Chapter Text
Garlic and herb lingered heavily in the air of the silk draped pavilion. Below that, exotic spices Dunk could not name but wanted to taste all the same. He inhaled deeply, unthinkingly. The savory scents sticking thickly in his nose, his throat. A teasing, phantom taste of the feast that lay before him.
Bright blue eyes wide in awe, he turned to say something to Raymun only to find the man no longer at his side. He blinked, stomach rumbling loudly. Though the music was louder, thankfully masking the sound.
Dunk was no stranger to hunger. Often his only friend as an orphan in Flea Bottom, and then still even after, during his time as Ser Arlen’s squire. It was his size, the old man had said but Dunk had felt it was something deeper. He’d voice that thought to Ser Arlen once. His ear throbbed at the memory. The old knight’s gruff laughter a dull echo in the back of his head, burning his cheeks flush.
Later, when he’d presented as an omega, the hunger became almost ravenous. Though food settled it fine enough, there was a constant gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Always hallow. Though he didn’t give voice to the thought, the way Ser Arlen watched him sometimes told Dunk the old beta probably knew and didn’t know quite what to do with him. Other than a few rough words after his first heat and a glass jar of balm pressed into his palm.
“To hide your scent.” The old man had muttered. “‘Tis a dangerous thing to be an omega on the road.”
Dunk’s question of if he could still be a Knight one day had gone unanswered.
He plucked a pastry off a passing tray. Seeking comfort in it. Groaning as the warm crust flaked against his lips. The soft dough inside melting onto his tongue. Buttery and bright with the taste of tart fruit. The sugar glaze drizzled on top so sweet it made his teeth ache.
He made to take another bite before even swallowing the first, faltering when he felt the weight of eyes fall upon him. Unconsciously, he shrank in on himself. Cradling the pastry close to his chest protectively, he peered around the pavilion through red-gold lashes, keeping his gaze low. Breath catching when he met the piercing eyes of Lyonel Baratheon, gazing down at him from the raised dais.
It was a strange feeling for someone as tall as Dunk to be looked down upon.
Or, he thought disparagingly, to be looked down upon and seen.
He swallowed the bite of pastry still on his tongue roughly. It’s sweet taste turning to ash.
The lord lifted his hand, beckoning him.
He glanced behind him, thinking he must be mistaken, only to find the silk gold wall of the Pavilion. Then to the opening, dismayed to see guards there now when there hadn’t been before. All the while the weight of Lyonel Baratheon’s gaze bore into him, flushing his skin.
He shuffled awkwardly through the crowd, keeping his head down. Very aware of how lumbering he was compared to the graceful revealers swirling around him. The silk and satin fabric of their clothes brushing against the rough-spun fabric of his tunic all the reminder he needed that he did not belong here despite Raymun’s invitation.
He hoped the lord would only see fit to give him a tongue lashing.
He bowed clumsily, feet catching the raised step of the dais. The flush on his cheeks burning brighter as he heard the cruel scattering of laughter from those around the table as he righted himself.
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall and just as graceful.
He glanced up, tongue sweeping out nervously to lick the sticky glaze lingering on his lips. Not missing the way Ser Lyonel’s eyes lowered, darkening as he followed the motion before raising his gaze to meet Dunk’s own wide eyes with an arched brow as if to say, “Well?”.
The heat burning his cheeks creeped to his ears as he greeted; “Milord.”
Ser Lyonel tilted his head curiously, absently fiddling with a fine dagger. It’s ebony enameled hilt intricately decorated with jewels of garnet and sapphire. Though it’s blade proved dull as it caught blunt in the candlelight.
Pretty but useless, Dunk thought.
“Have you ever been punched in the face?” Ser Lyonel asked absently. The deep rumble of his voice almost a tangible thing. Curling around Dunk and pressing in just close enough to caress along his skin.
Dunk shivered, tensing. “I..I beg-beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
“Big men,” his eyes swept over Dunk’s frame bright with mischief and something deeper that sent a prickling of trepidation down Dunk’s spine. “Get punched more then little men.” Dunk shifted uneasily. “Did you know that?”
“No,” he laughed nervously. “But I believe it.”
Ser Lyonel waved the dagger over the length of his considerable frame to empathize his next words. “Is that why you slouch?” He asked. “So you don’t get punched?”
Dunk straightened unconsciously, though not raising to his full height. A part of him, one that sounded suspiciously like Ser Arlen, whispered cautiously; Careful, don’t let them see you for what you are or you’ll be out of the lists before you even touch the dirt.
“Wh-what? I don’t slouch.” He denied, bright blue eyes darting away nervously, giving away his lie.
Ser Lyonel hummed, a slow grin twisting his lips. “You’ve been cowering the moment you stepped foot in my pavilion.” A full grin now, teeth and all. “Like a maiden on her wedding night.”
Had he been watching me that long? Dunk gulped, eyes snapping back to the lord before him.
“I meant no disrespect, Ser. Honestly.” He stepped forward in his haste to explain before remembering himself, lowering his gaze to the raspberry pastry still in his hand, fingers tightening around it. “Where I grew up, you learn to go unnoticed is all.”
Ser Lyonel scoffed. “The Seven above gave you tallness,” though his lips still stretched in a teasing grin, his words where encouraging. Unbidden, Dunk preened. His inner omega purring softly. “So be tall!” He proclaimed. “Or I will name you a heretic or burn you or drown you or drop you off a tall… I don’t know?” He glanced around, frustration edging his voice. “What do they do with heretics?”
“Burn them, my lord.” A gravely voiced answered disdainfully from the other end of the table.
“Fine.” Lyonel threw down the dagger, leaning back in his chair. He turned to Dunk expectantly. “What have you brought me?”
Dunk’s eyes darted down to the half eaten pastry in his hand dumbly.
“Forgive me, Milord.” He looked around the pavilion wildly, hoping to find Raymun. “I-I didn’t know-”
“Do you offer yourself, then?” Ser Lyonel leaned across the table, dark eyes unrelenting in their intensity. A hopefully tinge to his words Dunk didn’t pick up on. But he did smell the spike of Ser Lyonel’s scent, burnt wood. Strangely sweet like a willow struck by lightning. Heady enough to get drunk on, he thought, unthinkingly swaying forward.
Careful, boy. Ser Arlen’s voice admonished.
Dunk flinched back. “I-No, no Milord.”
Ser Lyonel threw his hands up exasperated. “Then what the fuck are you doing in my tent?”
Dunk glanced down at the pastry again, holding it out to show Ser Lyonel. Shrugging sheepishly, he answered; “Supper.”
The lord huffed. “Supper?”
Dunk nodded, fighting the urge to shove the pastry in his mouth so it couldn’t be taken from him.
The Storm Lord’s head tilted in consideration. “What is your name?”
He lifted his chin, straightening. “Dunk.” He bit his tongue, cursing himself stupid. “Ser Dunk.”
Ser Lyonel blinked, wide smile frozen. “That’s ridiculous.”
He stumbled backed, hurt. Half stuttering a reply that he couldn’t quite get past his lips when Lyonel raised a hand to silence him. He smiled. A genuine one that left Dunk slightly breathless. “Do you like to dance?”
Dunk blinked. “Doesn’t everyone?”
-
Dunk shuffled awkwardly, bouncing stiffly, keeping ill time with the music. A poor gift his dancing was. The gaze of the Laughing Storm was heavy upon his skin, surely finding him wanting.
An omega with the scent of cloves and cream danced close to him, taking pity and flashing a smile. Gently grabbing his hands and prying his fist open. Dunk smiled crookedly at her as she coaxed him into a whimsical rhythm.
Great thundering stomps shook the pavilion. Dunk was twirled. The crowd stuttered and pulsed around him. A scent flared, dark and near suffocating with it’s strangely sweet burnt smell, a willow struck by lightning still crackling with embers brightened slightly by coarse sea salt. Lyonel’s scent. Coiling around him, teasing, prodding. Demanding his attention.
A foot crashed down a hare’s breath from his own. Dunk yelped, failing back. Eyes wide as he met the fierce gaze of the Alpha. His smile wide, all teeth. A predator’s smile. Another stomp, then another, chasing Dunk around the pavilion. Till Ser Lyonel had him near backed to a table. No way around him.
Dunk panicked, a desperate clawing sensation beneath his skin, stomping down hard on the Alpha’s foot. His breath stilling when the lord cried out, curling in on himself in pain.
Dunk’s heart stuttered to a stop. He reached out to steady the lord, felt the heat of the man’s skin burn through his silk clothing. The thundering beat of his heart pounding against his hand.
The Alpha was a thunderstorm come to life, he thought in awe.
Lyonel collapsed into Dunk’s touch, lifting his head. His nose brushing along the tender flesh of Dunk’s throat. He drew back. His eyes a black storm beneath his pensive brows, the riotous silver streaked curls. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, pupils blowing black as he growled; “Omega.”
Dunk shrank, flinching away, wine flushed cheeks blanching pale white. Lyonel caught him, grinning wickedly and winked. Stomping at Dunk’s feet with a teasing roll of his tongue.
Dunk laughed, feeling light as a feather pushing the other man away than chasing after him.
-
“Will you tell?” Dunk asked, words slurred slightly by the wine Lyonel had pushed into his hands after guiding him from the dance to the cushions behind the high table. Absently setting the antler crown atop Dunk’s head before flopping gracelessly down next to him, calling for a servant to bring food and more wine.
Lyonel shook his head, dark eyes glassy with drink. “No.” His hand fell to rest on Dunk’s thigh. His calloused fingers tightening in a way that was intended to be reassuring though felt more possessive. Like the way some lords petted their prize war horses. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
A warmth bloomed in Dunk’s chest. To have the confidence of a great lord…
“Ser Lyonel-”
The Storm Lord cut him off. “Lyonel.” He insisted. “Let us have no formalities between us.”
“Lyonel,” Dunk started again, liking the way the lord’s name felt on his tongue. “Do you think the Gods would favor a fraud?”
The Alpha tensed, his handsome face darkening to a scowl. A strange melancholy shifting in his mood. He pulled away from Dunk, his expression shrouded. “I don’t know.”
I’ve over stepped. Dunk thought, a sinking feeling in his stomach. A low whining escaping his throat.
“I should go.” He lifted the antler crown from his head. Stilling when Lyonel’s hand reached up to stop him.
“Stay.” Lyonel urged, pushing the crown back down to rest upon his head.
Yes. Dunk thought, the word at the tip of his tongue. But then Sweetfoot sprang to mind, Thunder and Chestnut following soon after. He pulled away reluctantly. “I can’t.”
A storm fell across the other man’s features. “Is there someone waiting for you?”
“Aye.” The word left his lips unthinkingly.
The air tensed between them, burnt like after a lightening strike.
Lyonel’s lips curled back, half a snarl. “They let you come here alone?” He leaned back. Muttering beneath his breath; “If you where mine, I’d not let you from my sight.”
Dunk blinked owlishly. “Well, I couldn’t bring them, could I?”
Lyonel’s head tilted in confusion, a dark brow arching in question. “Them?”
“I doubt you’d want three horses trampling through your tent, eating your fine food.” Dunk answered simply. “One is enough.” He chuckled disparagingly.
A bark of laughter escaped Lyonel. A rich, warm sound that waned away a little of the tension in Dunk’s shoulders. Startling those around them from their drunken stupor. He stood suddenly, causing Dunk to tumble back into the cushions. “Come then,” he held a hand out to Dunk. “Let us attend to your horses.”
Dunk took his hand, surprised at the Alpha’s strength as he heaved Dunk up to sway on unsteady feet.
“You’re joking!” Dunk laughed, leaning towards the Alpha to drink in a little more of his scent.
Lyonel grinned, tugging Dunk closer. “On ward, good Ser-”
“My lord!” A courtier beckoned.
Lyonel groaned, playful rolling his eyes. “A moment.” He begged, his hand tightening before reluctantly releasing his hold on Dunk’s hand.
In the absence of Lyonel’s presence, Dunk stood awkwardly, staring after him till he was lost in the crowd. His gaze drifted, taking in the opulence of the pavilion with it’s burnished gold cloth and thick Myrish rugs with the same awe he’d had when he’d first followed Raymun in. The glasses of fine cut crystal scattered about. Cloaks and fine clothes of silk and satin disregard carelessly over tables and chairs. It was the food though, that brought Dunk crashing from the haze of drink and merriment. The silver platters ladened with half eaten food. More food than Dunk had probably eaten in the past year alone.
He glanced down at his clothes, the rough spun green tunic. The rope wrapped around his waist a poor substitute for a sword belt.
His stomach rumbled. Unconsciously, he began to shrink.
I don’t belong here. He thought, bright blue eyes lowering as he made a hasty retreat. The other guests too far gone in their cups to pay him much mind.
The crisp night air was a balm on his wine fevered skin as he stepped from the gold pavilion. Cooling the flush burning his cheeks.
He stood for a moment getting his barring. The raucous revelry inside the pavilion echoing dully behind him, doing much to somber him.
It seemed a fever dream, out here under the cold night sky, the mud creeping into the holes worn through the thin soles of his boots.
He shook his head. Stupid, he thought, getting that close to a lord. He sighed, turning towards the river.