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Dunk had heard whispers long before they had even marched for war.
The servants of Summerhall had been uneasy in those days, restless in their endeavors to seemingly scrub the keep of any filth, whether it be real or imagined. They moved about systematically in a way the alpha could not recall ever seeing during his handful of visits to the wretched place Egg called home. A strange sight to see when all its royal residents would be gone to fight the rebellion for an uncertain amount of time. Only Daeron, heavy with child, and his lady wife remained behind.
Dunk knew of fighting. Knew what battles led. Death was a cruel familiarity he would have sooner done without.
But war?
He was only a boy during the first Blackfyre Rebellion, and yet had seen what followed in its wake. Singers spun tales on their oak harps of the war, of what great lordling rode forth, whose banners flew where, of valor and noble ends. They plucked about death as if it were some lover's tragedy.
They never sang of the rot.
They never mentioned the piling of rotted corpses, left to bloat under the sun, or the stench of decay and corruption that clung to the air long after fighting ceased. They did not sing of what men did in times of strife. Villages pillaged by men with too much heat in their blood. Women and omegas put to the mercy of those meant to protect them. How the Realm would be pulled asunder and the smallfolk would be like vultures to carcasses.
Dunk knew.
Wars could end in a nightfall or drag on for years beyond counting. All the same, Summerhall's sudden frenzy of cleaning sat ill with him. There was no knowing when its lord would return, if he returned at all, and the castle had never been so particular before. Not for the likes of Daeron, who was rarely ever presentable. Not for Aemon, the young maester already welcomed home with little revelry some year ago, nor Aegon for who was surely kind to all the help of Summerhall but not overly so to encourage the staff to spontaneously set forward on a quest to purge the keep of any uncleanness. Princess Daella was away in a different castle with her wife and children and Princess Rhae kept at court.
There was little sense to it.
Still, Dunk had no time to dwell on it, not with war ahead of him and the quiet, unnerving thought that this might be his last ride.
Perhaps he ought to have given it more thought.
They had made camp, and in those few days Dunk heard talk of a prince he long since wished to forget. Dunk thinks of the innocence he'd tore at, of the good men who suffered for his carelessness. The anger still burned hot.
By some divine mercy, Dunk manages to avoid the omega.
The loyalist camp sprawled wide as a small town, feeling endless in its expanse, but Dunk knew there to be an end. By a miracle Dunk had passed those days without any spotting of the Bright Prince. A good thing, for surely if the knight had happened upon the dragon prince it would not end well.
Luck ends on the battlefield.
With mud as his footing and bloodshed all around him, Dunk catches sight of him.
In armor similar to what he'd worn at Ashford—just as flamboyant—he tears through the rebel forces. As he had at the trial, he rides at Prince Maekar's side. With all the dramatics to his mount and self he looks like dragonfire made flesh, burning a path through the enemy. Driving into them with all the brutality Dunk himself had once endured.
Had Dunk not borne the disadvantage of size in their duel, he knows the truth of it—he would have lost his life.
Staying near Egg—a man grown now, capable in his own right, but always under Dunk's watchful eye—he quickly loses sight of the omega. The battle swallows men whole. Still, in the chaos, Dunk catches glimpses.
His pale hair is like a shining crest amongst fog, blood, and general disarray. More vibrant than his younger brother's, rivaling their mother's silver. It is longer than Dunk remembers, but still short, if only with some length to better cover the entirety of his nape. He is lean, thin as a whip, and no longer a boy. Or at least from what Dunk can see from his safe distance away.
That is all Dunk manages to glimpse of. His dark helm remains on for most of the fighting and only comes off towards the end of the day's battle. An easy victory that is followed shortly by another battle, and then another. In the days that stretched into some months, Dunk is given no more than his back, half-lost to distance and dust.
War ends in surrender and not with glory.
Then as if tying up any loose end, an already defeated man who sues for peace is put to death. There is no honor had.
Dunk would know, stationed at the forefront and forced to watch as already settled conflict in cruelly beheaded. He doesn't recall much after. Only that Egg had to be held back—by his father's command and Dunk's steady hand.
The young prince had shouted, anger bright and righteous. As Dunk had steered him to be.
It fueled his own upset—he always preached to the younger alpha that a knight was to uphold their vows. To defend the innocence, protect the weak, and fight honorably. There is none of that here. Not in this.
The cause, loyal to the rightful bloodline, Dunk had rode out to war on this. Not at Egg's asking—his former squire hadn't even needed to ask.
And still, in the end, Dunk finds himself once more made to witness the Bright Prince's cruel whims.
And just as it had been ten years ago, instead of discontent or backlash for the Prince's transgressions—the lords and knights around him come together in passivity to feast and celebrate.
The Blackfyre bastard is dead. That is all that matters. Though wrong for calling arms against House Targaryen, the rightful bloodline, Dunk cannot say he is happy that he is dead. If he was slew in battle or some unfortunate mishap were to happen to him, Dunk could accept that. War isn't merciful nor fair, it just is. Noble and common men alike prayed to their gods for another dawn. Seasoned swords steeled themselves for another victory or death. Ladies and wives sent their lords, sons, and brothers off with hope that they may return, but never enough to expect them back.
Men lived or died by chance alone.
The Blackfyre should have lived. He had yielded. In return for peace he was given the sword.
Dunk stews over his anger and lets it simmer in his cups. Around him, men laugh too loud, swing their ale, and sing bawdy songs to drown out what they have seen. Joyful lads come up to him, like pups begging for war stories and heralding him with praise for his feats they've heard from fishing wives, innkeepers, and wandering singers. Politely, Dunk thanks them, but refuses any talk.
Restlessness gnaws at him. Fire burns through his blood and he is hungry for more than the skewered fish, mead, and bread offered to him.
He leaves early.
Egg sits among men of his rank on a raised dais. Dunk gives him a nod as he passes. The young alpha only regards Dunk dismissively. He takes no offense. The boy—no, the man—burns as hot as he does over what was done. For that, there was no finer prince in Dunk's eyes. He was endlessly proud of the man he's continuing to become.
Outside the noise of celebrations, the night feels quieter, though no less heavy.Dunk makes his way back to his tent, stationed close to House Targaryen's great pavilion. Too close for his liking. He is camped near the middle of camp, though he'd much rather have been out near the edges or laying beneath some great oak. Surrounded as he was by the Great Houses and esteemed knights Dunk felt too exposed.
Blood pumping it would be hard to find any relief. His rut was near, spurred on by the adrenaline of swinging his sword and cleaving men down, his instincts were roaring. He wanted nothing more than to enjoy the privacy of his humble hut and take himself into his own fist and rut into it till he was boneless and his hand was left aching and raw.
He means to be alone.
He is not afforded that luxury. Dunk smells him long before he even opens the flap leading into his quarters. Clove and lemon hit his orifices, with something darker beneath, like smoke, and something faintly sweet.
Dunk stills.
"You shouldn't be here."
Removing his sword and belt—a foolish decision when in the presence of the dragon prince, leaving him with nothing but his hands to defend himself—Dunk pointedly ignores him. Or at least tries to.
"Perhaps not," the prince says lightly, "but by the smell of you, you should be grateful I am."
Dunk continues to give him his back as he fights to take off his boots. "Gods you reek."
With a sharp tug, Dunk frees his foot at last. "If it bothers you so much, then leave." He snaps, turning around to face the pale haired brat. Whatever angry words that nearly flew from the tip of his tongue are promptly choked on.
Sitting on Dunk's pitiful excuse of a bedding is Aerion in what is better described as all his glory. He sits back on his haunches, legs tucked under himself and knees parted. Dressed in a cheap mimic of a chemise so thin that Dunk can see the outline of his figure beneath. The candlelight is generous to Dunk's feasting eyes. Revealing pale, smooth skin, rosy pert nipples, and a soft but flat belly. His privates are safely covered by the bunching of the fabric.
Dunk's throat goes dry.
Aerion smiles then, slow and sharp, something dangerous curling at the edges of it.
It's him who lunges forward first. Biting at Dunk's lips with ferocity and need. He doesn't fight him off, pulling his closer by the backs of his thighs and meeting him with equal brutality. Their teeth click together and Aerion lightly teethes and pulls at his tongue.
Dunk quickly grows impatient, tearing at the flimsy shift and removing his own garments. He drags them to the bed, pulling Aerion on his lap. They both run hot, Aerion slotting the seam of his cunt along Dunk's hardening member. Frothing back and forth with unadulterated lust. It doesn't take long for Dunk to be slathered in the omega's growing need and himself to fully erect against his soft stomach. He rests just below the prince's bellybutton.
When he tries to prep Aerion, to give him a finger or two to help loosen him, his hand is promptly slapped away.
"I don't need your coddling. Just fuck me."
And so Dunk does, he helps lift the omega up and lets his tip catch Aerion's leaking hole. Aerion gives no warning, throwing caution to the wind and slamming himself onto Dunk's length. Taking him all in one fell swoop.
Aerion lets out a drawn out, strained groan, the sound breaking into something softer. A quieter whimper follows.
Dunk offers no comfort. Aerion hadn't wanted it so he would not give him any. He wasn't deserving of it anyways. Not after everything.
His jaw tightens.
Without gentleness to spare, Dunk clasps him by the neck and forcibly wills Aerion to move despite the obvious pain he is in. His tight wet heat clings to Dunk greedily, sucking him further. He sets a punishing pace. Skin clapping against each other fills the candle lit tent alongside Dunk's grunts. He barrels into Aerion with all his might and the omega returns his rough handling with tender caresses along his hands and forearms.
Aerion is purring. With Dunk's strong hands clasped around his delicate throat, the omega is purring. Dunk can feel the vibrations around his prick and nearly loses it. Almost knots him right then, tempted to flood his aching womb. Roughly he stills Aerion before he can fully knot, holding him off by his neck he slams the princeling down till his pussy is flush against the base of his swelling cock and keeps him there. There is resistance from the back of Aerion's cunt.
Above him, Aerion keens pitifully, cutting off the vibrating hum filling his chest. His eyes roll back and his tongue hangs from his slobbering mouth. Like a bitch in heat.
Groaning, Dunk lurches forward to suck on the pink appendage. He moves one hand up to hook the corner of Aerion's pretty lips as he messily laps into him, painting his tongue over his sharp teeth and savoring his sweetness.
He tastes of honey and Dunk briefly wonders if his cunt is just as delicious. He will find some time later to see.
Tonight he plans to savor it for better uses. Seemly thinking the same, Aerion begins rocking his hips impatiently. Laughing meanly against his bruised lips Dunk parts them with a chaste kiss and a quick spit on Aerion's hungry tongue which gets him a high pitched moan—no better than a paid whore.
Freeing Aerion from his crushing hold, his hands instead smooth over his narrow waist and toned thighs.
With a harsh smack to his inner thigh, Dunk urges the dragon on. "Ride."
There is little protest besides Aerion's pretty features being twisted by frown that resembled more of a pout. Dunk never knew the omega could be so docile. He lays back and watches Aerion work himself up and down on his length. The indent of his cock is more prominent from this angle, as is the concerning stretch of the smaller's hole. Impossibly pink and wet, each cant of the prince's hips is followed by another gush of slick and nasty squelching.
Dunk can hear Aerion taking him in, every slide met by a hollowing knock against the entrance of his womb.
Tightest cunt Dunk has ever had the pleasure of knowing.
The knight can't help but let his hands wander; playing at the omega's swollen clit and the other coming cupping Aerion's behind to steady him as he roughly rolls his hips. He manages to roll three tight circles into the peeking bud before Aerion cums.
"Oh fuck!"
He pulls himself off of Dunk's cock in a hurry, using the thick of the alpha's thighs as support as he squirts against his aching length. Dunk can only watch in rapture. Aerion's lithe body goes taut with tension legs shaking as his release comes over him. He leaves a puddle, and as if not done goes to rub into the bundle of nerves again. Dunk is left in awe at Aerion's whining and the urgency in which he plays at his clit with. In succession another gushing spray leaves his cunt.
Dunk doesn't think, just hauls the omega midway and seats him back on his cock.
"Stupid fucking oaf!" Aerion yowls in his ear, clawing at his biceps. Bloody welts trail after every rake down Dunk's arm.
He fucks up into Aerion's trembling body, chasing his own climax and uncaring to the shorter man's pleasure or discomfort. The omega is openly sobbing around Dunk, drool and tears marring his lovely fucked out face.
"Tighten your cunt," Dunk growls, slapping a wide palm over Aerion's ass.
It hurts. His backside already bruised and his hole sensitive. But Aerion does as commanded and clenches around the alpha's fat cock, feeling the base swell with a telling knot. Aerion wants it, to feel the hot flooding of Dunk's filthy seed filling his cunt. Breeding him.
To be stretched until he breaks. To feel Dunk so deeply that he aches with the phantom of the brute inside him for days.
"No better than a tavern whore, crying for a knot. All your nonsense about being a prince of the blood just to lay on your belly and beg for alpha cock." Dunk taunts. "Should put a bastard in you since you seem so fond of them."
"Is that it? Are you upset over that Blackfyre bastard?" Aerion bites back, voice sharp despite the strain in it. He heard tales whilst in Lys. The previous pretender was said to be quite fond of Duncan. Rumor that he even bedded the bastard. "Were you planning to fuck this one too?"
"Spreading your lowborn seed to anything that resembles a Targaryen cunt. Disgusting."
With renewed vigor, Aerion aimed his hips downward and grinding hungrily onto Dunk's thick cock. He tugs Dunk down by his hair, grabbing handfuls of long coppery brown strands.
"Your mine," he hisses, violet eyes lit with fury. "Since Ashford and before and long after. The dragon does not share. I will not have you skulking over a mere Blackfyre."
Dunk snarls at that.
He would never belong to Aerion. Never. Not to someone so cruel, so reckless with others.
His mind turns to others he had known; sweet Tanselle, who was kind and pretty, of cunning Rohanne, sharp-witted and bold, and even lovely Daemon, vain but charming. Aerion was like no omega he'd ever known. Nothing sweet about him other than his cunt. Addictive and of the most tantalizing nectar.
He shoves Aerion down one last time, his soft silver hairs kissing Dunk's coarse brown. A silent scream wracks his thin body, convulsing around another orgasm and nearly torn on Dunk's large knot. Hot sperm overfills his uterus creating a small bulge that softens his belly and makes him appear somewhat bloated or in the early stages of pregnancy. Stars burst behind Dunk's eyes, a tingling sensation shooting from his spine down to the tips of his toes.
Before sunrise, when they are set to leave, Dunk fucks Aerion on his belly twice; once into the bedding and then again on the floor. Several more times with Aerion on his back with his knees bent up to his ears, and then rutted into over a chair. All whilst Dunk is impossibly deep and filling him to the brim. By morning he is sore, blaming his hurt on the aftermath of the fighting and takes the carriage over horseback with his cunt stuffed with the stupid knight's cum.