Chapter Text
Dunk’s life had ended and begun anew more times than he could count.
Probably the first time had been in Flea Bottom, when he understood that no knight would come for a nameless boy, that his mother had left him there never to think of him again.
When he understood that alphas were not the knights they were supposed to be, or that the songs claimed they were; when he was left alone because one of them took away his only pack and, with Rafe, any childish illusion Dunk still possessed died as well, leaving in its place something twisted, fed by insecurity, distrust, and fear toward anyone, even toward himself.
The second was when he met Lyonel Baratheon, when Dunk had just passed his sixteenth nameday and crossed paths with the alpha upon the battlefield.
Dunk and Ser Arlan had been traveling toward Dorne, wishing to avoid the winter, when they became involved in a small revolt among the Stormlands, led by the Baratheon heir and several rebellious lords of Dorne along the border. Ser Arlan did not hesitate to involve himself once it became clear that any sword was needed and welcomed.
That was the first time Dunk faced violence in the flesh. Until then, he had lived through the rebellions that reached King’s Landing from afar, passing more through the consequences than the true conflict; but neither was he a stranger to violence. It was impossible to be when one grew up upon the streets.
Even when he began serving as Ser Arlan’s squire, he had not been in such direct contact with it, because his Ser usually involved himself in tourneys or lesser battles where there was no need for a squire, so Dunk remained in the camp with Sweetfoot and Chestnut, but this was different.
When they arrived and joined them, the campaign had already been unfolding for weeks. Dunk did not fully recognize the banners waving across the field; he only recognized the crowned stag of the Baratheons because his Ser had spoken to him of them and because Dunk was unaware, but not so unaware as to have no notion of which the great houses were. He thought he recognized the sigil of the Dondarrions, but little more.
Ser Arlan forbade him from entering the fight, assigning him instead to help move the wounded and care for different horses, while terror gripped his body and the smell of death, blood, and furious alphas crushed his lungs. The mud clung to his boots and the lower part of his clothes as though the very ground wished to drag him down alongside the dead.
The days bled together.
During the day there were the shouts of men charging and giving orders, the whinnies of frightened horses or the screams of the dying; but what sent chills through Dunk were the bursts of laughter the faint breeze carried at times and that seemed to sound louder when night fell and the rain began, forcing the men to stop, if only for a few hours.
Later, Ser Arlan blamed himself for not realizing that leaving Dunk alone, surrounded by furious alphas and beneath such strain, would lead him into a rushed presentation. Though Dunk never blamed his Ser; he was already sixteen years old and still had not presented, so he had always assumed he was among those who never did.
The memory would follow Dunk for the rest of his life.
He had been walking across the battlefield, checking corpses in search of wounded men who still might be saved or, at the very least, given something so they might have a swifter death. He had felt tired and feverish for days, but he was not certain whether it was because of the strain of being thrust into a new and complex situation without any preparation at all, in addition to the few hours of sleep because he felt uneasy and unsafe, even within his small camp beside Ser Arlan.
But they needed him, so Dunk had pressed onward until the wind brought him the scent of spring rain, mingled with something woody, with notes of oud, incense, and spices.
Dunk remembered how his body had relaxed in relief, but also because of the sudden feeling of safety that wrapped around him as though they were silent arms. How he had been able to breathe better, though his mind had clouded somewhat and his eyes were soon drawn toward a figure approaching atop a white horse that, at that moment, was so stained with blood and mud that it was only possible to recognize its color by the marks left where its protections had been absent, likely removed to allow the animal to cool itself.
The man —clearly an alpha— was as filthy as his horse, with dark curls hardened by mud. His face was clean in certain places, likely where some maester had examined the cuts upon it, his greenish honey-colored eyes stood out all the more because of the grime and the sun. His armor was utterly ruined, as was the cloak hanging from his shoulders, yet even so he appeared imposing, elegant in some strange way, and as noble as he likely was.
Dunk remembered that the alpha had approached him with those arresting eyes shining with what he recognized as concern. His voice had been rough and worn, likely from days spent shouting orders, but even so it sounded warm.
—How long have you been awake, boy? —the alpha had asked as he dismounted.
Dunk remembered opening his mouth and not knowing what to answer.
—I do not know, my lord.
The man had let out a low and weary laugh while removing his damp gloves.
—Then that means far too long.
Dunk had noticed that the alpha’s thighs trembled with exhaustion.
Dunk remembered that they had begun speaking as though they were not standing amid a ruined battlefield, surrounded by dead men and beasts. He could remember that the alpha had guided him toward a tent and made him drink water and eat; that after Dunk helped him remove his armor, they had sat and continued speaking for hours.
—Do you always speak this much? —the alpha had asked after listening to him ramble for who knew how long.
Dunk remembered having turned red immediately.
—I am sorry.
—I was not complaining.
And then the alpha had offered him another piece of fruit as though that were the most natural thing in the world, but he could not quite remember what they had spoken of.
He had only been able to focus on his scent, on how warm, safe, and relaxed he felt; on the way the man listened to every single thing Dunk said with an attention and care no one had ever given him before; on how he seemed to lean toward him, breathing deeply, his broad chest expanding with every inhalation.
Then his memories became somewhat blurrier, lost within the fever and the heat. He remembered the warm weight of a large hand holding the back of his neck when the world seemed to spin too quickly, and how the alpha always ended up pulling him back against his chest every time Dunk tried to move away half-asleep.
Ser Arlan told him he had been missing for a week and a half.
Of those days where his mind was dulled by fever and heat, Dunk only remembered soft hands, eager but delicate kisses, careful ones, teeth scraping against his skin in the most delicious way. He remembered broken whispers, praise, small pleas, and moans the alpha smothered against his mouth.
—So sweet, darling…
—That is it… Shh, it is all right, love
—Seven, look at you… I want to bite you, mark you, make you mine forever
—So pretty… so pink…
He remembered how safe and cared for he had felt the entire time, even without truly being certain of what was happening. He also remembered how the alpha made him drink water or eat the sweetest fruit Dunk had ever tasted in his life.
—Slowly —the alpha murmured against his damp hair when Dunk drank too quickly—. You are going to make yourself ill.
He remembered the embracing warmth radiating from his almost golden skin, his soft laughs that always ended up cut short by some moan or growl, a sound that, for the first time since Dunk could remember, did not provoke fear in him nor the urge to shrink further than his great size allowed. Instead, that sound had made him throw his head back, moaning and rolling his eyes.
The next thing Dunk remembered with the same clarity as those first hours with the alpha was waking shortly before dawn, his body aching but satisfied in a way he had never felt and would never feel again. His skin burned in places where bites and shallow marks had remained, but the pain felt strangely good, heavy and warm. The alpha’s arms encircled his waist and one of his strong legs was lodged between Dunk’s, his face firmly pressed against his back, breathing deeply and slowly as though he wished to drown himself in his scent even in sleep.
Dunk had awakened softly and peacefully for the first time in his life, so it took him a long while to clear his mind enough to look around more carefully, with his thoughts less clouded, his eyes were drawn first toward the discarded golden armor and then toward the golden tabard thrown across the floor of the unfamiliar tent, and it was impossible not to recognize it, even covered in mud and blood.
Baratheon.
Any satisfied and gentle calm he had felt vanished between one breath and the next, replaced by fear. In part because he was not certain what had happened, how or why he had ended there; and also because someone like Dunk should not be so close to someone like the heir Lyonel Baratheon, a man only a couple of years older than him, yet already a knight of renown, sent to lead battles on his own, someone whose name was spoken with fear but also with respect.
So he had dressed quickly, careful not to make any sound that might wake Lyonel, who still slept deeply. And, guided by an instinct he would only understand later, he had taken Lyonel’s golden gambeson with him, still saturated with the scent of smoke, sweat, and alpha.
Dunk, spurred onward by something tightening within his chest, had run between the different makeshift tents toward the tree line where Ser Arlan had chosen to make camp. Dunk had understood the reason by the second day after arriving there and being able to retreat to rest surrounded by the fresh scent of the trees, replacing the stench of death.
Ser Arlan had been relieved beyond words when Dunk appeared in the camp, stumbling, trembling, and frightened, but whatever relief the old alpha felt upon seeing his squire vanished when he caught the scent surrounding the youth like a cloud: orange blossom, white tea, and oakmoss, unmistakably omega, and that scent was also mixed with heat, sex, and an alpha in rut.
Dunk remembered how Ser Arlan had dragged him toward a nearby stream and how, while Dunk bathed himself thoroughly, his still confused and feverish eyes fixed upon the back of his Ser, who had turned away to grant him an unusual privacy and took far too long to speak. Dunk could see how the old man kept his shoulders tense beneath his clothes, as though he were searching for the proper words and failing to find them.
—You have presented, boy... —his voice came out rough and weary—. Late, but you did.
Dunk stood still within the freezing water.
—What…?
Ser Arlan let out a slow breath before continuing.
—You are an omega, Dunk.
The stream continued sounding between the stones while Dunk’s mind struggled to catch up.
—And the alpha you were with... —the old man hesitated for only an instant—. He must have been close to a rut, the strain, the battle... your scent likely finished pushing him over the edge.
The water was already too cold, to the point that his skin ached, but Dunk continued scrubbing himself all the same, as though he might understand more quickly if he did. Dunk, strangely enough, felt grateful that his Ser did not ask him who he had been with and what exactly had happened.
Ser Arlan continued giving him his back while making Dunk tell him everything he knew about omegas to be certain that his squire understood his new situation and as though pretending not to see the tears that had begun falling silently down Dunk’s cheeks as the water erased Lyonel’s scent from his skin. His tears were also for the clear truth that was beginning to settle slowly within Dunk’s mind: he would never be able to be a knight.
After Dunk dressed and wrapped himself in Ser Arlan’s clean cloak to conceal his new sweet scent, they departed toward Dorne before the sun had fully settled into a new day.
The following month passed normally, they continued traveling, helping where it was needed, surviving as they always had, but upon entering the second month, Dunk fell ill: he began vomiting, becoming angry simply for the sake of it, and every fabric irritated him, he began feeling so exhausted that they could barely ride for a couple of hours a day before Dunk needed to stop and rest.
When Dunk’s illness continued for more than two weeks, for the first time in all the years Dunk had known his Ser, he saw him look at him with sorrow for several days in a row. Until one night when his Ser had been even quieter than usual and his blue eyes were damp with grief, his gaze fixed upon the fire for far too long before speaking just as Dunk was giving up on understanding what was happening with the old alpha.
—Dunk... —his voice came out softer than usual—. I think you are with child, boy.
Dunk remembered feeling something sink within his stomach.
—No —The word came out too quickly.— You are mistaken
—I wish I were mistaken.
The fire crackled between them while Ser Arlan finally looked at him, with the same sorrow, and Dunk sank into the panic beginning to grow within his chest.
—It cannot…
But even as he said it, Dunk remembered the constant exhaustion, the sweet scent clinging to his skin, and the unbearable sensitivity of his body; Dunk remembered crying from fear, confusion, and guilt… Guilt for becoming an even greater burden upon his Ser, for complicating things still further. And, for the first time since Dunk had known the old knight, he shouted at him, truly shouted, furious, instead of merely limiting himself to striking him upon the head when Ser Arlan found him before dawn, finishing tying together his few belongings with fingers clumsy from the cold. The old alpha remained staring at him for several seconds without speaking.
—What are you doing?
Dunk did not answer.
—Dunk.
—I cannot stay.—His voice trembled more than he wished.—I am not going to keep ruining your life, Ser.. In a few months I will not even be useful as a squire anymore, I cannot..
Ser Arlan let out a dry and incredulous laugh that interrupted Dunk’s stammering.
—Ruining me? —Dunk barely raised his gaze before the old man finally exploded, filling their small camp with a strong scent of fury. —You are my boy, damn it!
The shout echoed between the trees.
—I am not going to let you run away simply because you are frightened! We are going to solve this as we have solved everything for years, now stop being foolish, and sit beside the fire before you freeze, you damned foolish boy
After that they spoke, Dunk confessed to his Ser who he had been with, and Ser Arlan made plans. They decided to remain in Dorne, where they were kinder toward bastards and where Dunk would not receive too many looks for expecting a pup.
Besides, Ser Arlan knew several people there who could give them work, but also a safe place for Dunk, so they traveled farther into the heart of Dorne when Dunk’s pregnancy had become too advanced for the omega to continue traveling for hours or sleeping in makeshift camps.
Ser Arlan had spent a fair amount of coins on a raven he sent to Storm’s End for Lyonel Baratheon; he told Dunk only after he had already done it, because he knew perfectly well that the omega would become angry, especially because they had already argued about the matter more than once.
—Ser! You should have told me before… No.. Why did you do it?!
—Because you would have tried to stop me.
—Of course I would have tried to stop you!
Ser Arlan held his gaze this time with a firmness that had become present ever since Dunk’s condition became clear, before that, his Ser only showed such firmness and attention when he stood upon a battlefield.
—The child deserves something more than hiding for his entire life, Dunk.
Ser Arlan had wished to return to the Stormlands more than once, but Dunk had refused outright. His Ser had even offered to travel alone if Dunk did not wish to face Lyonel, because he was convinced that the Baratheon would answer, there existed the possibility that he would not acknowledge the pup, yes, but Ser Arlan insisted that even so he would give Dunk money or whatever the child might need.
But Dunk had refused him.
He was too frightened that Lyonel would simply laugh at him and cast him aside as everyone always had. He refused to allow his son to endure the pain of that rejection. A part of him was also afraid that Lyonel would take the child from him as soon as he was born and then discard Dunk as though he had never mattered.
The man had been warm, sweet, and kind with him. He had listened to him attentively even when Dunk only spoke incoherent nonsense, but the omega had endured too many things, had seen and lived through what happened to bastard pups and to those who gave birth to them. And another part of him, the small and foolish lovestruck part, had become captivated by Lyonel’s gentle and encompassing treatment, feared that illusion would shatter the moment he saw him again.
And he had been right… They never received any kind of answer from the Baratheons.
The final month with his pup sheltered within his womb had been dreadful for Dunk. He felt even larger and more unbalanced than usual because of the size of his belly, though he knew that only his enormous height had allowed him to go unnoticed for so long and move with relative comfort, there was also the exhaustion, his pup was clearly a restless little thing that did not allow him to sleep.
Some nights he ended up sitting upon his bedroll beneath the stars, too uncomfortable to lie down again, with pain in his lower back and a constant pressure beneath his ribs every time the child decided to move, which was all the time, too overheated to remain inside but also too exhausted to walk.
Most of the little food he managed to eat made him ill and he could not even approach his Ser’s horses, which normally soothed his foul mood, because for some reason the animals grew uneasy near him and Dunk feared one of them might shove or kick him and end up hurting his baby.
Dunk and Ser Arlan had barely managed to obtain what was necessary for the child, and that had been mainly thanks to an old omega who had been widowed, with both her sons dead in some battle. The woman taught Dunk how to make clothes for the pup using scraps of cloth she gifted him with a sorrowful smile.
—Small stitches last longer —the old omega told him while guiding Dunk’s clumsy hands over the fabric—. Pups grow quickly, but the cold arrives sooner.
Dunk had nodded silently, too focused upon trying not to ruin the needle or the fabric.
—You are doing well, boy —she added after a moment, with a softness that tightened something within his chest.
She taught him all those little tricks only a woman —or an omega— who had borne children could know, and Dunk felt that something of the fear that had been suffocating him for months was finally beginning to loosen.
Guided by instinct, and also by the need for his baby to have something of the father he would likely never come to know, Dunk asked the old omega to help him turn the gambeson he had stolen from Lyonel into a blanket.
—Are you certain?
Dunk ran his thumb over the embroidered stag before nodding.
—I want him to have something of his father.
So the following days had been spent undoing the seams of the gambeson and then sewing it together again, the fabric was expensive, of fine quality, and the gambeson had been large enough for them to make a blanket of decent size. One that, though he did not yet know it, would end up becoming his son’s most treasured possession because it was warm and kept the boy dry even during nights of heavy rain
Dunk welcomed his son, Thoren, during a night of brutal storms for the region, though he supposed that was fitting for the son of the heir to the Lords of the Storm. The child was born in the middle of the night, with only Ser Arlan and the old omega who had helped Dunk during the last month accompanying him.
Outside, the storm made the wooden walls creak every few minutes and the scent of wet rain mingled with sweat, blood, and medicinal herbs. Dunk could barely feel the old omega’s hands moving the hair stuck to his neck aside or wiping the cold sweat from his brow between contractions.
And while holding his baby for the first time, exhausted and trembling, Dunk could only thank the gods —and whoever it was that had decided to show him mercy— that his pup had been born safely. That there had been no complications that left him with an empty womb and empty arms, or that left a child without either of his parents.
And though Dunk would have preferred to remain there, with the old omega, because beneath her guidance he did not feel quite so afraid of ruining his baby before he had any chance at all, and because Ser Arlan had found work that did not leave them wavering between meals, besides the fact that they had promised Dunk employment as soon as he felt better, so that he would not be a burden upon his Ser, the old alpha had refused.
—We cannot stay.
Dunk had lifted his gaze immediately.
—Why?
Ser Arlan watched Thoren sleeping among the blankets for far too long before answering.
—Because that child has the face of a Baratheon.
They remained in the small village long enough for Dunk to recover sufficiently to ride and for it to be safe for the pup to travel, wrapped securely around Dunk’s chest. And though Dunk had felt sorrowful, he also understood his Ser’s reasoning for leaving because he was right: Thoren was a replica of his alpha father, though with Dunk’s pale skin, so it was better if they kept moving.
And that became even clearer when, two weeks after Thoren’s birth, while they prepared camp for the night after stopping at a village only for supplies and to give the horses respite, a stag appeared.
Dunk had left Thoren upon his bedroll, comfortably wrapped in the golden blanket and sleeping deeply after feeding him, while he prepared a fire and Ser Arlan began organizing their supplies, when the sound of his Ser’s sword being drawn, followed by an incoherent coo from his baby, caused Dunk to become alert.
When he looked, he found himself face to face with a black stag with greenish honey-colored eyes, circling the child in an overprotective manner; Dunk’s heart had raced so fiercely that he felt dizzy for a moment and, ignoring how poorly it might end, he approached firmly, with only a knife at hand, yet needing to place his pup somewhere safe.
The animal was enormous.
Each breath came out heavy and visible from its muzzle into the cold night air, and the faint movement of its antlers made several low branches crack above its head. The stag merely stared at him, fixedly, as though assessing him, before lowering its head with a care that did not belong to an animal so large nor so wild, until its nose pressed against the baby’s plump cheek, breathing noisily for a moment.
Dunk took another step closer, but stopped when the stag moved again, though not to retreat, but instead to lie down beside Thoren, carefully resting its elegant head upon the child’s chest.
Dunk remembered looking at his Ser with fear and in search of guidance, but his Ser was as surprised and astonished as he was.
—I have never seen anything like this —Ser Arlan admitted in a low voice, still holding the sword in hand.
Once it became clear that the stag was not going to move nor was it a danger to the pup, they resumed their movements slowly and carefully. They finished preparing the camp, ate in silence, wary of the stag, which had not moved except to close its eyes, clearly resting.
It only moved when Dunk approached the bedroll to sleep. He moved his baby carefully so as not to wake him, settling into his usual position: on his side, with Thoren only a few inches away so he could see him, but without risking crushing him, and with the child as close to the fire as possible to keep him warm. The stag then moved to circle around Dunk, lying back down beside the pup once more, though without resting its head upon his small body, something Dunk appreciated because its antlers —large, majestic, and fully grown— could have injured Dunk.
The following days made it clear to Dunk and Ser Arlan that the stag was there to stay. It had not departed no matter how much Ser Arlan had tried to scare it away, so they simply decided to leave it be, thinking perhaps it would tire soon, but that did not happen.
—Damned stubborn beast... —Ser Arlan growled after the stag barely stepped back a few paces before settling once more near Thoren.— Damned strange, foolish, stubborn Baratheon
Dunk had watched the animal in silence, seeing the dark ears turn only slightly toward the old alpha’s voice before ignoring him completely.
It followed them along the road, half trotting beside Dunk, causing Chestnut to grow nervous at intervals. The stag’s hooves sounded heavy upon the damp earth and more than once its antlers brushed against low branches with a dry crack that made the horses startle.
It was clear that it was there for Thoren, because the moment Dunk left his baby sleeping upon his bedroll to brush the horses or cook, the stag positioned itself around the child, protecting him with its body and lowering its head to practically cage him within its antlers, making it impossible for anything or anyone to touch him.
The stag stirred too many conflicting feelings within Dunk. Its eyes were far too similar to Lyonel’s and the ones Thoren had inherited; it always followed Dunk while he moved through the camp or through the forest when searching for fruit or firewood, with his pup secure against his chest.
Always watching him with an attention no animal should possess and whenever it wrapped itself around the child, its eyes remained fixed upon Dunk, as though it protected the baby with its body, but Dunk with its attention.
The stag would not allow him to forget who his son’s father was, though that was impossible to forget for far too many reasons. It confused him because he did not understand why the stag was there, why it followed them, why it cared for them… And the most childish part of Dunk thought that this was probably how Lyonel would care for them if Dunk had not run away but he did not take long to crush those thoughts the moment they appeared. It was not worth indulging in that kind of illusion, because Lyonel knew he had a son and clearly had not cared.
And it also hurt to see it. Very much.
When Thoren was five months old and Dunk’s scent returned to that of an unmarked omega, strong and fertile, he began drawing far too much attention, to the point that Dunk had to remain within the camp, because not only was the way he attracted looks dangerous, but the stag had extended its overprotectiveness from Thoren to Dunk, attacking anyone who was not Ser Arlan if they came too close.
—This is going to end badly —Ser Arlan murmured one night while watching the stag walk around the camp with its head held high and its antlers strangely outlined in gold against the fire.
The third time something died and began anew within Dunk was when Ser Arlan died beneath the Dornish rain and he buried him alone, with damp earth beneath his nails and a sleeping child nearby, watched over by the stag.
They had been leaving a small settlement when two alphas, clearly drunk and deserter knights, stopped them. Dunk remembered the fear that paralyzed his body long enough for one of them to approach him, though not close enough before the stag forced him backward with its great antlers carving deep cuts across the man’s chest and face.
Dunk remembered how the stag had remained at his side, forcing him to stay back while Ser Arlan fought, keeping them away from his squire. Dunk remembered trying desperately to push the stag aside.
—Ser! SER!
The animal had shoved him backward again, firm and impossible to move while Thoren began crying against his chest.
—Let me go, you fool!
He remembered the rain beginning to fall over the mud, the sound of steel and Ser Arlan’s breathing far too weary between blows.
Dunk remembered fighting the instinct to clutch Thoren even tighter against his chest and run until they were safe. He remembered the fear and desperation he felt while watching the old alpha defend him.
Ser Arlan knew what he was doing, but he had the burden of age and a sickness that had not fully left his body, exhausting him beyond measure, so it did not take long before he was overwhelmed. He would remember for the rest of his life the feeling of holding his Ser’s hand while he cried and watched his blue eyes go dim.
—Look at me, boy... —the old man’s voice already sounded wet and broken—. Keep moving.
Dunk could barely breathe from crying so hard.
—No, ser
—The pup needs you.. You are doing well, boy, even if you do not believe it
He would remember having cried for what seemed like hours, until his baby grew restless and the stag nudged him gently in the back, urging him to move. What Dunk would not remember very clearly was how he managed to return to the camp, but he had done it, and by the time evening came, Dunk was already digging a grave.
The wet earth clung beneath his nails and made the shovel heavy and difficult to lift. His fingers trembled so much from the cold and the crying that several times he had to stop merely to gather enough strength to continue digging. He had needed to leave Thoren, wrapped in his golden blanket and sheltered from the rain by the stag’s great body, while he finished digging. He had wrapped his Ser within his bedroll and had cried a little more before burying him.
That night Dunk had not eaten supper, he had only found enough strength to feed his pup and find a dry place so his baby would not fall ill. For the first time, the stag had not curled itself against the pup, but against Dunk, resting its great and heavy head upon his, making itself as small as it could despite its size while Dunk cried.
—It is clear that we cannot remain in Dorne any longer —he whispered to himself, to the stag, and to Thoren. Clearly he received no answer, only the stag’s cold and damp nose pressing against his hot cheek wet with tears.
Dunk allowed himself two days to grieve before beginning to move again. He had to think of the pup; he could not remain in a place that was clearly dangerous and neither could he trust that the stag would always protect them.
He could not continue in Dorne, not when he was clearly already known there, so that left him with two choices. He could cross back into the Stormlands, where it would be enough for him to pass through a village and for someone to see the stag for the news to reach the Baratheons or Lyonel, and Dunk could not be certain what the alpha would do: whether he would come for them, whether he would search for him to take away his baby, whether he would send someone to kill them or what might happen. He only knew that he could not risk passing through there.
That left the next option: the Reach.
For the following year, Dunk kept moving throughout the Reach, using abandoned old watermills as hiding places, because their thick stone walls muffled Thoren’s joyful and constant laughter, who, from what Dunk knew and remembered of Lyonel, was just as cheerful and prone to laughter. Also the constant sound of water running beneath the damp timbers of the mill helped conceal the pup’s nightly cries when his small teeth began coming in.
When there was no mill, he turned to ruined sanctuaries of the Seven. They were good hiding places because they were usually deep within the forest and almost always possessed dry cellars or crypts, which gave them a safe place to sleep during the rainy seasons. The damp stones held the cold even during the day and the scent of old mold ended up soaking into Dunk’s clothes and blankets.
Dunk still had complex feelings regarding the stag, but he could not deny its usefulness. His pup was already large enough to feel fascinated by the animal’s movements, so it was not strange for him to entertain himself for long stretches touching its fur or clutching its antlers with his small fingers when the stag remained still long enough, which allowed Dunk to hunt something or find fruit to feed them.
At times Thoren laughed when the stag snorted against his curly hair or babbled incoherent sounds while trying to grab the enormous antlers with both hands. It was also good at alerting Dunk to the presence of strangers long before he himself could notice them.
And though Dunk could manage with fruit or small animals hunted in the forest, there were things he needed to buy, but he had no money and far less any way of obtaining work. In the eyes of many he was no more than a boy; an omega who already had a child and no mark upon his neck, the only thing he had in his favor was his size, and even that was beginning to cease being useful to him.
Dunk had lived with fear, uncertainty, and the constant strain of surviving day by day for so long that he no longer remembered what it was like not to feel that way. He only found something resembling rest during the few nights when hunger allowed him to sleep a little and his mind carried him back to the nights he had spent with Lyonel.
And those feelings grew each time he had to approach a village, because he ended up resorting to things he had thought he had left behind alongside Flea Bottom. He had always hated stealing, but he had a child to care for.
So, with a knot in his chest that stole away his voice and mint rubbed harshly over his neck to cover his scent, Dunk moved through small merchants’ stalls stealing cloth from one, soap from another, a bit of meat from some third one. He felt cold sweat gathering beneath his clothes every time a gaze lingered upon him for too long, more than once he had to hurry out of some village with his heart striking against his ribs so hard that he ended up dizzy.
Nor did it help that the stag refused to remain within the forest or out of sight, so his visits had to be quick and efficient. Even so, it was not unusual that within hours everyone would be speaking of the unknown omega who was closely followed by a black stag.
By the time Dunk realized it, an entire year since Ser Arlan’s death had passed. Thoren had a nameday upon his small curly head, already nearing the second, and Dunk stood at the limit of strength that seemed to grow smaller the closer winter came.
He kept moving forward. One more day and then another, and another.
He did not know how much longer he would endure, how much more he could bear like this, with Dunk eating one day and not the next so that Thoren could eat, even if the only thing Dunk could give him made him nauseous with shame. His baby drank watered milk if Dunk managed to steal some and ate bruised apples or whatever fruit he found within the forest with joy, seated between the stag’s legs.
Dunk was accustomed to hunger, but he refused to allow his pup to know that feeling. He ignored the pain in his stomach as best he could, with his body weighing upon him in an ancient way, clinging to his bones. It was not pain, not entirely; it was weariness, cold, even beneath the cloak he had refused to sacrifice because it was the only thing left that kept him from ending up sleeping directly upon damp grass or fallen leaves.
Some days rising too quickly caused black spots to cover his vision for several seconds. His hands trembled so much at night that sometimes he spilled part of the little food before giving it to Thoren.
He could not continue like this. The thought arrived without sound and remained.
The forest had been a refuge at first. The trees concealed the child, concealed what Dunk was, and the stag had kept men worse than hunger away. Dunk did not question too deeply what it did when it disappeared for hours only to return with its antlers covered in blood, it was easier not to do so, because there was already enough fear gripping his body without adding more to it.
But Thoren was no longer small.
Dunk could tell he was tall for being only a year and a half old while watching him stand clumsily, with his tiny hands clutching the stag’s antlers that helped him maintain his balance, though it did not surprise him. His features remained a replica of Lyonel’s noble and handsome face, but softened by the innocent sweetness of an infant. Even asleep, his pup tended to stretch his small body as much as possible and cling to Dunk, the way Dunk remembered Lyonel had done that morning before he fled.
Thoren needed more than Dunk could give him. More food, more warmth, and more than Dunk could carry or steal before winter finally reached them and lately each morning cost him a little more effort to rise.
Dunk had been fighting tears all day, and only now, with Thoren asleep beside the fire, wrapped in his golden blanket —already worn by constant use and mistreatment—, one small hand clutching the stag’s dark fur while the beast rested beside him, still, watching him from the other side of the flames, did he feel that he could barely continue holding himself together.
There was something in that gaze that unsettled Dunk, too still and attentive to belong only to an animal.
He brought a hand to his mouth when the air caught within his chest, his lungs burned and the trembling climbed through his arms before he could stop it. He swallowed the sound trying to escape him, afraid of waking the pup, but even so it broke within his throat.
—I do not know what else to do —he said, barely more than a thread of a voice.
The stag merely blinked, slowly, without moving except to rest its great head upon Thoren’s small chest.
They were not living, merely surviving. Dunk had spent his entire childhood that way and he could not, nor did he wish to, allow his son to grow in the same manner, the animal had saved them more than once but it would not be able to sustain Thoren when Dunk could no longer rise because his body finally surrendered to hunger, it would not be able to care for him if he fell ill, it would not be able to protect him if he were injured.
Dunk curled into himself, resting his brow against his knees while tears slowly fell down his cheeks, silent, as on so many other nights. Dunk had learned to cry silently first in Flea Bottom, where any sign of weakness became something another could use against you; afterward, because he did not wish to trouble Ser Arlan with his problems; and now, because he refused to wake his pup. He refused to take yet another thing away from the child he was supposed to protect.
And for the first time since he learned of Thoren, since Ser Arlan’s death, the thought ceased to be something he avoided: He needed to find Lyonel Baratheon.
One month after Lyonel’s fourth nameday, the ship where his father, Thorgan, and his mother, Lys, were traveling toward Tarth wrecked, leaving Lyonel as the only surviving member of the main Baratheon line.
His father’s younger brother, Ser Torren Baratheon, together with his wife, Lady Rowena, took charge of Lyonel, since they had no children. Lyonel loved his uncle Torren because the man had never treated him as a burden in order to take control of Storm’s End, though he had every right with Lyonel being so small when he was orphaned, nor did he treat him as his brother’s son, but as his own son, his own pup; unlike his wife, who felt a slight resentment toward Lyonel, since she had never wanted children and her husband had agreed… until they had to take guardianship of Lyonel.
When Lyonel Baratheon was ten years old, his uncle Torren summoned him to his private solar and began to tell him the true history of their family. Lyonel was certain that, even in old age, upon closing his eyes he would be able to remember that moment with an absurd amount of detail.
Lyonel remembered that the tallow candles scratched at the dimness of the solar while outside, the sea battered the cliffs with its usual fury, but inside the silence was heavy.
He remembered how his uncle, acting as Lord Regent, had poured himself some wine before giving a cup to Lyonel, mixed with water to soften it; Lyonel was accustomed to most adults, outside of his uncle, forgetting that he was only ten years old because at that age he already showed the broad back and long limbs that preceded a tall and strong body, but one only needed to look into his greenish honey eyes to see that he still carried the restlessness and curiosity proper to childhood.
His legs barely reached enough for his boots to rest completely upon the floor from the chair too large where he sat. He remembered how the man had waited until Lyonel held the cup with both hands before releasing it, as if he still believed he might accidentally break it between his fingers.
—Sit down, Lyonel, I wished to speak with you of something important —Lyonel remembered his uncle saying in a soft voice, yet firm and solemn—. You have turned ten years old… It is time for you to learn a little more about our family
Lyonel obeyed, intrigued by his uncle’s solemnity, but also by his words while taking a sip of the watered wine.
—You know the words of our house, do you not?
—Yes, uncle.
—The maesters will tell you it is because of Orys’s character or because of the storms that lash these walls, but the maesters know nothing of blood… Fury is not merely anger, Lyonel; it is a living bond.
Lyonel followed his uncle with his gaze while the man moved toward the window, observing the darkness of the outer forest. A distant flash of lightning briefly illuminated the man’s weary profile.
—Since the second generation of the Baratheons there has existed a secret that is only passed from mouth to mouth when the heir is ready and it should be your father telling you this, but… It is not a fable for sleep, but proof of the legitimacy of our blood.
—I do not understand.
—When an alpha of our line finds his perfect scent-match, his destined mate, and sires a child, the ancient Lords who already rest in the beyond judge the union… —he remembered that his uncle had lowered his voice, as though he feared even the stones might hear him— and if they approve it, they not only bless the pair, Lyonel, but also the child and then the magic of the storm manifests itself.
Lyonel frowned, trying to grasp something hazy within his memory. A soft and dark recollection, like a shadow moving behind a barely open door.
—A stag —the boy whispered.
His uncle barely smiled, a sad grimace that never fully reached his eyes.
—That is right, fawn… It is not an animal of flesh and bone that needs to eat or sleep, but a pure extension of the father’s energy, a guardian of shadow and fury that appears within weeks of the pup’s birth.
Lyonel remembered feeling his small heart beating almost violently, struggling to follow his uncle’s tale, but also the memories those words were beginning to awaken within him like something he had seen in dreams. He remembered remaining motionless upon the chair too large for him, his fingers tightening around the cup until the watered wine trembled inside it.
—The animal never leaves the child’s side, and even less so if the pup is in danger or far from the family, it is the alpha’s instinct materialized by the magic of blood to care for his offspring. And it only disappears… when the father dies.
He remembered how Uncle Torren had knelt before Lyonel, placing a heavy hand upon his shoulder, his green eyes meeting Lyonel’s greenish honey ones with seriousness, yet still warm.
—For four generations no Baratheon had been blessed with the guardian stag, a clear sign that the bloodline was weakening, becoming common… Until you were born.
The memories he had always believed were dreams suddenly came alive. He remembered fur black as coal, eyes like storm clouds and an absolute warmth that protected him during cold nights. He remembered the animal following him through the long corridors of the fortress, preventing Lyonel from crashing into servants, walls or decorative armor whenever he ran too fast. He remembered the damp nose pressing against his cheek until it made him laugh so hard that he ended up crying.
—He was there, he was not… —Lyonel murmured—. Was he?
Uncle Torren smiled sadly, lifting a hand to brush a damp curl away from his brow.
—Yes, fawn… he was there.—He remembered how the man had released a heavy breath before continuing.—Your father used to say that he could not take you from your cradle or embrace you without first asking the damned animal for permission.
Lyonel remembered letting out a damp and small laugh at that, one that broke quickly within his throat.
—My father’s stag… —he murmured more to himself than to his uncle.
—Yes, darling, your father found his destined and the ancestors blessed you, that stag guarded you day and night, relentless but the night the ship sank, the stag released a bellow that shook the foundations of the castle and vanished into the air, made of black smoke… That is how I knew the source of its energy had gone out, that my brother was no longer there.
Lyonel remembered beginning to cry silently, confused by the strange pain those words caused him, as though he were losing his parents for a second time. He remembered that he did not understand why it hurt so much to hear about an animal he could barely remember, yet his chest burned all the same and the sobs tightened his throat in a way he did not know how to explain.
Uncle Torren squeezed his shoulder firmly, looking at him intently while wiping away the silent tears that fell and dampened his cheeks, making the black curls cling to his skin.
—That is why I am only the Lord Regent, Lyonel; that is why I refuse, and will continue refusing, to take the title of Lord Paramount officially, no matter how many years pass nor how much the other houses pressure me, do you understand?
Lyonel remembered that he had shaken his head, struggling with everything he was learning, with all those memories that seemed to burst open suddenly inside him. He also remembered how he had tried to wipe away his tears quickly, embarrassed to be crying before his uncle even when the man did not seem annoyed or uncomfortable by it.
—I am only keeping the seat for you, fawn… —he remembered his uncle saying while adjusting the collar of his tunic with a strange gentleness in a man so large—. You are the one chosen by blood and the storm itself, our ancestors marked you as the true head of this family from the cradle and your destiny is to rule the Stormlands, but also to find that perfect companion so that the fury of our blood does not fade again and so that you may be loved with the same fury, do you understand?
The man had paused, watching him with such intense seriousness that even as a child Lyonel understood that it mattered.
—It is very important that you never forget it, fawn… I love you as though you were mine, your parents loved you even more, and the gods of the storm have someone made to measure for you.
Lyonel remembered clinging to those words for years.
He remembered them when his aunt did everything possible to displace him with soft smiles and comments that seemed innocent before others, but that always managed to make him feel like a guest within his own home. He remembered them when some of his uncle’s counselors watched him with open disdain, as though they saw a boy too large occupying a seat he did not yet deserve.
He kept those words close to his heart when he presented as an alpha at thirteen years old. He remembered the suffocating pressure of heat coursing through his body, the broken furniture in his chamber from the uncontrolled force of his pheromones and the way Uncle Torren had remained seated beside his bed for hours, ignoring the aggressive scent of a newly presented alpha until Lyonel stopped trembling.
And it was those same words that afterward made him extremely careful with those he brought to his bed, whether for pleasure or during his ruts because even being young, arrogant and far too confident in himself for his own good, Lyonel never forgot that, somewhere in the world, there existed someone made to measure for him.
Lyonel had grown in every possible sense of the word. His body had become large, tall and strong, fitting for a confident personality without becoming arrogant; cheerful and carefree upon the surface, but extremely astute, intelligent and analytical beneath all of that. He had turned himself into a storm that trapped you and embraced you with warmth and loyalty if that was what you offered, but also capable of giving you the slowest and most painful death if you did not.
Probably part of that, and his ease for laughter, had led him to be called The Laughing Storm, and his skill with every kind of weapon, just like his mastery of different forms of combat, had made him a renowned knight. That helped the different Baratheon vassals stop pressuring his uncle so much, though it also provoked his aunt’s constant anger.
Lyonel at times felt guilty for the tension his presence had settled within his uncle and aunt’s marriage, who had married out of affection —not romantic love, but enough to build a good and healthy union for them both— and which now was clouded by his presence. Lyonel knew that, when he was at Storm’s End, they spent their days arguing because his uncle refused to force him to marry, because he refused to occupy the place that belonged to Lyonel, and because his aunt considered that Lyonel was, simply, too much.
So he did everything possible to remain outside the fortress for as much time as possible: participating in tournaments, leading campaigns or traveling throughout all the Stormlands, even its islands. Not only because that kept him away from the arguments, but because it also allowed his people to know him and, more importantly still, for him to know them.
And Lyonel refused to allow his uncle to take risks, not if he could avoid it. That was why it had not been strange for him to take charge of leading the campaign against the rebel lords of Dorne, who would not cease raiding and burning small settlements of the Stormlands.
Lyonel had participated in several campaigns for being barely over twenty years old, but this time there was something different in the air; something that kept him tense, alert and violently restless in a way he had never experienced before, not even when he was a young newly presented alpha.
He had learned quickly to have control: over himself, over his instincts, over any situation he entered. So it was not the scent of other furious and stressed alphas that provoked him. Even so, with the passing of the weeks, the tension within Lyonel only continued to grow; he shouted orders with more force than he had ever used, he was the first to charge when battle resumed at dawn and the last to abandon the field at dusk. His laughter echoed among the men with a strange, almost wild volume.
And Lyonel remembered the exact moment he understood.
He had made his squire remove the protections from his mount so the mare could cool herself after carrying him the entire day, and he had been walking her across the field to finish cooling her when he saw him.
His reddish golden hair shone beneath the faint evening sun, his cheeks were red from exertion and likely also from spending the entire day upon the field without protection for all that pale skin. And when Lyonel approached, he found himself face to face with the most beautiful and captivating blue eyes he had ever seen; even more precious than the sapphires of his mother’s favorite necklace, the same one that had passed to Lyonel after her death.
The thirst for blood and violence that had been roaring within his chest calmed until it extinguished itself when a soft breeze filled his nose, his lungs and his mind with the rich scent of orange blossom, white tea and oakmoss, making it clear that the boy was an omega.
Lyonel remembered having spoken to him from a certain distance, distrusting himself for the first time in all his life.
—How long have you been awake, boy?
The boy had looked at him with his mouth slightly open and an expression of complete confusion.
—I do not know, my lord.
Lyonel had laughed, tired and rough-voiced, his throat aching from entire days of shouting, while he removed his riding gloves.
—Then that means far too long.
He had jumped down from his mount, feeling his legs tremble from the effort of the day and the accumulated exhaustion, though he remained steady while speaking with the boy, from whom he learned that his name was Dunk and that he was the squire of a hedge knight who had joined the battle once it became clear they needed every sword they could gather.
Driven by the instinct to care for the omega and by his own exhaustion, Lyonel remembered having guided Dunk to his tent, where he made him drink water and eat. He also accepted his help in removing the armor that was already a total loss with all the damage it had accumulated.
And Lyonel remembered that they had spoken for hours.
Dunk had stammered at first, nervous and anxious, but as soon as he realized that Lyonel was giving him his full attention, something inside the omega seemed to loosen. He began to speak without stopping, jumping from one topic to another with no apparent connection, though always with a soft and tender smile on his reddish lips that had Lyonel completely hypnotized, just like the dimples in his cheeks.
He realized that he kept leaning closer and closer toward him, breathing in his scent, which grew stronger with every hour they spent talking. And if that was not enough of a sign for Lyonel to understand that the omega was entering heat, then the way those precious blue eyes clouded every time a wave of Lyonel’s scent reached him was more than enough to confirm it.
The last thing Lyonel remembered clearly was forcing Dunk to eat more fruit. After that, everything became confused, not only because of the boy’s scent, but also because of the feverish heat that climbed through his chest, warming his blood until it made him dizzy.
And Lyonel understood that he had to be far more exhausted than he thought because only when his scent began to saturate the tent, blending perfectly with Dunk’s, did he realize that he had fallen into rut.
He remembered the omega half-asleep against his chest, enormous and heavy on top of him in a way Lyonel never would have imagined tender until that moment. He remembered large hands clinging clumsily every time he tried to rise, even for a few seconds, to fetch water or food and he remembered, above all else, how Dunk always ended up curling back against him the moment Lyonel returned; as if the omega had accepted him in body and soul within a matter of hours.
Lyonel remembered slow and hungry kisses, but careful ones as well. He remembered spending entire hours simply scenting Dunk’s skin, intoxicated by the orange blossom and white tea fragrance that grew thicker and sweeter as the days passed.
He remembered biting him, not enough to hurt him, never enough to frighten him or mark him unintentionally, but enough to leave the skin red between his teeth while the omega moaned softly and tiredly beneath him.
—So pretty… —he remembered murmuring against his damp throat—. Seven hells, look at you…
And Dunk had made those sounds... Those small muffled moans and soft tremors that seemed to tear reason straight out of Lyonel’s body.
He remembered feeding him fruit between kisses, holding his jaw carefully to make him drink water when the omega was too lost in the heat to think clearly.
—Slowly, darling —Lyonel murmured against his swollen mouth—. You are going to make yourself ill.
He also remembered the brutal and almost painful pleasure every display of trust from Dunk provoked in him, how the omega let himself be moved between the blankets without resistance, how he pressed himself against him seeking warmth, how he buried his face against his neck breathing him in deeply as if Lyonel were something safe, something good.
And no victory in battle, no tournament won, no triumph achieved in all his life had ever made Lyonel feel even half as savage, proud, and desperately happy as that.
The days blurred together into something hazy that Lyonel later learned had lasted a week and a half. When he finally awoke, his body ached in that deep and heavy way that only good sex could provoke, even so, he felt rested, restored despite having just emerged from a rut.
But he was alone… Completely and utterly alone.
The sheets were still saturated with the scent of heat and omega, so deeply steeped in Dunk that for a moment Lyonel believed he could still reach him if he stretched a hand through the disordered blankets but there was no sign of the omega anywhere. The place beside him was cold when he awoke, so Dunk must have left hours earlier.
Something inside Lyonel’s chest felt empty, broken, as if someone had torn something important out of him while he slept. And he hated that sensation, hated not understanding it but he had things to do, duties to fulfill, so he forced himself to rise and ordered clean clothes, food, and whatever news he had missed during those days to be brought to him.
Lyonel did not entirely remember the rest of the campaign.
He only knew that it had lasted another month and that he returned to Storm’s End transformed into a cold and silent storm. His uncle had tried to ask him several times what had happened to leave him like this, but Lyonel merely limited himself to delivering distant and practical reports about the advances they had made to protect the border.
After that, Lyonel began to spiral downward. He could not stop thinking about Dunk, about the constant emptiness inside his chest and about how his head seemed on the verge of splitting from pain every time he tried to sleep.
As the weeks passed he improved somewhat, at least physically, but his mood remained a volatile storm that exploded over anything and everything worsened the day he caught his aunt and the castellan of the fortress arguing in furious whispers inside one of the many empty chambers of Storm’s End.
Lyonel still remembered the sensation that climbed up his throat when he saw them: distrust, fear and a violent need to attack. A reaction so immediate and savage that even he was bewildered by it, and it worsened when both refused to answer what was happening.
It did not seem accidental to Lyonel that, only a few days later, his uncle sent him to Tarth and then to Estermont for a period that was supposedly meant to be brief.
It ended up becoming a little more than a year.
And part of Lyonel had been grateful not to have remained in Storm’s End during that time. Especially because, barely a month after arriving at Tarth, he fell ill for no apparent reason; he spent days unconscious, consumed by a brutal fever that burned through his body for two entire weeks until one morning he awoke completely free of it, as though it had never existed.
After that, every time he slept he dreamed of Dunk.
At first they were only blurred images, disjointed fragments of reddish strands between his fingers, blue eyes shining, skin flushed beneath his lips but with time the dreams became clearer, more vivid.
He saw Dunk walking through sun-drenched forests, losing himself among crowded markets, sitting beside streams or wandering through small villages that Lyonel had never truly seen. He saw him laugh, speak, lift his head toward the sky as the wind moved his hair. And in every dream there was a single constant: Dunk was even more beautiful than Lyonel remembered, his eyes still sweet and bright in a way Lyonel’s memory had never been able to properly capture.
And if he did not dream of the tall omega, then he dreamed of a child.
One with the same soft curls, the same eyes and the same face Lyonel saw every morning in the mirror. A child he watched grow night after night, saw him go from being a tiny thing wrapped in a golden blanket to learning to walk, laugh and hide behind Dunk’s legs with a smile so wide it made his eyes disappear while deep dimples appeared in his cheeks.
He did not understand why he dreamed of Dunk or of the child. It felt cruel that his own mind would play with him in such a way, showing him something he had never truly had, what could have been… what might have been built if things had been different.
And above all he hated that it did not allow him to forget the omega who had clearly not wanted him.
Lyonel understood it. Dunk had barely known him; to the omega, he had been nothing more than a stranger in the middle of a bloody campaign, an alpha caught in rut just as he was but at the same time he could not help feeling irritated because even someone as innocent and green as Dunk must have understood that there was something more happening between them, something deeper and more dangerous than simply sharing a heat and a rut.
Or perhaps the only fool had been Lyonel. Perhaps he had allowed his heart to become involved too quickly, too deeply, clinging to a few stolen days as if they had meant something eternal.
Still, part of him was grateful for those dreams just as another part cursed them.
The fantasy, the distorted memories or whatever was happening inside his head were enough to keep him from sinking into a dark spiral from which he would likely never return… and which would drag down anyone who stood too close to him.
When he finally returned to Storm’s End, it became clear that any affection or regard his aunt had ever felt for him had completely evaporated, there was also a new coldness between her and his uncle, a tension different from their usual arguments, something far sharper and more silent.
And Lyonel soon discovered the reason.
Thanks to servants loyal to him, he learned that his aunt had been hiding information and intercepting correspondence that had never belonged to her, he also discovered that she had disposed of servants and trusted men who had served the fortress since before Lyonel’s birth.
And Lyonel had learned too much during the last year not to understand what that meant: Storm’s End was beginning to rot from within.
So he decided to act before the damage became irreparable. He informed his uncle that he would depart for the Ashford tournament, but that, when he returned, he would finally take up the mantle of Lord Baratheon and Lyonel was certain he had seen relief shine in his uncle’s green eyes when he heard those words.