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Dunk has been on edge the whole day, and it's not because of nerves for the Trial of Seven. It's something stranger, a deep uneasiness tugging at his veins.
It worsens every time he thinks of the princeling.
The mere thought of his cowardice and cruelty has Dunk's skin itching as if it were breaking out in hives. It’s an insult to knighthood that one would be so haughty and lack respect toward anyone but himself. To be so cruel, sadistic. Delusional about his own grandeur. But Dunk would be nothing but a liar, and liar he is not, if he would claim that the prince's appearance did nothing to him at all.
He hates that his body stirs just from the sight of him. The young Targaryen has given him a death sentence, a task to gather six knights to do battle to prove his innocence for a made-up crime. He still remembers the smug smile on Aerion's face as he invoked the ancient Andal custom, thinking himself clever for it.
And yet, when those violet eyes looked up at him, and yet still looked down on him, a crackle would course through his veins, glands on his skin opening as pheromones rushed out of them like hot steam bursting from a kettle at full boil.
He has never smelled it on the prince, but it’s curious that his body reacts to him the way it would to the scent of an omega. From what Dunk has heard, Aerion hasn't presented yet, which is quite unusual for a man his age. All great rulers of the past have presented as alphas, and surely Aerion believes himself no different.
The look on his face would be priceless, should this prove false.
As the rain pours down and Dunk has gathered only one knight so far, a familiar flash of heat hits him. He's driven to his knees, mud splattering, painful arousal gripping him like a vice. His rut could not have arrived at a more inopportune time.
An herbalist might be able to tame his inner beast. He forces himself up and wanders around the dark streets while an illnessless fever ails him.
Then, he passes by a whorehouse, considers it, and whirls around.
If he could take the worst edge off, he might have better luck at finding treatment—that’s what he tells himself. Dunk fancies himself an honorable man, but a rut without a companion is pure agony, and since he hasn't found himself a maiden of virtue, a maiden of coin will have to do.
He staggers through the door and pays himself a room with the last of his copper, then growls as a drunk steps on his foot and spills ale on him. He raises the back of his hand, ready to strike, then halts as he sees that it's the Bright Prince himself who has soiled him. The prince's pale cheeks are flushed from the company of pretty wenches and too much mead, and Dunk goes through a maelstrom of emotions as the prince smirks at him.
“Well, well, ser. You've found yourself six knights already? You must have, of course. You wouldn't be wasting your precious time in a whorehouse otherwise.”
“You can barely hold a pint of ale in your hands. Do you intend to lift your sword at all on the morrow?”
“Should I? I see no knights here.”
“You mock me.”
“Is it mockery if it’s the truth?”
Dunk draws in a deep breath, poised to unleash his ire, but then he catches a scent, and stills. There's an alluring note hiding under the cloying scent of incense and lavender oil on the prince’s skin, and it whispers a promise that this man is exactly what he needs to sate his desire.
It's faint, so faint that Dunk wouldn't catch it if it weren't for his heightened senses. No one has probably caught it before, not even the prince himself.
A thought comes to him, a thought so vile he shivers at it.
Then he thinks of the girl crying out as her finger snaps in half. Thinks of the little boy telling a story of his brother threatening to make him his sister.
It's all so clear in his addled mind, pieces of a puzzle coming together in an embrace of desire and fury.
Vile things happen to vile people. And that's justice.
“I've no need for a companion. Just the room,” Dunk says to the serving wench.
He grabs Aerion by his arm with an iron grip and drags him up the stairs in the literal sense; the drunken prince trips on the steps and even his own feet as the tall man walks him like a disobedient dog. By the time Dunk has found his room and pushed the door open, Aerion is no longer standing, his knees are scraping against the hardwood beneath him and they might be bleeding.
A rumble forms in Dunk's chest as he looks at the pitiful, yet beautiful prince at his feet, and his biology screams at him to make the monstrosity of a man his.
He hauls the prince up from the floor as if he weighed nothing, throws him over his shoulder with ease and locks the door one-handed. It takes only three strides with Dunk's long legs to reach the only bed in the room, and he drops Aerion down on the bedding.
Aerion groans, eyes half-lidded in his drunken state, his clothes dishevelled from the arduous journey upstairs. He looks lovely on the red sheets, a beautiful contrast against his silvery hair and ivory skin.
“What do you think you're doing, vile beast?” He slurs, and attempts to get up, but the soft bedding isn't a stable enough surface for his worsened balance and he falls right back where he started.
Dunk loosens the pin of his rough-spun cape, and the heavy linen falls down his shoulders as he sets one heavy knee on the bed. He pries Aerion's legs open with it, thrusts it between his thighs. The act sobers the prince visibly, clarity returning to his eyes.
“Don't you dare come any closer, I'll have you caned and burned—”
“I know what you are.”
Confusion visits Aerion's face. Then fear.
“I'll show you,” Dunk breathes, and he wrangles Aerion on his belly, easily pressing his resisting arms against his back. The nape of his neck is bare, flushed. Dunk leans in and breathes the lovely scent that is the strongest here.
His teeth scrape against the gland, and Aerion whimpers.
“Don't—”
Dunk bites down, hard, needily thrusting against Aerion as if he was mounting him clothed. A guttural sound spills out of the prince, his whole body stilling as Dunk clings to his neck, tongue lapping at the blood that seeps from under his teeth.
A small voice in the back of his head reminds him for the last time that this is not honorable, but it's quickly drowned out by rage and a need to claim.
He fumbles with Aerion's clothes. Why must there be so many buttons and clasps? Surely they'd stay on him even with fewer. He yearns to feel the warmth of his skin on his own and the fasteners frustrate him, so he rips the fabric for quicker access and sighs as his palm finally rests on Aerion’s back.
It feels hot under his touch, and the inviting scent grows stronger. He sticks his hand under Aerion's breeches, his teeth sinking deeper into his neck as his long, bony fingers prod at the prince's rim.
“Wh— wha— ah, ahhh—”
The pads of his fingers are met with slick, and Dunk finally unclenches his jaw, kissing the angry red mark his teeth left behind.
Aerion hisses, addled with pain and need and fever.
“Do you see now, Your Grace? Can you feel what you are?”
“No. No…” Aerion sobs.
“Aye,” Dunk whispers, massaging the tight entrance that is now wonderfully wet and ready for him. “When you're long dead and they sing songs of you, they'll not call you Aerion the Conqueror, but Aerion the Bred. That's what they'll call you.”
“You lie!” Aerion screams.
Dunk's fingers easily disappear into the eager hole, and the scent of Aerion and his heat is making him delirious.
“No, I smelled it on you. How your body's begging to be sat on my cock.”
The hole stretches without effort, preparing itself to fully receive an alpha, and Aerion's rocking against Dunk's fingers now, shame contorting his beautiful features.
Seven save me.
Dunk pushes his breeches down, just enough to free his swollen cock, red and hot from want and need. He rubs himself on the cleft of Aerion's ass, the size of him intimidating against the prince's smaller frame.
He prods the twitching hole with his cockhead, and worries for a moment. His body won't be sated if it doesn't fit.
“I fear the Gods have made a mistake. How are you supposed to bear my children with these dainty hips?”
He receives only a moan as an answer. Then he swears that more slick pools out of the prince, and he pushes in a little bit more, and the tight ring gives in, allowing him to descend just slightly further.
Considering how much disdain the dragon princeling has for peasants, he sure gets excited when one whispers filthy words into his ear.
“What if my seed takes? What then?” He slides his hand down Aerion's waist, then rests it against the thin flesh of his ass, nearly covering all of it with his wide palm. “A strong son from me will crush your bones, my prince.”
His cock slides in even further, and this time he buries himself to the hilt, forcing the last inch in. Aerion is snug and hot all around him, a warm embrace around his cock. He's never felt so welcome, anywhere.
“Not to worry, your alpha’s a knight of honor,” Dunk continues, though his words threaten to get stuck in his throat. His cock throbs so painfully, begging to fulfill its purpose. “I'll take care of you even if you become a cripple. Maybe that’ll teach you some humility.”
Aerion fists the red sheets, strange, throaty noises pouring out of him.
“Fuck me already, you filthy dog.”
“Aye.”
There's nothing gentle about the way Dunk takes Aerion. He has never fucked a woman like this, not even common whores, but this is also very different. This is punishment, this is divine retribution that the Gods have failed to deliver.
He could break Aerion right here, add just a little more pressure on his spine and it would snap, tighten his grip on his ribcage and the bones would shatter. But he doesn't do it, of course not. He's content with bruising the backs of the prince's thighs, content with rearranging his guts to accommodate the shape of his cock.
He slams into him, again and again, and the beast inside him purrs.
Aerion screams as if Dunk was killing him, and Dunk himself feels a kind of a little death as he lays his claim on a beautiful prince, and the base of his cock feels tight. He’s getting so close to getting what he needs, so close to delivering his judgement.
“Here it comes, my prince. Forfeit life as you know it, for I’ve claimed you.”
His thrusts grow shallow as his knot swells, until he can hardly move at all, and he drives Aerion deep into the bedding with his hips, burying in as deep as he can, and his release finally comes. It’s a sweet wave, an indescribable euphoria after the age of agony. The wrecked body under him trembles, the warmth around his cock pulsing furiously as it milks it dry, and all Dunk can think of is success. He has succeeded.
His fever begins to subside, the air finally feeling cooler on his sweaty skin, and his head is clearer. It won’t last long, his body will quickly stir again and demand the sweet heat of a mate, but he needs to be strong. Needs to hold on until he has set things right, then reward himself with the prince after.
Aerion coughs and shifts beneath Dunk. He breathes with an open mouth, drooling a dark patch on the sheets, violet eyes wide, but vacant.
Dunk presses his cheek against Aerion’s head, his mouth just beside his ear. “We’re bonded now, you and I,” he says, voice raw. “And you might be heavy with my child.”
Aerion’s first word comes out as an incoherent gurgle, and he coughs again, tries again. “I'll— I’ll flay you and hang you up the tree you call home, hedge knight.” He spits, blood-red, most likely from a bitten lip. “If my father doesn't beat me to it.”
“You’ve bonded with a knight out of wedlock, bearing a bastard child, on the eve of an ancient trial you demanded be invoked. Your father will be as glad to have your head as mine.”
“I’ll poison the bastard seed before it has a chance to grow.”
“Now let me tell you what's about to happen. I’ll drag you to the castle, as soon as my cock allows it, and you’ll withdraw your accusation. Then we'll explain what happened, and accept our punishment.”
“I'll not explain anything! You’ll take this to your grave.”
“Your omega stink is everywhere. My smell has been hammered into your core. The court will know, and there's nowhere to run for you.”
Aerion's struck speechless. Dunk lets him brew in the silence, allows reality to sink into his gut like a double-edged sword.
“I need to run.” Aerion tries to struggle out of the knot that's inside him, and Dunk grunts, holding Aerion's hips still with force enough to bruise.
“You'll not need to run, exile awaits you regardless. And as my punishment, I'll take care of you. And as your punishment, you’ll carry my child.”
Aerion curses under his breath, then sobs.
—
Dunk holds Aerion like a child would a ragdoll, loosely hugging him from behind to keep him on his feet. He struggles uselessly against the giant body supporting him, mouth hanging open with ragged breaths.
“Say it,” Dunk commands.
The court waits for Aerion to speak.
Though barely in the state to do so, Aerion speaks the practiced words: “I withdraw my accusation.”
“Aerion,” Maekar warns. “Though I've no mind for it, I'll grant you one chance to explain yourself. Gods forbid.”
Dunk begins: “Your Grace—”
“You'll not speak unless you're spoken to!” Maekar bellows.
Baelor, standing next to the king, says something in a quiet voice. Maekar's jaw tightens.
“Speak, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says.
“Your Grace…” Dunk tries again, conscious of the tremble in his voice. “If you'd allow it, I’d speak for the both of us. Prince Aerion is currently, uh, indisposed, to do so. His first heat has… taken a toll.”
It's so hot, and sweat makes Dunk’s clothes stick to his skin. His stomach roils from nerves, and bile gathers in his throat.
His cock is so terribly hard against Aerion. The omega reeks. The whole room must smell it.
Maekar and Baelor exchange more words.
“Ser Duncan, you’ve come here before us in a compromising state,” Baelor says sternly. “Explain yourself. In brief, if you will.”
Dunk looks at Maekar, grinding his teeth together, and tightens his hold on Aerion.
Aerion gasps.
“I fucked your son, Your Grace. I believe that’s the short of it.”
Maekar stands from his seat with fury.
“You dare—!”
Baelor places a calming hand on Maekar’s shoulder, and though he swats it away, he sits back down.
“Continue, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says. “This time, remember you’re addressing the Crown.”
“Yes, my lord,” Dunk says. “No trial will take place, as I’ve bonded to the prince. And… I believe he also carries my offspring.”
There are sighs and gasps around the table. Maekar places a woeful hand on his temple. Baelor keeps his gaze steady on Dunk, who’s so strained and feverish that he wonders how he hasn't lost his mind.
Dunk takes a shivering breath. “Excuse my uncouthness, Your Grace, but I'm afraid I'll mount your son right here on the noble floor if we can't retreat to the prince’s chambers. I request a proper summons later, in a few days’ time.”
There's silence.
Then Maekar waves his hand, permitting them to leave.
The disgust on the king's face is not lost on Dunk.
—
Aerions chambers are filled with the stuffy smell of sweat and sex. It's moist. Dunk groans as he stretches his aching body, bruises and deep scratches reminding him of their presence. Aerion sleeps so soundly next to him, he might well be unconscious.
There's a knock on the door.
“May I enter?”
Dunk glances at himself and Aerion to ensure they're both somewhat covered, then says “come in.”
Egg steps into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. He stares at his feet.
“Father says that you've brought dishonor to our house. That he'll have you exiled.”
He warily glances at his brother.
“He's well asleep,” Dunk assures.
Egg makes a disgruntled face. “It’s Aerion's fault. Father has waited for an opportunity to do something about him, and now you suffer too.”
Dunk sighs. “It's not your brother's fault. I knew what I was doing, as well as the consequences.”
Egg doesn't like the answer, but he doesn't comment on it. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt.
“I want to go with you. I'm still your squire.”
Dunk waves the boy over, then covers the crown of Egg’s head with his massive palm. “It's best if you stay here, Egg. You'll be safe. And far away from your brother’s cruelty.”
“But it's not fair. You wanted to become a great knight, Ser Duncan, and now you're stuck with my shit brother.”
Dunk stifles a laugh. “Aye, it'll hinder me a bit, but I'll still do great things, just wait. One day you'll hear the minstrels singing songs of Duncan the Dragontamer and his awesome adventures.”
Egg wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather not listen to songs about you taming my brother.”
“Alright, I promise to do deeds greater than that so there will be other songs.”
“Will you ever come back?”
“Not likely. Maybe if a new king takes the seat and grants us a pardon.”
Egg considers it. “Then I'll be king. And then I can send Aerion to the gallows and have you marry my sister!”
Dunk laughs at the unlikeliness of it. “Sure, Egg. We'll do that, then.”
—
“We've been on the road for days now. Surely we can stop somewhere to rest,” Aerion says, sagging on his saddle.
“Unfortunately not, my former prince. We're not to stop until we've crossed the border,” Dunk says.
“Not if the saddle kills me first. Or boredom.”
“Oh, you're bored, are you? I can help with that.”
Dunk snickers, nearly coming apart at the seams at the thought.
“I think not,” Aerion says with a grimace.
“I've been thinking what kind of songs they'll write about us. One could go something like this…”
Dunk draws in a deep breath.
“For Seven's sake, stop.”
Aerion is completely ignored as Dunk belts out a song:
“The tall knight’s wife was a fair omega prince,
named Aerion, the one who was bred,
and the tall knight’s girthy blade did make him wince,
As the giant took his maidenhead!”
Dunk bursts out in laughter at the end, proud of himself for being able to finish the verse, while Aerion only groans.
“I wasn't a maiden when you forced your oafish carcass on me.”
“The song's not about your cock, it's about your arse.”
“I hope I perish at childbirth so you'll be stuck with the abomination,” Aerion grumbles.
“A blessing for us both, that’d be,” Dunk says with a smile, and caresses the soft mane of his horse. He's not sure if he means it, though.