Chapter Text
𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓪𝓽 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓢𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽
ONE WEEK BEFORE ASHFORD
♚ Egg ♚
Egg hated his brother, Aerion.
This was not a complicated feeling, nor a new one. Egg had hated Aerion since he was old enough to understand that the way Aerion smiled when he hurt things wasn’t normal. And that Aerion had gotten away with a dozen of smaller cruelties because he was a prince—and for some reason Father’s favorite—and men like him got away with things.
But Egg remembered everything Aerion had done. So when he found the recipe in the back of an old book in the Red Keep's library he didn’t hesitate.
⋆˚✴︎ 𝕬 𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖑 𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖝𝖎𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖘 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊 ✴︎˚⋆
𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:
- 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞
- 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚
- 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐞
- 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐯𝐲
Egg copied the list onto a scrap of parchment. His handwriting was small and neat, so he doubted his father would even be able to read it if he found the paper. He folded it twice and tucked it into his pocket.
Then, he went to find Daeron.
⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹
♚ Egg ♚
Daeron was in his chambers, which wasn’t unusual as Maekar had forbidden him from leaving his room until they left for Ashford. Something about getting drunk again. What was unusual, however, was that Daeron was reading—actually reading, not just staring at a page while thinking about horses, or wine, or whatever else occupied Daeron's famously dragon-dreaming mind.
“You look like you're planning something,” Daeron said, looking up, a little startled.
Egg smiled. “I'm always planning something.”
Daeron sighed, closing his book. “That's what worries me.”
Egg closed the door behind him and sat down on the edge of Daeron's bed. “I need you to get me some things,” he said.
Daeron raised an eyebrow. “Things.”
“Ingredients.” Egg unfolded the list and handed it over. “From the market, or from one of the apothecaries down by the river. You're better at sneaking out than I am.”
Daeron read the list. His expression didn’t change, which was how Egg knew he was worried. Daeron had a terrible poker face. The fact that he was keeping it still meant he was working very hard not to react.
“Aegon,” Daeron said slowly. “This is… this is a list of poisons.”
“Yes.”
Daeron set the list down on his lap. “Who are you planning to kill?”
Egg didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at his hands, which were small and still childish. He hated that. He hated that Aerion was cruel yet still beloved by everyone, and Egg was small and coddled, despite being a better man—boy—than Aerion could ever be.
“Aerion,” he said.
Daeron exhaled tiredly. It wasn’t a surprised sound, but more like a confirmation of something he’d already known. “Brother—”
“He deserves it.” Egg's voice came out sharp. “You know he does. You know, Daeron. You've seen what he does. The way he talks to servants and laughs when someone is scared.”
Daeron looked away, his jaw tightening. “I'm not saying he's good,” he said finally. “I'm saying he's our brother.”
“No,” Egg said flatly. “He's not. He's something that crawled out of the same mother, but that doesn't make him a brother. You're my brother. You're the only one who matters.”
Daeron's expression softened. He reached out and ruffled Egg's hair, a gesture so sweet that Egg almost felt guilty for what he was asking.
Key word: almost.
“Fine,” Daeron said, sighing. “I'll get your poisons. But you owe me.”
“I always owe you.”
Daeron stood up. “I'm going out tonight. There's a tavern near the river that serves ale that doesn't taste like horse piss. I'll stop at the apothecary on the way back.”
“Daeron.” Egg caught his sleeve. “Don't drink too much.”
For a moment, Daeron looked like he might say something like ‘I won’t. Don’t worry’, but instead he just squeezed Egg's shoulder and left.
Egg sat alone in Daeron's room for a while. In one of the other rooms Aerion was probably tormenting a servant or plotting how to make Egg his sister again tonight. But no. Egg wouldn’t let him do that again. Ever.
He touched the pocket where he would later hide the vial and remembered what the book had said.
𝐈𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜. 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫.
They would be at Ashford by then. In the chaos of arrival, Aerion’s death would be blamed on some sickness or his own dragon insanity. And by that time no one would think to question it.
⚠︎ 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⚠︎
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝.
*𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞.
𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲:
- 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞
- 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲
- 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞
- 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝
- 𝐝𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬
𝐈𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞. 𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐞.
Egg had ignored that part. He didn’t have time to read the small print. Nothing would go wrong.
And so he waited.
If Daeron comes back drunk, I'll kill him myself.
He didn't mean it, of course. He loved Daeron. That was the problem, really. He loved Daeron so much that watching him drink himself into a stupor night after night made Egg want to scream. Daeron could’ve been so much more than Daeron the Drunken if anyone had bothered to see past the wine. But no one did. Not Maekar, who looked at Daeron with barely concealed disappointment. And certainly not Aerion, who laughed at Daeron for being a drunk.
Egg actually wanted to squire for Daeron someday. However, he’d never told anyone this, because it was impossible, as Daeron was a shit knight. But Egg didn’t care about that. He cared about Daeron, and if he squired for him, maybe he could protect him. Maybe he could pour out his wine when no one was looking, and be the reason Daeron woke up one morning and realized that he didn't need to drink anymore.
Someday, Egg told himself. When I'm older.
But first, Aerion had to die.
⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹
THREE HOURS LATER
♚ Egg ♚
Daeron came back three hours later, slightly unsteady on his feet and smelling strongly of ale. He was carrying a small cloth sack, which he thrust into Egg's hands. “There,” Daeron said. “Your poisons. All of them. The poison ivy was hard to find, by the way. The apothecary kept trying to sell me something else. Said it was ‘close enough.’ Hopefully everything is there.”
Egg opened the sack. Inside were three small paper packets, each labeled in the apothecary's unsteady handwriting.
Nιɠԋƚʂԋαԃҽ
Bҽʅʅαԃσɳɳα
WσʅϝʂႦαɳҽ
Pσιʂσɳ Iʋყ
(υɳƈҽɾƚαιɳ ʋαɾιҽƚყ. υʂҽ αƚ σɯɳ ɾιʂƙ)
“You're sure these are the right ones?” Egg asked.
Daeron waved a hand. “She said they were. I made her repeat it three times.” He slumped into Egg's armchair. “Fuck, I'm tired. That was horrible. Never again.”
Egg mixed the ingredients in a small clay bowl, following the book's instructions carefully.
𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒:
𝟏. 𝐀𝐝𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐰𝐥.
𝟐. 𝐌𝐢𝐱.
𝟑. 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐯𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.
𝟒. 𝐌𝐢𝐱.
𝟓. 𝐀𝐝𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚.
𝟔. 𝐀𝐝𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫.
𝟕. 𝐏𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲.
It didn't look like poison. It looked like weak tea.
“That's it?” Daeron said, cracking one eye open. “That's what's going to kill Aerion?”
“If I did it right.”
“And if you didn't?”
Egg paused. He hadn't considered that. Shit.
“Aegon,” Daeron said, sitting up straighter. His voice had lost some of its slur. “You can't test it on anyone.”
“I wasn't going to—”
“You were thinking about it. I can see it on your face.” Daeron reached out and grabbed Egg's wrist firmly. “Listen to me. If that's poison, even a drop could kill you. Do you understand? Even a drop. You cannot taste it or let it touch your skin.“
Egg looked down at the brown liquid in the bowl. It looked so harmless. He could drink it right now, just to see what happened, just to be sure—
“No,” Daeron said, as if reading his thoughts. “I won't let you.”
Egg gave him a look. “You can't stop me when you're drunk.”
Daeron laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I'm not that drunk. And I love you too much to watch you poison yourself for Aerion.” He released Egg's wrist and leaned back in the chair. “He's not worth it. No one is worth that.”
Egg wanted to argue. He wanted to say that Aerion was worth it, that removing Aerion from the world would make everything better, that some risks were worth taking. But Daeron's face was worried and Egg loved him too much to add to that worry. “Fine,” he said. “I won't test it.”
Daeron nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes again. Within minutes, he was snoring softly, his head lolling against the back of the chair.
Egg poured the brown liquid into a small glass vial he had stolen from the maester's quarters. It fit perfectly in his palm. He held it up to the candlelight and watched the liquid shift, before tucking the vial into the pocket of his tunic, where it would stay until the right moment.
Then, the door slammed open.
It was Maekar.
If Egg was honest with himself, his father always looked like he was about to execute someone, but tonight he looked especially furious. His jaw was set, his eyes were blazing, and his hair was disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. “Aegon,” he said, his voice tight. “Have you seen your brother?”
Egg blinked innocently. “Which one?”
“Don't be clever with me.” Maekar stepped into the room, and that was when he saw Daeron—slumped in Egg's armchair, mouth open, very clearly drunk and asleep.
For a moment, Maekar just stared. Then, he crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Daeron by the front of his shirt, hauling him up out of the chair. Daeron's eyes flew open and he made a small sound of protest that died in his throat when he saw who was holding him.
“Father,” Daeron said, his voice hoarse. “I can explain—”
“You snuck out again.” Maekar's voice was quiet, which was worse than shouting. “You left the castle without my permission. You went into the city and got drunk.”
“I wasn't—I mean, I had a few ales, but—”
“Don't lie to me.” Maekar shook him, just once, hard enough that Daeron's teeth clacked together. “I can smell it on you and see it in your eyes. Do you think I'm blind?”
Daeron's face fell making him look pathetic. Egg that his father was doing this. But more than that, he hated that Daeron couldn't stop drinking.
“I wasn't sneaking out,” Daeron tried again. “I was just—Aegon and I were—”
“Aegon and you were what?” Maekar turned to look at Egg, and Egg felt his heart stop. Did Maekar know? Had he seen the vial? Had someone told him?
“We were reading,” Egg said quickly, the lie coming out smoothly. “Daeron was helping me with a history lesson. He fell asleep.”
Maekar's eyes narrowed. He looked at Egg, then at Daeron, then back at Egg. His grip on Daeron's shirt didn’t loosen. “History,” Maekar repeated.
“Yes, Father.”
“At this hour.” Maekar stared at him for a moment longer before grunting—a sound of pure disgust—and dragged Daeron towards the door.
“Father,” Daeron said, stumbling to keep up. “Father, please, I wasn't—”
“Save it.” Maekar yanked him through the doorway. “You're back to being confined to your chambers. If I find out you've snuck out again, I'll have you put in the dungeons myself."
“But the tourney at Ashford—”
“You'll go to Ashford because the King commanded it. But you'll go in chains if I have to put them on you myself.”
The door slammed shut behind them. Egg heard Daeron's footsteps stumbling down the hallway and heard him say something—an apology, maybe, or a plea—and Maekar's sharp response: “Not another word.”
⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹
FIVE HOURS BEFORE THEIR ARRIVAL IN ASHFORD
♚ Egg ♚
The journey to Ashford took eight days.
The final rest stop was a small inn; a building with a leaking roof and a yard full of mud. It wasn’t the kind of place where princes usually stopped, but the road to Ashford was long, the horses needed a break, and Maekar was in a foul mood and didn't care about luxury.
Egg's heart was pounding as they dismounted. Five hours, he reminded himself. Five hours from this inn. He drinks it now and then dies at the gates.
He watched Aerion stride into the inn like he owned it, shoving past a serving girl who had the misfortune to be in his way. Aerion was in a particularly bad mood today—something about a stone in his boot that had been bothering him for hours. He was snapping at everyone, and Egg felt his hatred crystallize into something even colder.
The inn's common room was small and crowded. Baelor was already seated at a table in the corner, looking tired. Maekar stood by the window, staring out at the rain that had just started to fall. Daeron slumped into a chair near Baelor. He’d been drinking the night before, despite their father’s orders, and he was paying for it now.
Egg stood beside the table as the same serving girl that Aerion had shoved brought out a tray of cups. Aerion grabbed one before she could set it down, sniffed it, and made a face. “This is disgusting. Get me something better.”
“We have a Dornish red, my prince,” the girl said nervously. “It's in the cellar. I can—”
“Then go get it,“ Aerion said, his tone not rising one bit. That was the terrifying thing about him—he didn’t have to raise his voice and yet was still the most horrifying person in the room. “Do I have to do everything myself?”
The girl fled. Aerion tossed the cup aside—it splashed across the floor, narrowly missing Egg's boots—and waited, tapping his fingers on the table.
Egg saw his chance. The moment the girl came back and set the cup of wine down, he uncorked the vial and poured the brown mixture into it. The wine didn’t even change color.
No one noticed.
Aerion picked up the cup and took a long drink. “Finally,” he said, licking his lips. “Something decent.”
⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹
♚ Egg ♚
“I want wine,” Daeron grumbled, about thirty seconds after Maekar had settled into a chair beside him.
“No,” Maekar answered without looking up.
“I'm thirsty, Father.”
Maekar looked up at him. His expression was the one he reserved for Daeron specifically—the one that said I am so tired of you and your nonsense. “You are not drinking wine on this trip or at all until I decide you can be trusted with wine again. Do you understand?”
Daeron opened his mouth to argue.
Maekar held a hand up. “Do. You. Understand.”
Daeron closed his mouth. He slumped lower in his chair and stared mournfully at the cup of water that the serving girl had placed in front of him.
Poor Daeron, Egg thought.
⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹ ♜ ⚹ ♛ ⚹
♜ Dunk ♜
Dunk stood near the entrance to the courtyard of Ashford Castle, trying very hard to look like he belonged there. He’d been at Ashford for three days now, and he still felt like an intruder. Every time a lord or a knight looked in his direction, he expected to be asked what he was doing here, who he was squiring for, and where his real master was. And the real truth was too embarrassing to say out loud.
He had a dead knight's armor, a shield, and nothing else to his name. He had Egg, his ‘squire’, but still. What did that mean to anyone when he wasn’t even a real knight?
He’d come to Ashford to enter the lists, to win some silver, and to prove that Ser Arlan of Pennytree had not wasted his time training a boy from Flea Bottom. He had to prove himself and make Ser Arlan proud. But so far… he’d failed. Ser Manfred Dondarrion had refused to vouch for him, no one took him seriously, and now the royal family was arriving, and Dunk was standing in the middle of it like a fool, watching the gates.
Maybe I should just leave and forget about the tourney, he thought. Why would Baelor Targaryen even listen to the complaints of some hedge knight? He’ll laugh at me.
Then, the herald's voice rang out across the courtyard. “Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes the honorable Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”
Dunk watched Baelor dismount gracefully and step forward to greet Lord Ashford and his daughter, Lady Gwin.
Then the herald continued, and his voice faltered almost as if he’d forgotten to even mention it. “...and his brother, Maekar.”
Dunk saw Prince Maekar's jaw tighten. He was a stern-faced man with what seemed to look like a permanent scowl. He didn’t even bother to smile at Lord Ashford or take anyone's hand. He simply dismounted and stood there while servants rushed to take his horse.
That's the one with the missing sons. Daeron and Aegon.
The only son of his that wasn’t missing was Prince Aerion. Brightflame they called him. Dunk had heard the stories. Prince Aerion Targaryen was one of the cruelest Targaryens there had ever been.
Just thinking about running into him made a chill run down Dunk’s spine. I should definitely leave, he thought. Right now. Before—
Then the herald's voice rang out again, this time tense and shaky with barely hidden fear. “Oh, Our Lord Ashford also welcomes Prince Aerion Brightflame!”
Dunk's head snapped up.
The horse that rode through the gates was covered in various forms of armor, and the man on its back was—
Oh.
Oh, no.
Aerion Targaryen was beautiful.
It was the first thought that crossed Dunk's mind, and he hated himself for it. But it was true. The prince had sharp, elegant features, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of Old Valyria. His hair was the most breathtaking shade of silver, cut short with small pieces that resembled either fire or dragon scales. He wore a chain mail shirt with a black and red cloak over it, and he sat atop his horse like a man who had never been told no in his entire life.
Dunk stared. He couldn’t not.
Aerion surveyed the courtyard with an expression of bored disdain, his lip curling slightly at the mud, the servants, and the smallfolk who had gathered to watch. He looked like he was smelling something unpleasant.
He was exactly what they said he was. And yet Dunk couldn’t look away.
He’s going to kill you for staring, Dunk’s brain told him and he finally snapped out of it. He looked to where Baelor had been and realized that through his admiration of Prince Aerion, he’d missed the moment when Baelor and Maekar had disappeared into the castle. Shit.
And that was the exact moment when Dunk realized he was standing directly in the path of Aerion's horse. He tried to move, he really did, but his feet seemed to have turned to stone, and his brain was still caught on—
“Boy,” Aerion sneered, his voice sharp and clear, like a blade being drawn from a sheath. “Stop gaping and see to my horse.”
Dunk blinked repeatedly, finally shutting his mouth that he realized had been open the entire time. He really had been gaping, hadn’t he?
Boy. This princeling was calling him boy like he was a servant.
Dunk cleared his throat and straightened his back, trying to appear like a real knight. “I'm not a stable boy, m'lord,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, and it echoed slightly in the quiet courtyard.
A few servants turned to look and raised their eyebrows in shock.
Dunk braced himself for the blow. He’d heard what happened to people who talked back to Aerion Targaryen. A servant who had accidentally spilled wine on him lost a finger for his trouble. Dunk was tall and strong, but he was no one. Aerion could have him beaten, thrown in a dungeon, killed, and no one would say a word.
I should apologize. I should bow and beg for forgiveness.
Aerion turned his head and for the first time, he actually looked at Dunk.
Dunk saw the disgust on Aerion's face—the automatic revulsion of a prince who had just been corrected by a commoner—and waited for it to turn into something worse.
But it didn't.
Instead, something… strange happened. The disgust vanished completely and transformed into something that looked a lot like desire. Aerion's eyes traveled slowly down Dunk's body, from his face to his legs and then back up again. It was not the quick, dismissive glance of a prince assessing a servant. It was slow and deliberate—the kind of look that made Dunk feel like he was being undressed.
And then something even more strange happened. Aerion bit his lip and smiled. Smiled.
The famously cruel and emotionless Prince Aerion Targaryen smiled at Ser Duncan the Tall, a hedge knight. A nobody. Dunk had heard a lot of things about Aerion. He’d heard about his cruelty and temper but no one had ever mentioned that he could smile like that.
It was the most attractive thing Dunk had ever seen.
I’m so fucked.
“Oh,” Aerion said, and his voice had changed too; the sharpness was gone, now replaced by something smoother and more seductive. “I can see you're not a stable boy after all.” He tilted his head. “What are you, then?”
Dunk swallowed around the thickness in his throat. He looked away for a moment before looking back at Aerion. It was hard holding eye contact with him, it made Dunk feel like he was being eaten alive. “I have the honor to be a knight,” he answered.
Aerion hummed, a low sound that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. “A knight. That's even better.”
Dunk felt heat rise to his cheeks. He could feel himself blushing, which was humiliating. He was almost seven feet tall, and he was blushing because a pretty prince had looked at him funny.
I’m going insane. I need to stop. He’s dangerous. He could kill me with one command.
“So,” Aerion continued, leaning forward slightly in his saddle, "If you're a knight, would you be so kind as to help me down from my horse?”
Dunk gaped again. “What?”
“Help me down.” Aerion gestured at the ground, which was muddy and wet and covered in horse dung. Obviously not very princely conditions. “I've been riding for hours. My legs are stiff. And you're...” He looked Dunk up and down again, pursing his lips. “You're very tall, so you’ll catch me if I fall.”
Catch him if he falls. The words made no sense. Yes, the horse was tall and Aerion was short from the looks of it—not that Dunk was abnormally focusing on it or anything. He was sure that Aerion could dismount perfectly well on his own. He was a prince of the blood after all. But, clearly, this wasn’t about needing help. This was about something else. But Dunk didn’t know what that something else was, and he was too afraid to ask.
“Umm,” he awkwardly said. “Sure. Of course, m'lord.”
He stepped forward, his heart hammering in his chest. Up close, Aerion was even more beautiful—and even more terrifying. His perfect lips were still curved in that smug smile and he smelled like leather and charcoal, and Dunk had to restrain himself from leaning in even closer and smelling the princeling like a creep.
Aerion extended a hand. “How would you like to do this?”
Dunk stared at the hand. It was small and white and perfectly shaped, like something out of a song. He had no idea what to do with it. “I... I don't...” He trailed off, his face burning.
Aerion's smile widened and his tongue darted forward to wet his bottom lip. “You've never helped someone off a horse before, have you?”
“No, m'lord,” Dunk admitted. “I’m sorry.”
“Don't be sorry.” Aerion laughed softly, his entire face transforming. He then smirked, one side of his mouth curving into a smile. “I'll gladly be your first.”
Dunk felt his soul leave his body. I’ll gladly be your first. What does that mean? Why did he say it like that?
“Here's what you do,” Aerion continued, apparently unaware that he had just murdered Dunk with five words. “You put your hands on my waist. Right here.” He gestured to his own hips. “And I'll put my hands on your shoulders. Then you lift me down. Simple.”
Dunk's hands were sweating. His waist. He wants me to grab his waist.
“Of course, m'lord,” Dunk forced out, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t say ‘I will die if I grab your waist, m’lord’.
He reached up and carefully placed his hands on either side of Aerion's hips, trying not to squeeze too hard, and trying very hard not to think about how small Aerion felt under his palms. Aerion placed his hands on Dunk's shoulders, holding on tightly.
“Ready?” Aerion asked.
“No,” Dunk said honestly.
Aerion laughed again. “Good. Me neither. This is entirely new territory for me. You are new territory for me.”
Dunk didn’t have time to overthink whatever that had meant before he was lifting Aerion up. It wasn’t difficult as Aerion weighed almost nothing—or maybe that was just Dunk's strength, honed by years of helping Ser Arlan. He lifted the prince off his horse as easily as if he were lifting a child, and then gently placed him on the ground. It was awkward to say the least. Dunk hadn’t thought about where to put Aerion's feet, so he ended up setting him down slightly off-balance, and Aerion stumbled against his chest for a moment before steadying himself. One of Dunk's hands was still on Aerion's waist, the other had somehow ended up on his lower back.
Oh.
They stood there, face to chest, still holding each other, for a heartbeat too long. Aerion looked up at him, his eyes even bigger and rounder at this angle. He looked effortlessly adorable.
“You’re even taller up close,” Aerion said softly.
Dunk released him as if he’d been burned. He stepped back so quickly that he nearly tripped over his own feet. “I’m sorry, m'lord, I didn't mean to—that wasn't—I should’ve—”
Aerion waved a hand, cutting him off. He was smiling. “What's your name?” he asked, a whisper of wonder in his voice.
“Dunk,” Dunk answered before shaking his head, heat rising to his cheeks. “Ser Duncan the Tall. My master was Ser Arlan of Pennytree.”
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” Aerion repeated, tasting the words. His smile widened into a conspiratorial one. “The name definitely fits you. How tall are you?”
Dunk shifted uncomfortably. “I don't rightly know, m'lord.” He cleared his throat. “I never measured.”
“Never measured?” Aerion raised an eyebrow. “How can you not know how tall you are?”
“I just... never had a reason to, I suppose.” Dunk looked down at his boots, embarrassed. “I'm tall. That's all I know.”
Aerion was quiet for a moment. Then. he said lightly, as if it was the most normal thing to say: “It's alright. You're tall enough for me. And that's all that matters.”
Dunk's head snapped back up. Tall enough for me. Why does he keep saying things like that? What is happening?
But Aerion was already moving on, brushing dust from his sleeves and glancing around the courtyard as if he hadn't just said something that made Dunk's brain stop working. “What are you doing at Ashford, Ser Duncan?” he asked. “Are you here for the tourney?”
“Yes, m'lord,” Dunk said nodding. “I'd like to enter the lists. I've been having some trouble, though. I need to speak with Prince Baelor about entering as I don't have anyone to vouch for me. Ser Manfred Dondarrion said he'd help, but then he left before I even got to ask him.”
He hadn’t meant to say all of that. The words just came tumbling out, before he could stop them. He was nervous, and when he was nervous, he talked too much. Typical.
But Aerion didn’t look annoyed. He looked... interested. “Oh,” he whispered, tilting his head. “I can help you with that.”
Dunk’s mouth dropped open. “You can?”
“Of course.” Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “My uncle Baelor is a reasonable man when he wants to. I'll speak to him about entering you into the lists.” He paused, pushing his bottom lip out into something that dangerously resembled a pout. “For a favor, of course.”
Dunk's stomach dropped. A favor. That was how it started, wasn't it? Just a simple ‘favor for a prince’, and before you knew it, you were in a dungeon, or missing a finger, or worse. But he couldn’t say no. He needed to enter the tourney, and if this was the only way he’d achieve that, so be it.
“Sure,” he simply said, his voice rough. “Anything, m'lord. Anything you want.”
Aerion's eyes gleamed. “Anything?” he said, his voice dropping seductively.
Dunk regretted his words immediately, but he nodded. “Anything.”
Aerion stepped closer, close enough that Dunk had to tilt his head down even more significantly to properly look him in the eyes. “I want you to attend my joust tomorrow,” Aerion murmured softly. “I want you to cheer for me, sit in the stands, and watch me unhorse whatever knight they put in front of me. And when I win—” He smiled sharply. “When I win, I want you to be the first to congratulate me.”
Dunk stared at him.
That's it? That's the favor?
“Ser Duncan,” Aerion said, his voice dropping to something even lower. “I'll do better with a man like you cheering for me. I know I will.”
Dunk felt his face catch on fire. Aerion was making him go insane. “Oh,” he stumbled. “Um. Of course. Definitely. I'll be there, m’lord. I'll cheer for you. I'll—” He forced himself to stop rambling and embarrassing himself. “Yes. I'll be there.”
Aerion's smile softened. “I know you will.” He reached out and placed a hand on Dunk’s chest. “Oh,” he suddenly added, as if remembering something. “As I said, I'll speak to my uncle about entering you into the lists. Baelor is tired now, and has to meet with Lord Ashford about... something. I don't know. I wasn't listening.” He waved a hand, rolling his eyes. “Come back in about three hours, around dinner time. By then, Baelor will be ready to see you. And I'll have told him how wonderful you are.”
Dunk gaped for the millionth time that day. “You'll tell him I'm wonderful?”
“Of course.” Aerion looked almost offended that Dunk had asked. “Do you think I'd send you to my uncle without preparing the ground? I'm not a monster, Ser Duncan.”
You are, a voice in Dunk's head whispered. Everyone says you are. But looking at Aerion now—at his beautiful eyes and soft smile—it was hard to believe.
“Thank you, m'lord,” Dunk said, bowing his head before he could stop himself. “That's very... that's very nice of you.”
Aerion's smile turned smug again. “I know.” He brushed a thumb over Dunk’s heart one final time before taking his hand back. “I’m very nice when I want to be.” He turned to go, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Three hours. Don't be late, Ser Duncan. I’ll be waiting.”
And then he was gone, striding across the courtyard towards the castle, his cloak billowing behind him. A servant ran to catch up with him and Aerion snapped something Dunk couldn't hear. And Dunk stood there alone, his hand pressed to his chest where Aerion had touched him.
What just happened? he thought.
He’d come to Ashford to enter the tourney, and had expected to be ignored, mocked, or even laughed at. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d win enough silver to eat for another month. But what he hadn’t expected was to be flirted with by a Targaryen prince. Aerion Targaryen at that.
Was that flirting? He replayed the conversation in his head.
I’ll gladly be your first…
A man like you cheering for me…
You’re tall enough for me…
“Fuck me,” Dunk said to no one.