Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Almost two months later, things remained the same. Save that they did not remain the same.

Aerion managed to overcome the nightmares after a couple of weeks because Dunk would wake each time Aerion did, and would stay speaking with him until they fell asleep again.

They slept together. They ate together. They walked together.

It was a curious thing, to take such pleasure in things they had both already grown used to since they set out on their journey North. Now it was better, more intimate, more pleasant. Each day they lived together was a day in which he could see Aerion smile more and grow vexed less.

Though he remained painfully evasive with people, he had to face a rise in visits once word spread that the ‘white haired Omega’ knew of healing. So villagers came to his house each day seeking help for their ailments. And Aerion knew how to help most of them because, it seemed, his chief pastime as a child had been reading the books of the old King Aenys in Brynden’s tower. Dunk had asked, not without concern, whether the Bloodraven had taught him anything beyond a few potions.

‘My father forbade them to teach me anything related to the dark arts,’ Aerion said, and the slight irritation in his tone did not go unnoticed.

Dunk wondered if the king suspected the danger of allowing someone like Aerion to even come close to such matters. He had managed to bring a man back to life with no proper training in the dark arts, what might he have achieved with proper instruction? Dunk did not wish to know.

So each time a villager came asking for help, they brought things to trade. In that way Aerion earned the people’s affection, even if he answered poorly and looked worse. To the village, Aerion was a lyseni foreigner who had escaped slavery thanks to Dunk, a hedge knight, and Ely was their daughter. And they lived in the house of an old hermit who had likely died, taken by some wild beast.

Life was calm. And though they knew that eventually they would have to return, little pressed them to do so.

Dunk could admit that his own unease grew with each passing day he saw Aerion doze, or eat, or show Ely affection. They slept together, but he did not change in front of Dunk, and Dunk had already forgotten the last time he had seen him naked.

And Dunk knew. He knew it deep within each time Aerion sighed while wrapped around him in sleep, when he could breathe the sweetness of his hair or notice his expressions when he helped ease the pain in his ankles.

He was not certain whether Aerion refused to accept it out of fear or rejection, or if he knew as well but was afraid to say it, or if he simply could not see it at all, and that was what made him uneasy. Because he did not speak of it, and the matter grew with each passing day, even if Dunk could not see it.

So Dunk had spent those last months trying to please him and striving to keep him calm. And he was succeeding. As far as Dunk could tell, Aerion’s concerns were less deep and easier to untangle, and now almost three months since they arrived at the cabin, Aerion seemed more settled in the place, and less interested in returning to King’s Landing with his father.

Dunk was content to keep Aerion at peace and see him eat properly without vomiting.

It was already late when Dunk glanced at the cloudy sky. It would not be long before the light began to fade, because, being winter, nights came early and ended late.

His eyes returned to Aerion, asleep among the pile of blankets. He had said he would not take a nap, but he could do little when sleep overtook him after eating and training with Ely. If Dunk waited for him to wake, the light would be gone.

“I will go check the traps,” he said quietly, drawing Ely’s attention. She carved a piece of wood in silence, using the dagger Aerion had bought her. Aerion had sharpened it and taught Ely how to hold it to avoid hurting herself, and when the days were not too cold, they practiced some defensive movements. “Do you want to come with me?”

Ely shook her head.

“I will stay with Aerion,” she said, obviously. Dunk smiled, watching her lift the carved figure toward him. It was not hard to see the still somewhat rough shape of a horse, then, noting the large ears, he supposed it was not a horse but a mule.

Maester.

“Beautiful,” he said, brushing a hand over her hair, a little longer each day. “I will be back soon, hm? Do not miss me.”

Ely nodded, focused on her carving.

Ely had her own way of showing affection, and it was not through words. Like Aerion, like Dunk, she carried her own fears. There were things she would hardly ever be able to put into words in her life. She had seen her family killed, had lived among criminals pretending to be a boy, had known cold and hunger for months before Dunk and Aerion arrived.

They were not memories that would leave her mind easily.

He placed a soft kiss on Aerion’s forehead and adjusted the blankets over his body before rising, struggling against the urge to lie beside him and sleep wrapped in the soft pheromones.

Taking advantage of the fact that Aerion would not need him, he took his coat.

Since they had begun traveling, his clothing had changed considerably. Aerion had worn his fine doublets until the cold forced him to change into the clothes Jhon, the Alpha of Moat Cailin, had given him. Later Aerion fell ill with Sweet Fever, and during his time in the cabin he found comfort from the cold in Dunk’s clothing. Since then he had not stopped taking his garments, though there were not many.

Dunk did not mind if that meant Aerion smelled like him and stayed warm, but if he had to choose, this coat was his favorite because it was light and had inner pockets. Aerion took it for that very reason, he hid his weapons there –when he carried more than three and used them often–.

He shook the coat before putting it on, and noticed how three dark, dry petals fell from inside. Dunk shook it again, more petals fell, and with them, the crumpled, worn remains of a flower that touched the grounf without a sound. Dunk bent down, curious, took it, and silently studied the stem, clean of thorns that had clearly been cut by hand.

He hesitated, unable to do much against the painful tightness that scratched at his chest when he realized where he knew that flower from.

‘A winter rose,’ Dunk had said, ‘for you.’

He turned toward Aerion, still deeply asleep among the blankets. Dunk swallowed the overwhelming wave of affection that seized him when he realized Aerion had kept that gift even months after it had withered. He could do little against his own desire, so he retraced his steps, aware of Ely’s eyes on him, and pressed another pair of kisses to his cheeks.

Aerion sighed in his sleep.

“Will you sleep with me?” He murmured without opening his eyes.

“I will go check the traps, my dear,” he said, kissing his nose. “Sleep.”

Aerion nodded, and Dunk brushed a few strands from his face in a touch that felt almost stingy before rising again.

He left a kiss on Ely’s hair as well, and then stepped outside.

***

It was night when Dunk saw the soft light in the cabin windows. The weight on his shoulders and the sweat running down his temples became bearable as he moved forward with somewhat labored slowness.

His eyes fell on the silhouette at the window moving upon seeing him, and so he took what he held between his lips and hid it behind his back while tightening his grip on the weight over one shoulder. When he reached the cabin, he let it fall with a dull sound and stretched, hearing a couple of cracks in his back and shoulders.

Aerion was already at the door when Dunk reached it. He saw his face pale at the dreadful sight Dunk must have made, so he quickly shook his head, feeling Aerion’s hands catch his face to examine closely the amount of blood covering much of his neck, shoulders, and torso. The rest was still-wet mud, clinging firmly to his filthy clothes.

Well, he did look rather miserable. But he was not hurt.

“Gods, Duncan. . .”

“It is not mine, it is not mine, easy,” he said, not resisting Aerion’s inspection. He tilted his head, touched his neck and shoulders, then searched for wounds in his hair until he seemed satisfied. Then Dunk smiled with pride when Aerion rubbed some of the dried blood from his neck and face. “I hunted a boar.”

Aerion did not look any less horrified.

“Without a sword?” Dunk opened his mouth, Aerion shook his head. “Alone? Are you mad?”

“It was weak, caught in one of the traps, it was not difficult.”

“Then why are you covered in blood?”

“Because I carried it here and that made a mess of me,” he said. “But it did nothing to me.”

“And the mud?”

“We were near a river,” Aerion paled even more, Dunk quickly shook his head, seized by panic. “But not that river!”

Gods, Dunk no longer knew what to say that would not worsen things, and Aerion only looked more unwell, likely troubled by memories. He should have cleaned himself before returning.

“I brought you something,” he said.

Dunk raised a finger as he stepped back. The hand he kept behind his back lifted before Aerion’s pale face, revealing the true reason for his delay.

“It is for you,” he said. “I mean, the boar is for you too, but we will all eat, this is just for you.”

Aerion’s eyes dropped from Dunk’s face to the blue rose he held out.

Aerion opened his mouth, then closed it. His cheeks took on a soft crimson shade as he searched for words that did not come.

Dunk had spent a long while searching among the bushes along the path for a new flower to replace the one Aerion kept. He had thought the search would be in vain, until, with the last light of day, he caught sight of a blue remnant hidden among the brush, sheltered from the cold and the direct snow.

To avoid damaging or staining it, he had cut the thorns and carried it between his teeth, away from blood and mud.

“Take off your clothes before you come in,” Aerion muttered, taking the flower with great care. “You stink.”

And he went inside.

Dunk obeyed, yet before stripping himself bare, he carried the dead boar to the enclosed space where they kept the damp firewood, and shut it behind him. That way no scavenger would steal it before he cleaned it, and it would not spoil, for it would freeze. Then he rid himself of the garments stiff with blood, shivering from the cold and damp. He left them by the door to wash on the morrow, and went inside, trembling when a particularly bitter gust finished chilling his naked body.

The warmth of his home and the sweet scent of Aerion welcomed him as he closed the door behind him. Dunk entered, hiding his nakedness with a not-so-clean undergarment, and let his gaze wander about the cabin, finding it strangely quiet.

“Has Ely gone to sleep?”

“We trained until late,” Aerion said. Dunk found him running his hand through a basin full of water. “She fell asleep not long ago.”

Aerion’s eyes settled on him, and he did not spare him as they roamed freely over his bare skin. Even at that distance, Dunk could see his pupils widen and felt the familiar stir of pure desire. Dunk let fall the last thing that hid his nakedness, holding Aerion’s heavy gaze as he closed the short distance between them at an unhurried pace.

Aerion lifted his chin to keep him in view. His short, soft hair bore a few braids, likely Ely’s doing to clear his sight, and his slender frame was loosely covered by an oversized linen shirt. He wore no trousers, and Dunk savored the sight of his exposed legs until Aerion’s hands came to rest upon his chest, stopping him before he could draw him into his arms.

“Were you waiting for me, Omega?” Dunk whispered, breathing in the sweet pheromones.

Aerion trailed a hand from his chest down to his abdomen, drawing a pleasant shiver that Dunk gladly received.

“I was,” Aerion said. Dunk still felt the irritated pulse at the nape of his neck, which made him tilt his head toward the small, innocent smile Aerion had formed. “For quite some time.”

“I am here now,” Dunk said, ready to claim his mouth in a light kiss.

“Late.”

Aerion pressed his finger against a bruise at his side, making his smile falter into a grimace, and stepped back with ease. Dunk rubbed the spot, meeting again the frown upon Aerion’s face.

“You are filthy and you stink,” he said, touching another bruised place. “And this? Did you earn it walking as well?”

“Mayhaps the beast struck me once or twice before I killed it, but. . .” Aerion pressed another place, and Dunk swallowed a sound. “It is nothing serious. . .”

“It is nothing serious. . .” Aerion repeated, clicking his tongue as he stepped back, wrinkling his nose after a breath. “You come late, covered in bruises and foul as a pig, and you want me to—what? Welcomed you gladly? Why do you still stand there like a fool? Into the water, Duncan, your stench is dreadful, you will foul the house.”

Gods.

Dunk deemed it wise not to tempt Aerion’s temper further, and pressed his lips together as he turned toward the tub.

The water swallowed his body and drew a deep sigh from him as his muscles, stiff from cold and struggle, loosened. It was somewhat hotter than he would have liked, yet his body soon grew used to it, and he gave himself to the deep warmth and the thick steam that wrapped around him. Gods, it felt good.

“Thank you,” Dunk murmured, resting the back of his head against the rim of the basin as he closed his eyes. “This is good. . .”

He had forgotten the last time a bath had felt so good. He bathed more often than ever since he began his journey with Aerion, mostly at his urging. ‘You will not touch the bed unless you are clean and smell fair,’ he would say, and Dunk had no choice but to obey. If the cold was too great or water scarce, he would clean himself with a damp cloth.

Now, not even twenty cloths would rid him of all the filth from his struggle with the boar.

Aerion gave no answer, yet soon Dunk felt a cloth slide along his arm, and that touch drew his attention, making him open his eyes once more. He found Aerion beside him, sleeves rolled to bare his forearms marked with scars. He passed the cloth over his skin, cleaning the grime with a deep frown.

“Stop staring and wash yourself properly,” Aerion said, leaving the cloth in his hand.

Dunk nodded, and began to scrub his face, watching mud fall away in troubled drops that mingled with the clean water.

“Were you about to bathe?” Dunk asked softly, tilting his head when he saw Aerion move behind him. Soon he felt his soft hands working over the stiff muscles of his shoulders.

“I was,” he murmured. Aerion pressed lightly upon a point between his shoulders, sending a sharp sting that made him hiss. “You should have gone to fetch the mule.”

“It was not far, I did not wish to risk another beast taking it,” he said. “And I have the strength.”

“You lack good sense.”

“Why are you so vexed?” he asked, shifting as Aerion found another knot and began to work it loose. “I brought meat for several days.”

Aerion did not answer, only continued tending to his tense back. Dunk pressed his lips together, keeping silent so as not to worsen his mood, and instead went over the past hours, trying to find what might have angered him, beyond facing that beast.

Aerion liked to go with him when they walked, and they often went with Ely, yet as he slept, he should not have been angered by his going alone. Was it the fright? Or that he came so late? Or that he had not eaten with them before Ely went to sleep?

He sank into the tub until the water covered his hair and his knees rose above the rim. It was a large basin for the old hermit who had once lived in that cabin. They had found it when Dunk began to search through all the things left untouched.

Dunk could sit without feeling cramped, and stretch part of his legs within it. It was comfortable. Aerion enjoyed it most of all, bathing in water near to boiling. Dunk found amusement in helping him, unable to enter such heat himself without harm.

Though the water was now quite warm, it was clear Aerion had set it before Dunk returned, or had not heated it fully. But if he meant to bathe, why let it cool so much?

The thought made him feel foolish, and then guilty.

“You were waiting for me,” he guessed, feeling again the sting at his nape.

Aerion did not answer, and that was answer enough.

“I am sorry, Omega,” Dunk murmured. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“So did I,” Aerion said in turn.

He had prepared a bath with water Dunk could bear, had tired Ely so she would sleep early, and had waited half-clothed for hours, surely keeping the water warm and the fire alive.

Dunk was poor at holding back his tenderness when he glimpsed the faint red upon his ears. Aerion tugged at a lock of his hair, and Dunk straightened, rubbing his wet head to rid it of the last traces of dirt.

“Come in with me,” he said, earning a soft snort.

“I would sooner break my other hand than step into a bath with you in such filth,” Aerion said, pouring more water over his matted hair. “Filthy beast.”

“You said you liked the taste of—…”

“I like rabbit meat better if I may eat it with you alive,” more water fell over him, splashing lightly. His hair dropped over his face. “You will not come to bed in such a state, Duncan.”

“I am bathing,” he argued, scrubbing his face with both hands. The water ran with blood and mud, and Aerion’s hands worked to clean his neck and back with the cloth, now no cleaner than before. “See? I clean myself.”

“You will do so until the stench of that pig leaves you entirely.”

“It is a boar…” he said, falling into silence beneath the sharp chill that ran along his spine. “I will do so, my prince.”

“Finish your bath.”

Dunk did.

He bathed for a long while, hearing Aerion mutter each time he brushed against a bruise. There were not many, for Dunk had been swift in killing the beast, but they would surely darken into purple by morning.

In time the water ran clear, his fingers wrinkled from the long soak and he asked if it would be well to leave the bath. Aerion remained silent for a moment, then muttered that he might do as he wished.

Dunk wished to, yet could not hold his tongue at that last remark.

“I try to please you and you grow angry,” Dunk murmured, rubbing his hair after leaving the water and dressing in light garments. “But if I do not please you, you are more angered still.”

“You grumble like a whining child,” Aerion observed.

“I do not grumble,” Dunk grumbled, more irritated, frowning at the soft laughter that brushed his ears from behind. “Do not laugh, it is not amusing. It is not hard to say ‘thank you,’ you know. Basic manners.”

“Turn around.”

“No, you will not command me if you cannot thank me,” he said. “I have listened to you near an hour and have heard no ‘thank you.’ I apologized for making you wait and spoiling your surprise.”

Aerion snorted, and Dunk heard the blankets shift, telling him Aerion had gone to bed. His irritation deepened, for he would not even have the chance to speak with him if he meant to sleep. He had wrestled in the mud with a boar only to be scolded.

And he would do it again, because Aerion liked boar, but he would do so in anger.

“I will sleep with Ely,” he said.

At least the little girl would be glad to have him, she always said Dunk was warm and comfortable.

“Gods, stop whining and turn around,” Aerion ordered.

Dunk turned with the fabric still between his fingers, facing the silhouette carefully framed by the soft fire that survived at those hours. One of Dunk’s shirts barely covered a meager portion of his thighs, and even the scarce glimpses of skin it concealed felt too much for his eager eyes. Dunk swallowed as he watched Aerion wind the shirt’s cord around his index finger and pull, making a gesture as if to loosen it.

He did not even notice when the cloth slipped from his hands, trying to gasp out something coherent.

“Come here, Ser, let me thank you.”

Dunk forgot why he had been angry in the first place.

“You. . . You. . .” Dunk stammered. “You cannot do that, it is not fair. I am vexed.”

Aerion shifted among the blankets, revealing a place beside him, which he touched lightly.

“Come,” Aerion repeated.

Dunk tangled himself in his clothes as he moved clumsily toward the bed, watching Aerion curl among the sheets like a tame feline. His covered belly exposed, his arms wrapped about a pillow, and his bare legs calling for him. Dunk felt his fangs too present and his mouth too dry.

Aerion welcomed him with a low breath of laughter, almost a pleased purr that faded against his skin when Dunk wrapped around him and buried his face in his neck, soon placing idle kisses that Aerion accepted, threading a hand into his hair. To be drowned in his pheromones was glorious, more so when his legs soon wrapped about him.

Dunk had to grant Aerion his words when he mocked him as a ‘mere commoner’; he was, simple and easy to please, content to hide in his arms and take his touch. Gods. Dunk adored, truly, each touch better than the last, and the sweet pheromones upon his tongue made him delightfully foolish and light.

“But you were angry. . .” Aerion whispered when Dunk sought his lips, turning away.

“Me?” Aerion nodded, Dunk shook his head, placing a soft bite upon the dimple of his cheek. “I could not be, my prince.”

“Thst is what I thought.”

Dunk huffed, taking his jaw in hand to finally claim his lips. Aerion did not pull away this time, instead sliding his hands into his hair, tangling them there with ease. Aerion wrapped his legs about his waist, pressing close, leaving clear the desire stirring low within him. Dunk needed no touch to know it, for his whole body pulsed with such want that he could not tell how much was his, and how much was not.

Instead of pausing to think about it, he surrendered to Aerion's caresses, letting himself be undressed by his skillful hands while Dunk tried to take the only garment that concealed his nakedness. Aerion shook his head, and Dunk let go of the shirt to return his attention to his lips.

“Thank you,” Aerion said against his mouth, his warm hands roaming over the bare skin of his back. Had Aerion not worked his muscles before, they would surely have been stiff and sore. “Do not do it again, it is not worth it if you are hurt.”

“Next time I will use a bow,” he whispered, tracing one of his legs with greedy fingers. “I wished to give you a gift.”

“The flower is enough.”

Dunk had seen Aerion place it in a vessel of water. He had not missed the care in the way he moved it, nor the gentleness of his touch.

“I found the boar while I searched for the flower,” Aerion purred as Dunk moved from his jaw to his exposed neck, placing warm kisses upon his skin. “Two gifts are better than one, and I like to please you.”

“There are less dangerous ways to please me,” Aerion said, arching his back when Dunk slid a hand along his spine.

Dunk made use of those past months, and took delight in every inch of skin given to him as if it were the first time. In truth, it was the first time he could truly explore him without restraint. Dunk memorized his shape, followed it with his hands, taking time to admire the flawless beauty of that creature, earning soft sighs and restless tremors.

He was capricious and used his mouth even when Aerion babbled that so much foreplay was not needed. Why would it not be? If there was anything Dunk adored, it was tasting Aerion until he trembled.

He did it slowly, feeding on the low moans Aerion hid against the pillow every time Dunk granted the slightest brush against his weeping center, or bit the tender skin of his thighs, or tormented his entrance with his tongue until his back formed a beautiful arch and his legs closed around him in exquisite tremors.

He made Aerion melt beneath his fingers, shuddering because he himself could feel the overwhelming waves of pleasure that flooded him every time Dunk discovered a new sensitive place to explore.

He brought him to the peak so many times that, when he finally paused to look at him, what had once been a proud and arrogant prince was now little more than a panting, flushed Omega. Tears gathered along his pale lashes and were lost against Dunk’s tongue when he licked them away.

“Do you wish to go on?” Aerion nodded, dragging a hand over his own chest until he brushed his nipples through the cloth. The small rise beneath the fabric made Dunk’s mouth water; he bent and caught one between his teeth, tormenting the delicate skin through the linen that hid it. “Say it.”

“Put it inside,” he murmured, rolling his hips to press against his own throbbing arousal.

Dunk rose over him, tracing his knuckle along the inside of his thighs before guiding himself to his entrance. Dunk had taken his time to prepare him, making sure there would not be even the smallest trace of pain. It had been long since the last time; he would not risk hurting him.

He ran two fingers along the place, delighting in the wetness and taking some of it to stroke himself. It was obscene, and no less deeply pleasing. When he was properly slick, he aligned himself, the tip brushing the ring of muscle. Aerion let out a trembling sigh, foretelling.

“What did we say about basic manners?” Dunk asked quietly.

Aerion blinked slowly, and Dunk could see the effort it took for him to gather his thoughts through the haze of pheromones and desire clouding his mind. His gaze wandered over Dunk’s body.

“What. . .?” Aerion murmured, rocking his hips clumsily. “Put it in.”

“You must ask properly.”

Dunk then felt the flicker of irritation when Aerion managed to push through the pleasure and fix him with those intense eyes. Following his own desire, Dunk pressed the tip in with torturous slowness, drawing from Aerion a low, weak, eager moan. Dunk had to cling to what remained of his restraint to stay there and not sink deeper.

“Gods, do it. . .” Aerion babbled, lazily stroking his own arousal. Dunk was not rough when he caught his hands and pulled them away, smiling faintly at the confusion in his features. “Do it now.”

Dunk shook his head, pulling back only to press in again, thrusting that single meager portion, feeding on the almost painful frustration that wrapped around the creature in his hands. Before Aerion could speak again, Dunk turned him onto his stomach and set a pillow beneath his belly to keep his hips raised. But he did not enter him, because Dunk was stubborn and unyielding, and he wanted to hear the words, even if it meant going against his deepest urges.

Instead of sinking in, he placed his hand to hold his cheeks together and thrust against the fold, taking advantage of the obscene slickness spilling from his empty entrance. The heat was good, but the small sound Aerion let out at the torment was absolute. He watched him bury his face in his arms and arch his hips higher, seeking the smallest mistake that might fill him.

“‘Please,’” Dunk murmured lightly, thrusting again along the fold. Each movement brushed his entrance without entering; Dunk could feel it pulse against him, hot and wet, needy. “Say it.”

“I swear, Duncan. . .” Aerion moaned. “I am going to—”

“None of that, my prince,” he said, leaning over him, still moving slowly against his entrance. “One word, and I will give you what you want.”

Aerion shook his head, melting when Dunk took a bit of the tender skin at his nape between his teeth and thrust again, soft and slow. Deliciously slow and torturous, wrapped in the stifling heat that consumed him at the mere thought of, eventually, taking him as he should. He would, after all—Aerion was his, his Omega, his husband. He could feel his pleasure and warmth beyond the irritation that came from being tempted in such a way.

“You like this. . .” Aerion growled, turning his head to allow Dunk to lay a trail of wet kisses along his neck. Dunk nodded, biting gently at the source of his scent after taking a deep, greedy breath; he never stopped rubbing against his entrance, savoring the thick sweetness of his pheromones. “Damn you. . .”

“Say it, Omega,” Dunk urged, kissing his shoulder. “Ask, and I will give it to you.”

Aerion shook his head, because he too was stubborn. The problem was that Dunk could win at that, for he was more patient and knew how to enjoy every small thing with the same delight. He could spend himself against the fold of his body, and the gods knew he would enjoy it beyond measure. Aerion did not have that patience; he was too used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it.

Dunk slid down along his spine, feigning a shallow thrust before slipping away, earning a soft gasp.

He saw his heated, trembling body, the elegant line of his spine, which Dunk traced with his knuckle, vertebra by vertebra, up to his shoulder blades, tense and almost amusing. It was a battle of pride, and Dunk would not lose.

“You want it, Omega,” Dunk said against his skin, soft and gentle, leaving small, tender kisses, brushing the delicate flesh with his teeth. “Say it, my dear.”

“Duncan. . .” Aerion sobbed, his voice low and sweet, a blend of pain and desire that struck through him like a heated arrow. Dunk reveled in the sight of the flushed skin of his backside pressing against him. “Please. . . please, do it. . .”

Dunk did not think twice. With that same motion, he pushed in fully in one slow, steady thrust. He watched, with obscene fascination, as he was taken in without resistance. Heat and pressure welcomed him, and Aerion’s long, muffled moan was all Dunk needed to settle fully inside him. Soon he was enveloped by that warm, wet space, and gods—it was incredible.

It was good, very good. As if Aerion had been made to take him. And he took him so, so well.

When he was fully inside, Aerion collapsed into the blankets, overcome by the pleasure of being filled, because Dunk did not move yet; he thought it wise to wait a moment for him to adjust to the size. Last time he had not, at Aerion’s insistence, and he had seen him wince even days later while riding.

“Are you well?” he asked softly, kissing his nape. Aerion nodded, though Dunk did not miss the flicker of doubt in what little he could see of his face. “Does it hurt? I can—”

“I want to see you. . .” Aerion interrupted, still hiding his flushed face in his arms. “Kiss you. . .”

Dunk blinked at that. His hands remained firm on his hips as he carefully turned him over without pulling out.
His pale hair was a beautiful mess, strands clinging to his damp forehead while others fell in every direction, framing his lovely face—sweetly rosy cheeks, reddened lips, and bright, teary eyes in which only a meager portion of purple could be distinguished, eclipsed by his fully dilated pupils.

Dunk hesitated for a moment, too captivated by the pure, almost divine beauty offered to him. Everything about Aerion was harmonious and soft and perfect. He fit against him not in any crude way, but simply as he should. Because Aerion was his. His in body and soul, just as Dunk was his.

Dunk settled over him, pulling the blankets around them as Aerion gladly wrapped his legs around his waist. He caught his lower lip gently, yielding himself to his hands the moment Aerion circled his neck and opened his mouth to give him more room.

One hand rested at his waist as he began a slow, steady rhythm, which Aerion seemed to enjoy in a particular way. His eyes closed as Dunk pressed soft kisses over his face, moving in and out without haste. It was all warmth and pleasure, calm and quiet joy—because he felt not only his own rising satisfaction, but also Aerion's pleasure slithering down his spine. It was an exquisite mixture that made him weak.

Dunk brought their noses together, thrusting again and again without increasing the light, deep rhythm. Steady. He wanted to feel every moment, every caress and gasp. And Aerion was happy about it because soon Dunk could feel his soft cheek rubbing against his, sharing his contented purr as he slowly swayed his hips.

Aerion's mouth found his, soft, warm lips that shared their sweetness with his tongue. Dunk could taste the pheromones in his saliva, and he played with his tongue, savoring the affection Aerion was leaving on the back of his neck. Aerion gave him a playful bite on his lower lip that culminated in a short, perfect kiss. Dunk smiled against his mouth, bringing his free hand to his cheek after brushing a few damp strands from his forehead. The hair melted between his fingers, soft and shiny.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered against his skin. “Perfect. You are perfect.”

“The pheromones made you foolish,” Aerion murmured, returning each kiss Dunk placed on his mouth. Dunk felt his lips sensitive; every slightest touch triggered pleasant, throbbing sensations that he was sure Aerion could feel too.

“A little,” he admitted, burying his nose in his neck to kiss his own bite marks. “But you are perfect. Sweet. Lovely. . . I adore you.”

Aerion exhaled a steamy laugh that faded against his body, because Dunk was so close to him that he could feel the rapid thumping of his heart through his own chest. Because they beat in unison. Each breath filled Dunk's lungs with sweet, thick pheromones that clouded his mind and turned his thoughts into a chaotic, primal jumble.

“And we will have beautiful children,” he added, sinking fully into him when he felt the telltale pulse of his own nearing release. He was close.

Aerion clawed weakly at his shoulders when Dunk found a particularly sensitive spot, and smothered his moans against his mouth, for from that moment Dunk drove every thrust to that very place. Aerion writhed within his arms, tormented, heated, and breathless.

“Children?” he murmured under his breath. “How many. . .?”

Dunk’s smile widened, baring his fangs.

“Many,” he said, watching him lose himself in pleasure. “You will always be swollen with my children. Filled with my children.”

The very thought turned his mind to haze and sent an exquisite tingling through his belly.

“Gods. . .” Aerion breathed. Dunk felt a strange amusement take hold of him, and it drew a smile against his skin, his movements never ceasing. “Knot me. . .”

“It hurts you the last time,” Dunk reminded him, feeling how Aerion’s insides had begun to pulse in steady intervals, heralding his coming release.

“Knot me,” he whimpered, cupping his cheeks in both hands to press soft, doting kisses across his face. “I want it. . . I want it, give me your knot. . .”

Aerion whispered “please, please” against his ear, trembling with each thrust. His short nails left marks upon Dunk’s skin that burned in a purely pleasurable way as Dunk increased his pace in pursuit of his climax. Aerion bit into his neck, clinging to him to stifle every impact, for Ely still slept above and they could not make much noise.

“Knot me,” Aerion pleaded again, tightening his legs around him to keep him close.

Dunk could not resist the sweet, trembling voice that filled his ears and settled in his clouded mind as the best of ideas. He nodded against his lips, and that was all it took before his orgasm seized him—brutal and overwhelming. Pleasure came in hot waves that shook his body and made him gasp against Aerion’s face, receiving his kisses. Before the knot could swell, Dunk managed to grasp Aerion’s hips and turn him onto his side, holding him close with his back pressed to his chest.

The knot grew within him, binding them together. Dunk placed a hand on his lower belly to keep him still—he did not wish to hurt him as it set—and pressed gently, guided by a morbid curiosity. Beneath his finger, he could feel the head of his own cock faintly bulging against the skin of his belly. It was. . . fascinating.

“Do you feel it, Omega?” he whispered against his neck, nipping at the tender skin. “So deep. . .”

Dunk could not pull his fingers away, and even allowed himself a slight thrust with his knot still inside, just to feel that strange swell once more. Aerion arched within his arms, gasping his name through tears of pleasure. Dunk needed only brush his length a few times to bring about his release, and the answering pressure was enough to drive him into another climax.

They both finally collapsed, enveloped in the warm afterglow of pleasure. His spine tingled, assailed by sweet currents that were definitely Aerion's; soft, warm, and pleasant internal touches that made him tighten his embrace around him and begin a series of caresses along his side beneath his clothes

Dunk thought they might have slept for a moment, or perhaps peace simply felt like that. All he knew was the quiet stillness of being joined to Aerion. It felt right. Whole. Perfect. For a moment, they were only one person, and nothing else mattered.

He savored Aerion's scent mingled with his own, his fingers tracing unhurriedly over his skin, simply and affectionately encompassing his body as he listened to him regulate his breathing, comfortably enveloped in his arms. Dunk felt one of Aerion's hands move from his fingers to his wrist in a light touch.

Aerion slid two fingers along his forearm, offering small touches that sent pleasant tingles through him. Dunk was not slow when he pulled him closer still, burying his nose in his nape, feeling him sigh.

“So. . .” Aerion murmured when the haze finally began to lift and the knot slowly subsided. “About making me swollen. . .”

Dunk could do little against the suffocating, dangerous heat that spread across his face as he recalled his own words. It was a good thing Aerion had his back to him; that way, Dunk only had to bury his face in his hair and shake his head, hugging him tighter.

“I was. . . You know,” he said, clearing his throat. “It was vulgar, my apologies.”

“Swollen and full of your children. . .” Aerion repeated, almost to himself.

“Enough,” Dunk pleaded, unable to fight the embarrassment warming his face. “It was the heat of the moment.”

“Does it increase your heat to imagine me sw—?”

“Please, forget that,” Dunk interrupted, hearing Aerion’s soft laughter. “I allowed myself to be carried away.”

“You could feel me, hm? Do you enjoy knowing how big you are?” Aerion asked, his voice low, touched with amusement. Even so, he did not hide the soft moan that slipped from him when the knot finally diminished and Dunk withdrew from him. “You made a mess. . .”

“I will find something to clean you,” Dunk said, but he could not move because Aerion stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Later,” he said, and Dunk could see the faintly mischievous smile on his lips. “I like feeling you so. . . deep.”

Dunk wished to open a space in the earth and hide there for the rest of his life. Instead, he swallowed his words and let his hand wander slowly over the bare skin of his belly, stopping when tension crept into Aerion’s shoulders.

He made a move to remove it, but Aerion's fingers caught him mid-air and, with a timid slowness, returned his limb to the same spot. Aerion kept his fingers on top of Dunk's, resting on his abdomen.

Like that, lying together, there was a slight swell beneath his palm. Dunk would not have pointed it out as weight gained if not for the way the skin felt just a little fuller, softer. He could not say that he disliked it. If Aerion gained weight, Dunk would be pleased, for it would mean he fed him well and that his food was to his liking.

That he was a good husband.

“Is something troubling you?” Dunk asked softly, his thumb brushing over his bare belly.

Aerion did not answer, but Dunk felt his hand press more firmly against a certain spot.

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

Aerion gave a soft “shh,” while pressing elsewhere. Dunk moved his fingers slightly, and Aerion was quick to hold his hand in place. Correct, he was not meant to move.

“Your surprise,” Aerion murmured, keeping his hand there. “I would have shown you earlier, but it was not moving. It did before you arrive, but you took too long and it stopped. I was. . . displeased.”

Was it not moving? Dunk frowned faintly.

For a moment, nothing happened. Dunk simply remained there, enjoying Aerion’s hand over his—warm and light. He could have stayed like that forever. Then he felt it. A soft touch. A faint knock against his palm that made his heart stop for an instant.

Dunk lost the thread of his thoughts. He was lost. For a long moment, his entire existence narrowed to his inability to connect two thoughts together. His mind went blank until Aerion pressed again, and another delicate knock answered.

Oh, gods. Oh, gods. Oh, gods.

He turned Aerion over, still holding him in his arms, and met his turbulent eyes, lost in Dunk's hand on his belly. Something had touched his hand. Subtle, light, easy to mistake, and difficult to feel without being immersed in the sensation. Dunk swallowed the sudden lump that formed in hia throat, forcing himself to clear it.

“Is that—”

“Surprise. . .” Aerion murmured.

Dunk hesitated, divided between the swift beating of his own heart born of excitement and the nervousness stirred by Aerion’s voice, still far too low. He was not certain what he felt, and that was. . . dangerous.

Dunk felt the blend of anguished emotion that wrapped itself about the creature in his arms. He wished to move, to see with his own eyes that which he had spent months pretending to ignore; he wished to press his face against his belly until he felt another strike, and then to remain there for the rest of his life.

Aerion would hardly take pleasure in any of that, for though he seemed not–so–tense, his unease and nervousness were like delicate needles pricking softly into his skin at intervals.

“Do not tell me you did not know,” Aerion said.

“I did not want to pressure you,” he admitted. “I hoped you would tell me yourself.”

Aerion pressed his lips together softly, brushing his knuckles in a purely absent manner while Dunk caressed his belly.

“I do not think I can hide it much longer,” Aerion murmured. “I will be called an idiot if I deny it when it begins to show.”

It —Dunk noticed how Aerion avoided the word. He smiled, embracing the pure and endearing mix of emotions that ran through him. His lips pressed against his forehead, hearing him sigh softly. He kissed him again, cradling his neck down to his nape, where he offered a soothing touch that managed to ease, if only slightly, the uncertainty that even Dunk could feel. Aerion slowly lost his tension under the caress, allowing himself to breathe.

“No one will call you anything,” Dunk whispered, their noses touching. “Everyone will be happy about this.”

“It still might not be.”

“And tomorrow the sun might not rise,” he murmured.

“Funny,” Aerion snapped. “I am serious.”

“So am I,” Dunk replied. “Perhaps we will wake tomorrow and it will still be night.”

He saw Aerion try to be annoyed and fail, shaking his head without smiling.

“Can I see?” he asked, with renewed eagerness.

“There is not much to see,” Aerion tried, but Dunk could see how doubt filled his gaze as he looked at him, and in the end he gave in, nodding slowly. “Go ahead.”

He watched him lower the blankets to reveal his abdomen, and Dunk understood why Aerion had spent so many weeks covering himself even from his eyes. Although Aerion was right, there was not a great difference. Whether because Aerion was naturally slender, or because what grew there was still too small, all Dunk could see was a gentle, modest curve he could cover with one hand. But it was there. However slight, it was right in front of him.

It was growing there.

Dunk did not even realize when his vision blurred, only noticing when he felt Aerion’s thumb gently brushing over his eyelids, wiping away the tears.

'Ser Duncan the Weeper,' Dunk thought, imagining Aerion’s voice. But Aerion did not mock or comment, and instead remained still while Dunk kissed his palm and caressed the small curve of his belly.

Dunk rested his face against the skin and breathed in deeply. Aerion stroked his hair without hurry, running his fingers from his nape down to his bare back and back again.

“Again,” Dunk asked, noticing how Aerion raised an eyebrow at him. He kissed his side, leaning into the touch when Aerion brushed his thumb along his cheek. “Please.”

“It does not work like that,” Aerion said, with a soft, amused tone. “I cannot make it move at will.”

Even so, Dunk saw him press his fingers gently into a certain spot. After a few moments of complete silence, another small tap met his palm. It would have gone unnoticed if Dunk had not been so focused on every tiny change.

His face lit up with genuine, lasting emotion.

“I wanted to wait until it could be felt a little more. . . and to be sure,” Aerion said softly, clearing his throat at the wide smile Dunk could not hide. He looked away. “But it has been months since my heat came, and now it can be felt, whatever it is. . .I also wanted to surprise you.”

“And Ely?” Dunk asked.

“You already know,” Aerion said.

They had spoken a couple of times about the girl’s future. Aerion had been firm about it; Ely would stay with him. Dunk had not suggested otherwise again, and it was settled that when they returned, Ely would be taken as his ward. That way she would be safer and live better, though Dunk suspected Aerion also had plans for him. He could hardly leave if his own child was growing inside him.

More than that, Dunk had no intention of going anywhere far from him.

Dunk let out a low, joyful laugh. He pulled Aerion closer and rolled between the blankets, hearing him hiss softly. Above everything, he could feel his unease, the nervousness that Dunk assumed came from his reaction. How had Aerion expected him to react, other than being completely happy?

He kissed his whole face, wrapping him in his arms and refusing to let go until Aerion sighed and hugged him back, allowing the wave of affection Dunk poured over him. He drowned his worries in kisses.

“We are going to have a child,” he whispered, their noses touching.

Another shiver of emotion ran through him. Aerion’s deep eyes held his gaze, searching for something that might reveal a lie. Something that might support his fears, because Aerion had clearly spent these past weeks struggling with them despite trying to keep his mind at peace. Dunk would never be able to completely stop the darkness of his thoughts from reaching him at times. But he could share his happiness until Aerion found his own in the news.

Dunk kissed his chin and cheek, earning a soft, surrendered sigh.

“Yes,” Aerion said, finally allowing himself a small smile. “We are going to have a child.”

Dunk pulled him into another embrace, and this time not even the worst possibilities stopped Aerion from letting out a small laugh against his skin.

***

“Arlan.”

“No.”

Dunk frowned.

Neither of them had been able to sleep for quite some time after that, and they spent a long while simply feeling for any small movement. Dunk did not want to miss anything, and at the same time he did not want to sleep knowing Aerion probably would not, because of his worries. Still, they eventually dozed for what felt like an hour or less.

Aerion woke first, and Dunk followed when he felt him move, claiming he was a little hungry. So Dunk quickly got up and said he would make breakfast. It was still early; Ely usually woke on her own with the first light of day to come lie with them for a while, so by the time she came down, the food would be ready. Dunk had gone up to check on her, and when he saw she was still asleep, he went back down and focused on cooking.

“Arlan is a good name,” Dunk argued, glancing at Aerion’s raised eyebrow beside him. “It is the name of the best hedge knight in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“He will not be called Arlan,” Aerion cut in, and Dunk opened his mouth. “He will be called Maegor.”

“Gods, no,” he said, hearing him huff softly. “Can it be the name of a Targaryen who is not famous for killing his own blood? Or killing people in general?”

Between Aemond and Maegor, Dunk would rather give the child a common name that did not carry the ill omen of one of Aerion’s ancestors who died in terrible and bloody circumstances.

“Daemon.”

Damn it.

“And if it is a girl?” Dunk asked, avoiding that name without answering.

“Rhaenyra.”

Dunk sighed.

He still had a few months to try to change that.

“Maybe Ely will have some ideas,” he said with a bit of hope. Any idea was better than the names Aerion was suggesting. “Should we tell her when she wakes up?”

“It would be better not to tell her all at once,” Aerion said, glancing toward the stairs. “Her mother was pregnant when. . .”

Gods. . .Dunk swallowed the discomfort rising in his throat and moved a little closer to him.

“And she still thinks I cannot have children,” he added thoughtfully. “We should not tell her yet. I already promised I would take her with me to the Capital, but she might get the wrong idea. She is afraid of being left alone again.”

Dunk nodded. Maybe it was best for the three of them to stay together for a while. That way Aerion could also get used to the idea of having a child. Dunk suspected he was more afraid of the child being a bastard and the court’s rejection than of the pregnancy itself.

He announced that breakfast was almost ready, and then Aerion said he would go wake Ely so they could eat. Dunk nodded.

When silence settled around him, Dunk let out a soft sigh and went over the last moments in his mind. Parts of him still had not fully accepted that he was going to be a father. Dunk was going to be a father. He would have a child, and Aerion Targaryen carried it in his womb.

He had hoped that in these past two months the idea would have settled in his mind, but knowing it and seeing it were different things. Now the child truly existed, not just as a recurring thought since the apothecary told him those symptoms could only mean one thing during their first visit to the village.

'They healed him with magic,' Dunk had said. 'He cannot.'

'Why could he not, if magic was used?” she had replied. 'Magic does not do things halfway.'

And since then, the idea had taken hold of him. Aerion must have realized it on his own, perhaps noticing Dunk’s growing protectiveness or the changes in his own body. Dunk had given him space because, of the two of them, Aerion was the one who carried fears related to children.

And now both of them could see clearly what lay ahead.

They were going to have a baby.

If someone had told him at the start of that journey that he would end up living happily in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a pregnant Aerion and an adopted girl, Dunk would have questioned that person’s sanity. Now it was reality, and he could not have been happier.

He inhaled and let the air out in a satisfied sigh.

When the silence stretched too long, Dunk turned his head toward the stairs. He had not even opened his mouth when a sudden, paralyzing wave of terror struck him out of nowhere and stopped him cold. It felt like a cold claw sinking into his stomach and climbing to his throat, scratching at him and freezing his entire body. Dunk swallowed the panic and turned toward the stairs.

“Aerion?”

Aerion did not answer, and the seconds it took Dunk to climb the stairs two at a time only made the fear worse. He found him standing there and grabbed his face, searching for any sign of injury that could explain that reaction. But Aerion was not hurt. The only thing out of place was the deep, unexpected fear shadowing his eyes as they stared at Ely’s bed. The blanket she used was still in his hand.

Dunk turned, and then he understood where the fear came from. Where the little girl should have been sleeping, there was only a pile of clothes and pillows arranged to resemble a body—the same body Dunk had seen when he went to check on her.

“You said she was sleeping,” Aerion whispered, lost in the sight of the empty bed.

Dunk stepped forward, uncertain. His hand brushed the fabric and found it cold to the touch. The new clothes they had bought her were gone, as was the small dagger Aerion had fixed for her. None of that mattered if it meant having Ely with them.

But Ely was not there either.