Chapter Text
Dunk hears a faint, strange noise coming from the kitchen. The boy's motion of dragging the sack of potatoes stops. He freezes in the doorway, his mind blank, lips pressed together in unease. After an inner struggle that lasts a good while, he hesitantly peeks into the kitchen. The midnight room is lit only by a thin layer of moonlight filtering through the low window; no suspicious figure is visible, but by the candlelight he left on the cabinet by the door, Dunk still catches a small piece of fabric quickly sliding under the central kitchen counter. The boy carefully sets down the sack. The potatoes roll with a dull rumble, making a sound that sets his nerves on edge in the silence. Several ghostly stories flash through Dunk's mind—ones his sister Rafe told him before they were separated, and ones other older kids in the castle used to tell to scare him, the new, big, dumb kid. Still, he picks up the candle and goes to take a look. After all, if a thief really has gotten in and something goes missing, he'll be the one getting a beating tomorrow.
It wasn't even supposed to be his turn to work this late. He had only been assigned at dusk to serve at the lord's banquet for the prince. The young Omega's scent is faint, his features soft, his movements timid, but his hands are at least steady as he pours the wine. When he fills the prince's cup, the boy hardly dares to breathe; standing by with the flagon, he barely dares to sneak a look at the dignified silver-haired prince. The Alpha seems to find the reception terribly dull; a faint, sharp pheromone lingers around him, tinged with the smell of ash. In the kitchen, the maids exchange whispers—the prince's irritation is actually because his eldest son has once again avoided the social gathering. After it's over, Dunk cleans up. Another kitchen hand, a few years older, jokes that he ought to wash up and try using his Omega body to climb into the prince's bed, then dumps the chore of hauling supplies on him. So this outsider, this pitiful boy, still can't return to his straw bed in the dead of night—from the very first day he showed a bit more strength than other boys his age, he has often been forced to do such odd jobs.
The young Omega holds his breath, walks to the counter with the candle, and bends down. He expects to see the glint of metal blade swinging toward his neck, or the four, five, six scarlet eyes of a demon and its blood-dripping fangs. Instead, in the flickering candlelight, he meets a pair of tearful blue eyes. A boy who looks only a bit older than Dunk is wrapped in black cloth, knees drawn up, huddled under the counter. Sandy-blond, curly hair falls to his shoulders, messily framing his face, the ends sticking up. His delicate features are haggard, dark circles under his eyes. His lips are pale purple with cracked, dry skin. His robe is pulled all the way up, bunching under his chin. His thin frame trembles slightly in the meager protection. An empty wine bottle lies at his feet; the spilled honey wine gives off a sweet smell. Dunk has never seen this boy in the castle before. The refined features—so clearly noble-born—and the way his eyes catch a faint purple in the candlelight at certain angles make the Omega open his mouth, a noble title nearly slipping out. But something about the boy's fragile expression makes Dunk hold back, for reasons he doesn't understand. Not knowing what he is doing, driven by a pure, calm softness, he sets the candle on the floor and, as if possessed, crawls under the counter too. The young lord draws his legs back slightly to make room in this humble shelter. Neither says a word. They sit facing each other, knees drawn up, legs intertwined, breathing quietly in the warm orange glow.
Dunk pulls out the hard bread wrapped in coarse cloth from his chest. He is always hungry, never full. The older maids occasionally give him a little extra lunch, taking care of this quiet, introverted, hardworking young Omega who never complains. Thinking of the leftover roast suckling pig from the feast tonight, the pigeons stuffed with fruit and spices, the berry cakes—all to be thrown away—his stomach growls mournfully. The young lord in front of him looks very thin too, gaunt and malnourished. Does he eat properly? Dunk breaks the bread in half and offers one piece. The young lord looks up through his tears, sniffling quietly, and takes the bread from his hand in the same silence. Surely a noble boy has never tasted bread so hard and bitter; he wrinkles his brow slightly as soon as it touches his tongue, but with good grace—or maybe just too tired and listless to react more—he continues to nibble at the edge of the bread, chewing slowly. The fingers that emerge from his robe are long and pale. The sight stirs a strange warmth deep in Dunk's heart, and the young Omega makes a soft, rumbling sound in his throat. Taking care of a child who needs to be taken care of makes him happy. Even though he is the younger one. The young lord sniffs the air—the scent of milk mingled with wheat, honey flowers, and clean wood—and his eyes widen in surprise. His earlier crying had blocked his nose; he only now realizes that the boy before him is an Omega. But then he lowers his eyes again and focuses on his bread, as if such a thing doesn't matter much to him either.
Come to think of it, what is the gender of the young lord with soft, sandy-blond hair? Dunk tilts his head, chewing thoughtfully. The young Omega feels a bit embarrassed and sorry—he doesn't mean to pry rudely—but he hasn't smelled any pheromones from the start, so he's genuinely curious. Most nobles are Alphas or Omegas; even when they hold back, a faint trace of pheromone lingers around them. Betas are usually seen as lower-status members. Perhaps that is why this young lord has chosen to hide away and grieve alone. Dunk feels a little sad for him. A Beta firstborn.
They silently finish the dry bread. A little water would be nice, but neither of them leaves the small space, now warmed by their body heat. The young lord's tears have stopped; he looks terribly sleepy. The candle is nearly burned down to the base, flame swaying slightly from time to time. Why did he sneak into the kitchen to drown his sorrows in drink? Dunk has no way of knowing. But for a young noble to down most of a bottle of honey wine, he must be truly troubled. To the point of pain. Dunk suspects the only reason he isn't thoroughly drunk is that he couldn't find anything stronger here.
"I..." The blond boy's voice is hoarse. He closes his mouth, coughs twice, as if embarrassed by this small loss of composure, and shrinks further into his robe. Then he speaks again, even more quietly: "I don't want to go back."
Dunk blinks at him, unsure how to respond.
"W-why is that?" he stammers. The Omega is nervous; he has never spoken face-to-face with anyone of such high rank.
"Nightmares." The boy spits out a single word, barely a whisper, his expression carrying a grief that makes Dunk's throat tighten. He looks absolutely sleep-deprived, as if he might pass out with the next blink, yet he stubbornly stays awake. "One day they'll come true."
"What kind of nightmares?"
"All kinds. Blood. Fire. Screaming." The boy lists them absently, then suddenly looks up at Dunk, realizing he shouldn't be talking about such things with someone younger—especially an Omega. "Sorry."
"It's okay." Dunk smiles faintly, and a joke slips out: "You must never have heard the local kids talk. Definitely grosser than anything you said."
A small laugh escapes the young lord. "You should hear what my little brother goes on about every day. He thinks he's a dragon and wants to eat raw lamb. Kepa had a hell of a time stopping him."
Dunk listens, a dreamy, soft smile on his face. The idea of family always fills him with longing. But then the young lord falls silent after that sentence, plunging them back into a strange silence. Dunk frowns in confusion, then realizes a second too late what the blond boy inadvertently revealed. The warmth that had nearly made both their hearts float away cools. The reality that had been there between them from the start, though never spoken, squeezes into this dark shelter, clearly separating them.
Dunk nervously picks at his own fingers, stealing a glance at the other's reaction. The young lord is studying him carefully. Such an intent gaze, those blue-violet eyes, make Dunk blush.
"You smell like bread and oatmeal, with honey," the boy says, giving him a friendly smile. That smile is still tangled with lingering exhaustion. "But now it's a little bitter too."
"Sorry," Dunk says.
"What are you apologizing for?" The young lord wrinkles his nose. "My nose isn't that noble." He looks away unhappily, as if reminded of someone or some remark they made. The flickering candlelight reflects in his eyes, blending the colors of fire and night, filling his otherwise clear eyes with dark shadows.
He shifts his leg.
"I should go back," the blond boy says, crawling out from under the counter.
Dunk pushes the candle away a little and climbs out too. Cold seeps into his knees and palms, and he realizes his legs have gone numb from sitting so long, his tailbone aching.
"If Father finds out I'm not in my room, he'll likely wake the whole castle yelling."
"...Or maybe he wouldn't even come to check on me. It makes no difference whether I'm alive or dead. Maybe the latter would even help him, let his favorite son become his heir." The young lord wraps his robe tighter, looking down at the floor. He lifts his head, a flicker of cautious hope in his eyes: "What's your name?"
"My name's Dunk," the Omega answers honestly, "my lord."
"My name's Daeron." The young lord lets go of some of his bitterness, replaced by a kind of relief and calm. After all, they had been pretending from the start that the world didn't operate on status and blood. "I..." He pauses, as if gathering courage: "Will you come with me? There's fruit in my room. Juice. You could stay there for one night."
Dunk's mouth falls open slightly.
"I'm not implying anything!" the blond boy says hurriedly, his long hair swaying before his eyes like cracks in white porcelain. "I just want..."
"...I just don't want to be alone."
Dunk looks at him tenderly.
"Because of the nightmares?" he asks.
Daeron presses his lips together.
"It's not just the nightmares," the boy says, lowering his eyes.
To be honest, everything about this goes against the rules. If he is found getting too close to a noble child, let alone sharing a bedroom, the punishment could be far worse than a few lashes. Yet a soft impulse wells up in Dunk's heart. He wants to hug the boy in front of him, the one with sandy-blond hair. The Omega grips his own wrist and realizes the young lord is about the same height as him. At an age before his features have fully matured, Dunk is nearly as tall as a teenager. He tends to hunch his shoulders, just to stand out less. The boy is different—noble-born—yet invisible burdens weigh on his shoulders, stooping him just as much as Dunk.
Dunk feels that Daeron shouldn't have to be like this.
"Okay," the Omega says with a nod. With that one word, he places his trust and everything else in the boy's hands.
The young lord takes his hand and leads him back to his room. They wind through narrow passages in the castle that Dunk never knew existed. The blond boy seems good at finding such secrets—good at sneaking away, escaping into the night where no one recognizes him. And he's only been a guest here for less than a day. When Daeron pushes open the door to the bedchamber, Dunk's heart pounds. He's never been to this part of the castle before. Their joined hands have somehow become intertwined fingers, the boy's knuckles fitting clearly between his own. At their destination, Daeron inevitably pulls his hand away, leaving behind dry warmth. Dunk feels a light, fluttering tickle in his chest.
Daeron throws back his hood and unties the long, soft black robe, stuffing it messily into a nearby chest. He doesn't stand up right away but stays kneeling, one hand on the footboard, breathing hard. Dunk watches him with worried furrow to his brow.
"Do you want... some..." The young lord trails off mid-sentence, having to stop and open his mouth wide to breathe. The boy is pale, his forehead slick with sweat. The Omega rushes over and kneels beside him.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm, I'm fine..." The boy's wrist trembles uncontrollably beneath the Omega's hand.
"You need to lie down," Dunk declares.
Even if the boy wanted to argue, the wave of pain and the Omega's surprising strength leave him no chance to speak. Dunk hauls the unusually frail young lord onto the bed with hardly any effort. Daeron sinks into the mattress, floundering in the blankets like a drowning man. Sharp, needling pain stabs the back of his skull; his stomach cramps; his vision spins from the alcohol. He bites his lip until a cool, damp cloth touches his forehead, and soft, rough fingers press against his chin, gently prying his lip from beneath his teeth, coaxing Daeron to breathe again. The boy's eyes won't open. Just before the overwhelming exhaustion drags him under, he reaches out and clings tightly to the Omega's body, burrowing into his warm embrace. Dunk is surprised he still has that much strength.
"Mommy..." the blond boy sobs, his face pressed into the Omega's neck.
Dunk opens his mouth, hesitates for a long moment, and in the end says nothing. He isn't sure whether his voice would break Daeron's half-awake fantasy. He keeps wiping the sweat from the boy's brow. For a moment, the young Omega thinks about singing to him, but he can't remember his own mother's voice, or any pleasant tune. Fortunately, Daeron is too exhausted; soon he is snoring gently, his warm breath wet and ticklish against Dunk's skin. Why is it that people always call for their mothers in their most vulnerable moments?
The young Omega feels a bit awkward. His gaze drifts from the canopy to the boy's pale jaw, blinks, looks away as if afraid of staring too long, then back to the canopy. Back and forth. After a while, he reaches out and gently lifts Daeron's pinned sandy-blond hair, letting the boy's head rest more comfortably. In a way, he really is sleeping in a prince's bed now. Though the meaning is entirely different. Absurd and strange.
Dunk lets his mind wander, planning to watch over the young lord all night. He remembers what Daeron said. If the boy has another nightmare, he might need someone to wake him up. A perfect plan. Yet somehow, he only closes his eyes for a moment, and the next thing he knows, he's fallen fast asleep. When he wakes again, he turns his head and finds Daeron already awake, his blue eyes watching Dunk with an expression caught between lucidity and dreaminess.
"I dreamed of you," the blond boy says softly.
Dunk remembers the blood, fire, and screams he mentioned last night.
"A bad dream?"
"No. Not at all." The boy's smile is genuine, tinged with joy and delight, as if greatly comforted by what he saw. Yet at the deepest layer hides a thread of sadness.
"It was beautiful."
"Then why do you look so sad?"
Daeron sinks into a gentle silence.
When he lifts his eyes to Dunk again, instead of answering, he asks a new question:
"Will you come back with me and be my squire?"
Dunk's eyes go wide. His breath quickens. A squireship means a chance to leave. A future that ends in knighthood.
"But—but I'm an Omega..."
"There's no law saying Omegas can't be squires. Or knights."
"I..." The young boy swallows, so excited he curls his legs up, a flush burning from his cheekbones to his ears. "Why me?"
Daeron blinks and smiles.
"Because I dreamed of you."
Half an hour later, the prince will bring Dunk before his father and say that he wishes to take this Omega back to Summerhall.