Chapter Text
Dunk knew he was home when the scent about him ceased to be wet grass, and turned to piss and shit.
King’s Landing was known to shine for its foul smell, especially on the hottest days, when the dirty water would rise in vapors and carry with it the worst of the filth folk never cared to keep in a proper place. The streets were wide, and that was where the shit went.
Dunk moved on at an easy pace, guiding the reins of his horse while his gaze devoured every corner of the district where he had been born. Nothing was new, yet it felt strange to enter as a visitor when he had been gone so long. Ser Arlan had once told him that the next time he came through, people would have to look up to speak to him.
He had not been wrong.
Dunk rode along the main streets, filling himself with the noise of it all. Children ran past, and more than one maid crossed his path, letting their bodies brush his armor in playful invitation. It was no surprise, seeing as he rode along the Street of Silk. Dunk fought the urge to cover his mouth and nose against the invading wave of scents that assaulted his senses. As an Alpha, his nose was keen —perhaps less than most, since it had been broken more than once in his life— but it was still far too sharp.
Not to mention his heat made him more susceptible, and he had spent several days ignoring the rising warmth within him.
“M'lord seeks a place to spend the night?” a sweet little voice murmured beside him. Two pairs of hands caught his forearms, slowing his walk greatly. “We have the finest beds in the city.”
Dunk shook his head.
“I am no lord, my ladies,” he said, smiling at the two Omegas who had managed to stop him. Dunk blamed his coming heat for the shameful warmth that crept over him when their generous necklines pressed so carefully against his armor. “Only a hedge knight.”
“You could be one tonight.”
A nervous laugh escaped him and he shook his head again, though he could not help a brief glance toward the brothel they were gently tugging him toward. His horse and mule followed obediently behind.
He hesitated, not because he meant to pay for anyone’s services, but because they had rooms set aside for folk to pass their heat, whether alone or in company. Dunk had forgotten the last time he had truly tended to his needs. On the road he would slip into the woods until the worst of the heat had passed, or pay for two separate rooms so as not to trouble Egg.
The fever spoiled his better judgment, and after settling his companions in a stable, he stepped inside the brothel.
He asked for a private chamber and food, refusing any service until he was within the room, surrounded by incense and a well-kept pallet. When had he last slept upon something so soft? It was the height of pleasure to lie down without boots or shirt. Dunk let out a low groan as his tense muscles finally loosened.
He ate and drank, surrendering to the heat in his solitude. A soft bed and good food were all he needed to endure the worst of his fever. The incense filled his senses, mimicking pheromones that Dunk breathed deep until he drifted toward unconsciousness.
He gave himself pleasure until his hand ached, knowing well he could never ease that pain as he did in his daily life. Yet it was better to imagine he might reach something close to release at last, or faint from the fever, and Dunk cared little which came first.
By midnight the candles had drowned themselves, and in the darkness his pounding headache eased. Not so the heat, which grew all the stronger.
The fever made him delirious. And delirium was never sensible. More than once he imagined the second son of the current king slipping into his bed.
Dunk had not seen Prince Aerion since the day he bested him in battle, near twelve years past. Perhaps more. In his mind he still saw the boy of sixteen he had fought, and the thought gnawed at his guilt, for Dunk was eight-and-twenty now, and to desire the ghost of a boy brought him no pride. To desire Aerion Targaryen brought him no pride at all, but no one must ever know it.
Perhaps it was because of his delirium that he was not surprised when the door to his chamber opened in dangerous silence. Dunk turned upon the bed, half-opening his eyes as he tried to see through his blurred sight. The only light that faintly touched the intruder came from the hall beyond; it caught a slender figure wrapped in loose cloth that threatened to slip from narrow shoulders, and long unbound hair whose silver gleam mingled with the amber glow of the candles and gave the illusion of flame.
“I did not ask for anyone’s services,” he muttered without much care.
“I serve no one,” the youth whispered. “I have no need of coin.”
The door closed with careful grace, and Dunk was once again wrapped in the welcome dark. He had no need of sight to guide him. His hearing was good, and he followed the careful steps across the uneven wood. The stranger’s feet seemed wrapped in cloth, moving with scarcely a sound.
Dunk caught him when he settled upon his legs. The pheromones that flooded his lungs were a sweet mingling of wildflowers and soft smoke. Dunk felt his mouth water and his hands close upon the youth’s sides even before he fully understood what was happening.
Fingers touched his face. Dunk felt the faint unevenness of skin, he was no stranger to fire, and he knew the feel of burn scars. His hair was stroked by the stranger, first with shy touches, then with fuller handfuls.
“Are you a knight?” the youth asked curiously, his voice like honey, like velvet against Dunk’s ears.
Dunk tilted his head. His restless hands slipped beneath the plain clothing without asking leave, pulling him closer against his chest. The Omega hummed with delight.
“I am,” he murmured, swallowing more pheromones. He was no miser with his own, marking the youth in return even though only minutes had passed. “Are you a whore?”
The heat raged like a storm in his blood. Gods, it was not right, not if the boy had been sent to please him. Dunk respected every trade, yet he would not hire a person to satisfy him with their body. It felt wrong. If coin was paid, it meant it was not freely given, and there was little pleasure in something so one-sided.
The Omega let out a purring breath that soothed far too much of his fevered body. Dunk was kissing along his jaw even before he had his answer. The long hair tickled his nose and slipped through his fingers like the finest silk.
“Only someone who desires company,” he whispered. “Take me tonight, Ser, and forget me in the morning. I promise the same.”
Dunk was too drunk on pheromones, too heated by his coming rut, too lost in the welcome touch to raise further objections.
So he did.
He was careful, yes, for it was never his notion of pleasure to cause the youth harm. Even if the heat was shared, not even the fiercest rut would prevent tearing if Dunk was careless. So he prepared him, using mouth and fingers, delighting in the soft whimpers, marking his legs, his back, his chest, even though he could not see the signs he left. He drew forth every ounce of pleasure he could until the youth begged for more, and Dunk gladly gave it.
The good thing about a brothel was that they were not the only ones fucking, nor the loudest. It brought a certain comfort to know he need not hold himself back.
And it stirred his vigor to hear the Omega’s soft voice each time he reached his climax, whimpering Dunk’s name.
Dunk did not stop. Guided by his instinctive hunger and the tender caresses of his companion, he spent the night in release. Again and again, until the Omega collapsed trembling in his arms, satisfied and spent, and Dunk at last lay back in powerful exhaustion.
And if he called for a hated dragon prince between kisses, the youth gave no sign of it.