed, the other holding the prince’s wrists at the small of his back, adding another ring of bruises to the already purpling skin there.
The sound of the vial is loud and once he’s got it open he – he falls silent, embarrassed.
“My prince.” He winces at how croaky he sounds. “I don’t s’pose you would be so kind as to… guide me through this.”
“Pure as the driven fuckin’ snow up North.” Aerion spits, shaking his head. “The idea that you’ve not done this to another alpha already is appalling. Everything you are is a waste.”
“M’lord! I would never.” Aghast at the idea, he protests but it is useless because the prince only has to look back at him with a raised eyebrow to prove his point.
“With the size of you, this should not be dissimilar to how you’d go about preparing an omega.” The other’s inflection is bored almost, as if this is a dull dinner he’s being forced to attend but Dunk can feel the fine tremors running through his slight frame, belaying how he truly feels.
“Ah.” He bites his lower lip, wincing as the prince stiffens up again.
“In all of the Seven Kingdoms, I chanced upon a fucking maiden!” The Targaryen trashes briefly before spreading his knees and leaning his cheek against the side of the bed.
“I’d never had the time nor the freedom to-!”
“I do not care about your paltry excuses, oaf!” With another angered snarl, the prince tries to get his knees under him. It’s a futile effort but he lets the other try regardless. “Get your unworthy fingers slick and start with one, or can you not count that high?”
Gods, he thinks, noticing the bruises that have started making themselves known all over the prince’s body from the rough handling. He is rather pretty.
And he will be Valarr’s after this. After Dunk has done the majority of the work, after he’s bled and fought for this asinine idea, this delusion. Aerion will go back to his family, pleased with himself, happy to continue the Targaryen line. The thought sits poorly with him. Whether it is the simple allure of holding power over someone of Aerion’s standing or dismay at being discarded so easily, he finds himself displeased and unsettled. And worst of all – jealous. As if he should want the newly forged omega to himself, as if he could keep his life were he to voice this thought.
Irritation, exhaustion and the rush of the fight warp within him. They swirl like clouds along the shoreline, heavy and bringing along a storm of great magnitude, turning themselves inside out until they become arousal; until they have blood rushing into his cock.
“Hedge knight.” The prince’s voice reaches him and he startles, looking up.
The other’s eyes are wide, directed down where his hardness has come to rest against the prince’s arse, angry and leaking at the blunt tip. There is sweat sliding down his back and making the raw flesh on his shoulders sting. The scent of smoke is being suffocated by something else, drowned out. The hard ground must be rough on the other’s knees and Dunk is faring no better. He sets the vial aside briefly before hoisting the prince back onto the bed in a few clumsy movements. Though, oddly enough, the other alpha is pliant as he does so.
“This is going to hurt, Your Grace.” He warns, idly petting over the other’s soft skin, waiting to see if the other will try to start another row.
“I am not afraid.” The other speaks but Dunk is unsure of who the other is trying to convince but the prince remains where he’d put him, hands clenched in the silken bedding.
The oil is colder than he thought it would be as he dribbles it over his fingers, as he coats them more than he possibly has to. He warms a bit of it in his palm then lets it dribble down the other’s crack and over the tight furl that’s supposed to fit him. As ordered, he starts with one. He presses against the other and waits for a breath before he tries pushing. The resistance is immediate, Aerion’s body stubbornly keeping him out.
“Your Grace, can you, ah, try and loosen up?” Even as he says it, he knows that it’s a stupid thing to put out there.
The prince scoffs, a wheezing breath leaving him right after. “If this were easy to do, I wouldn’t have sought out a man twice the size of me to do it!”
“That’s fair.” He demurs, unwilling to draw the other’s ire out again. Instead, he reaches around the other and grips his length, surprised to find it hardening under his touch. Clumsily and mostly on instinct, he fists the other’s cock, using the oil to smooth the way, to lessen the drag. The prince whines, shoulders drooping, forehead pushing into the mound of pillows ahead of him and Dunk breathes a little easier for it.
He finds that it’s pleasant, bringing pleasure to someone other than himself. That he’s enjoying it, enjoying hearing every small sound leaving the other alpha, enjoying how the other’s pose slips into something more relaxed. He keeps at it for a while; until the other’s moans are more substantial, until Aerion is fucking his hips into his fist with desperate thrusts, the slick noise of it bringing heat to his cheeks and a fog to his mind.
This is what Valarr Targaryen will get to have whenever he wants it, that poisonous voice in the back of his mind whispers. He has to physically shake his head to dislodge the thought, to fight away the jealousy that’s trying to take root in his chest like a vile disease.
He tries again, one finger, insistent and this time it slips in to the first knuckle. Then, with a bit more force, to the second.
“Fuck!” The prince howls, throwing his head back and Dunk holds still, letting the other adjust.
“M’lord.” Reluctant, he pushes the whole way in. “It’s not too late to stop this madness.”
“No.” Wiggling his hips, the other adjusts, slowly moving himself while Dunk remains a statue in his fear of hurting the other too badly. “No, no. This is my destiny! This is who I was meant to be all along. I will bear the Dragon brood and restore House Targaryen to its former glory. With Valarr by my side-”
The growl that rips out of his throat leaves his chest buzzing with the force of it. It has Aerion ceasing all movement, has bumps raising along the prince’s flesh, the warning in it clear and unexpected to both.
“It is not wise to speak another alpha’s name while already warming the bed of one, my prince.”
“You impudent-!” Aerion tries but in the time it takes the prince to come up with another insult or threat, Dunk finds himself already pressing a second finger into the other.
The base part of him, the jealous part of him, riots. It rebels and thrashes against the bones of his chest, demanding respect, demanding obedience. This was an incredibly poor idea and he was a worse fool than Ser Arlan thought him to be for agreeing to it.
He twists his fingers, pulls them apart and stretches the prince out with slow, torturous movements that have the alpha cursing him out in a different tongue entirely. Looking as if he is about to make another effort at fighting Dunk, Aerion shifts for better purchase. Before anything can happen, though, he clamps his free hand onto the back of the other’s neck, smearing oil and the man’s own pearly spend there. The prince growls but the sound is no match to the moan that follows it as Dunk crooks his fingers inside him.
Two quickly turn into three as he is determined to see this through now, consequences be damned.
“You sniveling beast!” The prince shouts suddenly, making him flinch. “Enough of this coddling and fuck me already!”
He halts, looking down at where he’s stretching the other around his fingers. The rim is red and slick with the oil, an approximation of the true thing. The sight of it, the idea of Aerion being a proper omega, filling the prince with his seed sends spit flooding his mouth. He must reek something fierce and he is certainly leaving his own scent all over the smaller man. There’s his sweat, dripping over the other’s back where he towers over him, holding steady, and more potently, his hard length that he keeps unwittingly rubbing against the other’s flesh. Stupidly, he hopes that it seeps into the prince, that he’s unable to wash Dunk off of him for days on end.
“You could tear.”
“A dragon’s blood is never wasted.” The other responds cryptically and Dunk decides to give up on trying to talk to the other as if madness was not already plaguing his mind.
He coats his length with the oil then adds more to Aerion’s rim as well before replacing his fingers with his cock. There is a low, continuous growl coming from the prince as he lines himself up. The heat the other is putting out is not unlike that of a hearth, a fire lit and roaring, it’s leaving Dunk unnerved. With an irritated huff, he briefly wishes that he had kissed the prince, that he’d tasted his own blood on the other’s clever tongue.
“I hope you do not come to hate me for this, my prince.”
With one last prayer to the Gods, one last stroke of his own hardness, he pushes. There is no wet give that alphas always speak of when praising omegas, no slick easing the way. There is just him, a lowly hedge knight, the prince that thinks himself a Dragon and the rough, slow breach of his cock into the other’s body.
It’s excruciatingly slow-going. He’s terrified of hurting the other, scared that the prince will begin thrashing under him due to his hold not being as firm anymore. And Aerion was right, he is large and by far too big for someone not meant to take a knot.
It is only because he is watching the prince so closely that he notes the changes in his posture again. Much like earlier, Aerion is preparing to move and at this stage, it is crucial that he doesn’t. He places the one hand not helping him along in the middle of the other’s back, putting enough weight into it that it stills the other preemptively.
“None of that, now.” He hushes as he would gentle a horse, calming the wild thing underneath him. “You wanted to take it but you’ll have to take it at my own pace.”
“I will make sure you regret this.” The other promises through clenched teeth, the bones of his jaw working, muscles in his cheeks jumping.
“I’m already regretting it, Your Grace. You will make for a poor omega if this is how you’ll receive every cock.”
With a snarl that’s becoming familiar to Dunk’s ears, the prince turns his head, glaring back at him. His eyes are like two coals, the ring of color barely visible. The other’s mouth is still messy, wet with spit and what is left of Dunk’s lifeblood. But what strikes him as most curious is that the other looks truly, honestly, offended.
“I did not mean to-”
“You said I’d make a lovely omega.” The other sniffles pathetically, cutting him off.
Every instinct within him betrays what he has known to be true so far. That base part of him has seemingly written the prince off as an alpha, leaving him with an upset omega-to-be, someone he needs to protect instead of rail against.
“Fuck.” With a sharp jerk of his hips, he hopes that the sudden pressure will distract the other. And it works like he had assumed it would. The rest of his length is sheathed without pause, making Aerion throw his head back with a mighty wail. If he thought the other was warm to the touch, it is nothing to how he feels on the inside. The fit of it is almost too much, too tight and clenching around him still. He has bullied his way in and now he has to fight to stay there lest this all be for naught.
There is a sound of tearing and then goose dawn is scattered all over the bed as the prince gasps for breath. There is some sort of prayer on his lips that Dunk cannot make out and when the other begins trying to wiggle away from him, he bends down to cover him. Using all of his bulk and height, he cocoons the smaller man under himself, hands finding the other’s and lacing their fingers together.
“Hush now, my prince. The hardest part’s over. You just have to lay still and let me take you.”
The sliding of their sweaty bodies together feels good, arousal filling up his blood and his head, making everything but the man under him blurry. He’s finds that he is panting into the crook of the other’s neck from behind, forcing himself to hold still as he breathes in more of the other’s scent. It doesn’t bother him any longer, not now when it’s already started changing notes, singing a different tune to that acrid stench of burnt wood. His gums ache; he’s too close to the other’s vulnerable skin, to the place where a mating bond would go. If he were a reckless man, if he were willing to throw his life away for this –
No. He can’t afford to think like this. He has a tournament to win, has a reputation to establish and a long life as a knight in front of him. The likes of Aerion Targaryen will not ruin this, ruin him.
But by the Gods, he already feels ruined.
He grinds into the other as slowly as he had entered him; barely pulling back, keeping them as connected as possible. The prince’s breath hitches, little hiccupped moans escaping his parted lips.
Valarr doesn’t need this, the thoughts sizzle inside his head, venomous. He could have any omega in the Seven Kingdoms, he doesn’t need this one.
Angry at his own head, at his own audacity, he bears down onto the prince, flattening him against the bed. Aerion huffs, whining at the change but like this, Duncan can find better purchase. So with one of his knees, he nudges the other’s leg up higher, spreading him apart just a bit further.
Watching the play of shadows along the other’s back feels obscene and he decides to make good on his earlier thought. He leans until he can tilt the prince’s head to the side. Aerion looks puzzled for a moment, eyes darting all over his face before Dunk presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. As if scandalized, the prince sucks in a sharp breath, sweet mouth open and inviting.
He’s not had much experience with this either but it hardly matters when Aerion kisses him as if he’s trying to devour. Teeth pull on his lips, tongue greedily licking at his gums, over any part of him that he can reach and Dunk feels the last vestiges of his grip on his own self disappear.
The drool smears between them, mouths forcibly misaligned as the prince is moved with the strength of his thrusts. Those hitched sounds become cut off moans, small proclamations of the prince’s pleasure as he drives his cock into him harder. It’s rushed, it’s animalistic and he can’t form a single thought that sticks outside of yes and more, and alarmingly mine.
The slap of their frantic fucking is bold, unashamed, and the feeling of it is making him mad with lust. He cannot believe that he’d never set aside the time to do this, that he’d never been brave enough to approach someone for it. And in a sense, he is glad that it was forced upon him like this, that the choice was out of his control. He has to grip the other and bring him lower still, has to help him move back onto his cock as Aerion surrenders to it all beautifully.
“Maybe you are right.” He breathes harshly, feeling as if there is brand pressing into his skin where the other’s hand has come to grip his forearm. “Maybe you were made to be fucked like this. To be bred, one babe after another. Never left wanting.”
“Yes, Yes!” The prince howls, entire body shaking, nails digging in to secure his hold on Dunk. He barely takes note of the blood being drawn, too engrossed in watching the other’s face shift through expressions, each one more tortured than the last. The prince truly is unfairly gorgeous and even more so in the throes of passion like this.
“It’s been-” He swallows, tongue thick in his mouth, unthinking as he continues. “It’s been tearing me up to know you’ll give yourself to someone else after this. That you’ll bend over for the nearest cousin or brother, that they’ll sully you. But I was here first.”
His cock twitches, throbbing, the base of it heavy and preparing to knot.
“I could deny you the knot.” Hissing, he pushes so that the other can feel it forming. “I could keep fucking you like this, filling you without plugging you up. Keep you under me until you won’t want for another.”
“You bastard.” The prince gasps but it’s faint, there is no fire behind it, no fight. It’s entirely perfunctory and he knows that the other isn’t repulsed by the idea - at least in some part.
He nips at the other’s shoulder, leaving a cluster of marks there, staking some sort of claim, some proof that this had happened even if it is temporary. “I hope you’re as loose as a Silk Street whore for whoever comes next and that only my knot will be able to satisfy you.”
Despite his claims, he does not withhold it from the other. It takes more careful stretching with another two fingers and more oil but the knot pops into the other, tying them together. He continues at a slow pace, only able to grind forward now as the pleasure finally washes over him, making his eyes roll.
“It seems you’ve made me selfish, my prince.” He pants, placing a gentle kiss behind the other’s ear, sniffing as the other’s short hair tickles his nose. His cock is still hard, filling the other with more seed every so often as he speaks. “I had not wanted an omega before this, but now I do not know how I will continue knowing what it feels like to have one.”
The other growls, low in his throat but it doesn’t rumble as it once did, almost sounding tame now, sated.
“Such words are treasonous, Ser Duncan.”
“Aye, perhaps I will have to escape across the sea for my crimes then.” He reaches around, taking the other’s length into his fist and giving it a firm stroke. The effect is immediate; Aerion jolts before pushing back into him, grinding himself onto his knot, moaning shrilly.
It only takes a few more moments for the other to spend, pearlescent liquid spurting over his knuckles and the fine sheets below, tongue lolling out of his mouth.
The silence that follows is oppressive, the regret over his words coming in droves as his mind begins to clear. Seven Hells.
“My p-prince…”
“Silence.” The other barks, shifting his hips a little and hissing.
“I must apologize-” He insists but the other reaches back, gripping at his hair and yanking.
He groans and, to his mortification, his cock twitches at the rough handling.
In turn, Aerion stutters. “I-I could have you hanged for this. I could execute you myself.”
“Aye, but I was hoping Your Grace might take mercy on me since I’ve helped him so generously.” With a wince, he choose to keep his silence from this point on.
“We do not yet know if it will take.” The other points out and he wheezes.
“If it will take?”
“The transformation, you brute!” Another fierce tug at his hair, another embarrassing twitch of his cock. “I am not bearing your oafish, smallfolk offspring, you – you!”
“No, of course not, my prince.” He relents, hoping to ease the other’s mood some but it only makes the smaller man more agitated. The prince begins wriggling under him, relentless, forcing Dunk to restrain him. He cages the other in with his arms and one of his legs, hugging him to his chest.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, you cannot move or you’ll injure us both.”
“It would serve you right. I ought to stab you.”
“You can try again once my knot goes down.”
The promise of violence eases the other some and soon, they’re both drifting off to sleep.
He does not dream of much usually, but that night he does see in his mind’s eyes the Targaryen prince with his belly round, sitting in front of a hearth, a content smile on his face. At his side, a black cat and in front of him a child with round, rosy cheeks and straw-colored hair, eyes like two gemstones.
And by the time he wakes up, Aerion is gone from the tent, leaving behind only a trace of his changed scent – something akin to cedar wood freshly chopped.