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The private gymnasium on the 42nd floor of the Targaryen penthouse was not a gym in any sense that Dunk understood the word.
To Dunk, a gym was a place that smelled of stale sweat, liniment oil, and hopelessness. It was cracked leather punching bags held together by duct tape and rusty iron weights that left orange stains on your palms.
This place, however, looked like a laboratory designed for the dissection of angels.
The walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, duplicating the space until it felt infinite. The floor was a pale, sprung maple that gleamed under recessed lighting so expertly calibrated it cast no shadows. The air didn't smell like effort, but filtered, refrigerated oxygen.
Dunk stood in the doorway, his massive body filling the frame.
He felt ridiculous.
In Flea Bottom, Dunk was just a big guy. Here, amidst the chrome and glass, he felt like a geological event—a landslide of a man threatening to crush the delicate, expensive scenery just by breathing too hard.
He was supposed to be doing a perimeter check. Maekar’s orders: Secure the residence. Trust no one. Especially not the family.
He hadn't expected to find Aerion.
He was in the center of the room, dressed in fencing whites that were so pristine they hurt the eyes. He was hooked up to a wireless scoring system, fencing against a robotic arm that moved with terrifying, mechanical speed.
Snap. Hiss. Clack.
Aerion moved like water flowing uphill—unnatural, fluid, and mesmerizing.
He didn't stomp or grunt like the boxers Dunk knew. He glided.
His lunges were explosions of kinetic energy, his retreat a ghost fading into mist. The thin steel blade in his hand whipped through the air, faster than thought, striking the target on the robot’s chest with a violence that belied the elegance of the motion.
Dunk watched, transfixed against his better judgment.
It looked like a dance, but a dance where the steps were designed to kill you.
Aerion finished a sequence with a flourish, snapping his blade back to a salute before ripping the mask off his face. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, silver strands catching the light. His face was flushed, his violet eyes bright and manic.
He didn't look at the door. He looked at the mirror.
"You're breathing too loud, Duncan," Aerion said to Dunk’s reflection. "You're fogging up the glass."
Dunk shifted his weight, his cheap shoes squeaking on the pristine floor. He hated that he felt the need to apologize. "Just doing my rounds. Checking the secure zones."
"This is a private zone," Aerion said, turning slowly. He held his foil—the sword—loosely in one hand, tapping the tip against the tip of his sneaker.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"But since you're here, you might as well be useful. The machine is boring. It has no fear."
"I'm not here to be useful to you," Dunk grunted, thumbing the radio clipped to his belt. "I work for your father. And your brother."
"And who pays my father?" Aerion countered smoothly. He walked toward the rack on the wall where several other swords hung like gleaming icicles. "The company pays him. I am a shareholder. By the transitive property of corporate law, you belong to me, too."
He pulled a second foil from the rack and tossed it through the air.
It was a lazy throw, but accurate. Dunk caught it by the handle out of pure reflex, his large hand engulfing the intricate grip.
The weapon felt absurdly light. It felt like a toy. A knitting needle for a giant.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" Dunk asked, frowning at the thin strip of metal.
"Use the pointy end, obviously," Aerion sneered, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
He pulled his mask back on, obscuring his face behind a mesh of steel wire. He looked faceless now, a monster in white.
"Unless, of course,” he continued, “the Wall only knows how to stand there and gather moss."
Dunk looked at the sword, then at Aerion. "I don't know how to fence. I'm a brawler, not a dancer."
"It’s not dancing," Aerion hissed, stepping into an en garde position. His knees bent, his profile narrowing until he was nothing but a vertical line of threat. "It is the art of the kill, refined for civilized conversation. The rules are simple. Right of way. Priority. Touch only with the tip. Do not cross the lateral boundaries."
Dunk stared at him blankly. "Right of way? Like in traffic?"
Aerion lowered his blade slightly. The mesh of his mask couldn't hide the haughtiness of his voice. "If I attack, I have the right of way. You must parry before you can riposte. If we both hit, the point goes to the one with priority. It is a conversation of steel, Duncan. Action, reaction. Query, response."
Dunk looked at the flimsy weapon in his hand.
He tried to mimic Aerion’s stance but felt like a dog trying to walk on its hind legs. He spread his feet too wide. He held the sword like a baseball bat.
"Seems complicated," Dunk muttered. "In the pits, if you hit the other guy and he falls down, you win. Doesn't matter who had the right of way."
Aerion laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound, echoing off the mirrors.
"Complicated?" Aerion mocked, stepping closer, the tip of his blade circling the air inches from Dunk’s chest. "It is structure. It is intellect applied to violence.”
A beat. Aerion stilled.
“But I suppose that is the problem, isn't it?"
Aerion lunged—a lightning-fast feint that made Dunk flinch backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. Aerion pulled the strike short, not touching him, just proving that he could have.
"You can't grasp the rules," Aerion whispered, tilting his masked head to the side like a bird of prey inspecting a worm. "Are they too abstract for you? Too refined?"
He pressed the button on his handle, and the blade hummed with tension.
"Or are you just not clever enough?"
Aerion sauntered away and sighed, a sound of profound, existential suffering, as if Dunk’s confusion was physically painful to him. He walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a bundle of grey and silver fabric, tossing it at Dunk’s chest.
"Put that on. The plastron goes first. It protects your vital organs, assuming you have any."
Dunk caught the bundle, unfolding a half-shirt made of thick, stiff cotton. He held it up by one strap.
It looked like a bib for a giant baby.
"It goes on your sword arm," Aerion snapped, already turning away to inspect his own equipment. He was sliding a body cord—a translucent wire with three prongs—up the sleeve of his pristine white jacket.
"Strap goes under the opposite armpit. Tight."
Dunk struggled into the garment. It was sized for a normal human, which meant it cut into his lats like a tourniquet. He grunted, fumbling with the clips behind his back.
"Then the jacket," Aerion commanded, not looking up. "Then the lamé. That’s the silver vest. It’s conductive. Do try not to rip it; the threading is silver-nickel alloy and costs more than your car."
Dunk pulled on the white jacket, the fabric straining across his shoulders. He felt like a sausage stuffed into a casing.
Then came the metallic vest. It was cold and heavy, shimmering under the gym lights. He zipped it up, exhaling sharply as it squeezed his ribs.
"I can't breathe in this," Dunk muttered, tugging at the collar.
"You don't need to breathe, you need to conduct," Aerion said, walking over with a second body cord. He held it up like a snake charmer. "Turn around."
Dunk obeyed, presenting his broad back.
"This is a two-pin body cord," Aerion lectured, his voice dripping with condescension. He jammed the plug into a socket hidden inside the guard of the foil Dunk was holding. "The wire must run inside your sleeve, up your arm, across your back, and come out the bottom of the jacket. It connects you to the box. It tells the machine when you die."
Aerion stepped closer to thread the wire.
Dunk could feel the heat radiating off him. His fingers were cool and clinical as he shoved the wire up Dunk’s sleeve, his knuckles grazing Dunk’s forearm, his elbow, his tricep.
"Stop flexing," Aerion murmured, his hand now at the back of Dunk’s neck, fishing for the other end of the wire. "You’re making it difficult on purpose."
"I'm not flexing," Dunk gritted out. "Your coat is too small."
"My coat is bespoke. You are simply... excessive." Aerion found the wire and pulled it down Dunk’s back with a sharp tug.
He then clipped the alligator clamp to the silver tab on Dunk’s vest. "There. You are now a circuit. A very large, very conductive resistor."
Aerion walked back to his end of the strip and clipped himself into a retractable reel spool mounted on the floor. He gestured for Dunk to do the same.
Dunk fumbled with the carabiner on the reel, finally clicking it onto the back of his vest.
He felt tethered. Leashed.
(In more ways than one.)
"Mask," Aerion ordered.
Dunk picked up the mesh helmet. It smelled faintly of sanitizer and old sweat. He pulled it on. The world instantly became a grid. His vision was obscured by the black wire mesh, his peripheral vision cut off. The sound of his own breathing was magnified, harsh and ragged in his ears.
He felt claustrophobic. Isolated.
(He also felt aroused. But he won’t acknowledge that.)
(Yet.)
Across the strip, Aerion pulled on his own mask. The transformation was instant. The arrogant, sneering prince vanished, replaced by a faceless, white-clad predator. He looked like an insect, something alien and sharp.
Aerion plugged his weapon in. He tapped his blade against the floor.
Beep. A green light flared on the scoring box on the wall.
He walked forward, entering Dunk’s space, and tapped the tip of his foil against Dunk’s metallic chest.
BZZT. A red light flared.
"Contact established," Aerion’s voice came from inside the mask, slightly muffled but no less sharp. "Now. Assume the position. Feet in an L-shape. Knees bent. Center of gravity low."
Dunk tried to squat, his thighs burning in the tight pants. He raised the sword, holding it like a club.
"Higher," Aerion corrected, tapping Dunk’s elbow with his blade. "Tip at my eyes. Threaten me, Duncan. Don't just stand there like a lamentable mountain."
Dunk adjusted his grip.
The wire running up his arm tugged at his skin. The mask pressed against his chin.
The reel behind him pulled at his waist, a constant reminder that he couldn't run.
Aerion settled into his stance. It was perfect. Low, balanced, his blade perfectly still, pointing directly at Dunk’s throat.
The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the scoring box and the whir of the air conditioning.
"En garde," Aerion whispered. Dunk steeled himself.
The spar was less a duel and more a dissection.
Beep. A red light flashed on the wall.
"Point," Aerion said, his voice cool inside the mesh. "That was your lung. Punctured."
Beep.
"Point. Your heart. Severed."
Beep.
"Point. Femoral artery. You’re bleeding out, Duncan. Do try to fall down with some dignity."
Dunk was drowning in sweat inside the heavy canvas jacket. His breath rattled in the mask, hot and recycled. Every time he tried to move the foil, to swat the stinging wasp of Aerion’s blade away, he was too late.
He was chasing a ghost.
Aerion was everywhere and nowhere. He moved in a blur of white, his feet drumming a rhythmic, mocking tattoo on the sprung floor. He would lunge, the steel tip of his weapon digging into Dunk’s ribs with bruising force, and then vanish backward before Dunk could even lift his arm.
It was infuriating. It was humiliating.
(It was terrifyingly intoxicating.)
"You're not parrying," Aerion taunted, circling him. The wire behind him hissed as it spooled out and retracted. "You're flailing. It's pathetic. Is this how you protect my brother? By being a large, slow target?"
Dunk gritted his teeth. He tried to step forward, to close the distance, but Aerion simply retreated, keeping the perfect measure.
Snap.
Aerion flicked his wrist, and the blade whipped over Dunk’s clumsy guard, slapping him hard on the shoulder. It stung through the layers of fabric.
"Again," Aerion commanded. "En garde. Try not to look so bovine."
Something in Dunk’s chest tightened.
It wasn't the jacket.
It was the old, familiar heat of the Flea Bottom pits. The instinct that said rules are for people who can afford to lose.
"Come on then," Dunk growled, his voice low and distorted by the mask.
Aerion laughed. He bent his knees, loading his legs like springs. "As you wish."
Aerion launched himself. It was a flèche—an explosive, running attack designed to end the bout. He flew through the air, his blade extended, aiming straight for the center of Dunk’s chest.
But this time, Dunk didn't try to parry.
He didn't try to find the blade.
He stepped in.
He ignored the steel tip that slammed into his plastron. He ignored the buzzz of the machine registering the hit.
He moved forward with the unstoppable momentum of a collapsing building.
Aerion, mid-flight, realized his mistake too late. He had expected Dunk to retreat or freeze.
He hadn't expected Dunk to occupy the space he was trying to move into.
Dunk didn't use the sword. He used his body. He caught Aerion mid-air, his massive shoulder slamming into the prince’s chest.
The impact was bone-jarring.
Aerion gasped, the wind knocked out of him. The force of the collision threw him backward, his feet leaving the floor.
Dunk didn't stop.
He drove forward, his boots screeching on the maple, riding the momentum.
The reels behind them screamed as the cables were yanked to their absolute limit.
SNAP.
The tension in the wires reached its breaking point.
The spool mechanism on Dunk’s side groaned, and the cable went taut, jerking them both to a halt.
Gravity took over.
They went down hard. Aerion hit the floor first, the breath leaving him in a sharp hiss, and Dunk landed on top of him, a three-hundred-pound weight of muscle and canvas.
The crash echoed through the silent gym.
Dunk’s sword skittered away across the floor. Aerion’s was pinned beneath him, useless.
For a moment, there was chaos. Tangled limbs, the screech of sneakers, the heavy thud of bodies.
Then, absolute stillness.
Dunk was straddling Aerion’s waist, his knees pinned to the floor on either side of the prince’s hips. His hands were planted on the ground by Aerion’s head, boxing him in. He was heaving for breath, his chest rising and falling heavily, pressing down into Aerion’s own heaving torso.
The masks were inches apart.
The black wire mesh of Dunk’s mask ground against the white mesh of Aerion’s with a metallic skrrt.
"Point," Dunk gasped, the word rough and raw.
Aerion lay frozen beneath him.
He was completely immobilized. Dunk’s weight was overwhelming, a crushing, heated blanket that pinned his arms to his sides. The body cord running up Dunk’s back was pulled tight as a bowstring, vibrating in the air above them.
Aerion should have been furious.
He should have been screaming about the rules, about the dirty tactic, about the sheer indignity of being tackled like a commoner.
But he wasn't screaming.
Through the mesh, Dunk could see Aerion’s eyes. They were wide, blown open. The violet irises were dark, dilated so fully they looked almost black. He wasn't struggling. His chest was heaving against Dunk’s, their heartbeats hammering against each other through the conductive vests.
The air between them was suddenly thick, charged with something far more volatile than the electric current in the wires.
It was the scent of sweat, testosterone, and sudden, violent intimacy.
Dunk realized, with a jolt of panic, exactly where his hips were positioned.
He realized how Aerion’s legs were tangled with his own.
He realized that the prince wasn't trying to escape—he was melting into the floor, his head tilted back, his neck exposed.
"You broke the rules," Aerion whispered. His voice was breathless, wrecked.
"I won," Dunk panted, not moving. He couldn't move. The adrenaline had locked his muscles.
Aerion let out a shaky, broken sound—half laugh, half moan. He lifted his head slightly, the metal of his mask bumping against Dunk’s again. The friction sent a shiver through them both.
"You brute," Aerion murmured, and the heat in his voice could have melted the silver vest right off Dunk’s chest. "Do it again."
Fuck.
The air in the room was so thick it felt like breathing syrup. Dunk stared down through the black mesh, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Aerion wasn't moving. He was just lying there, sprawled under Dunk’s massive weight, his chest heaving, that whispered demand—Do it again—hanging between them like a guillotine blade.
Dunk’s brain, usually slow to catch up to social cues, was screaming in alarm.
Danger. Wrong. Move.
He scrambled backward, his movements clumsy and panicked. He pushed off Aerion’s chest, his hands slipping on the damp canvas of the prince’s jacket, and rolled onto his heels. He ripped the mask off his head, gasping for cooler air.
"I... I slipped," Dunk stammered, his face burning. He felt huge, awkward, and terrified. "My foot. The floor."
Aerion lay on his back for a moment longer, staring up at the ceiling lights. Then, slowly, he sat up. He didn't look rattled. He looked... energized. He pulled his own mask off, shaking his hair loose. It was a mess of sweat-dampened silver, sticking to his forehead. His lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed a deep, hectic red.
He looked at Dunk, and a slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"You slipped," Aerion repeated, his voice dropping an octave, mocking and intimate. "Is that what you call it in Flea Bottom? Slipping?"
He stood up, moving with a feline grace that made Dunk feel even more like a stumbling ox. Aerion walked towards him until the tips of his fencing shoes touched Dunk’s worn sneakers.
"You liked it," Aerion whispered, tilting his head. "I felt your heart, Duncan. It was beating so fast. Were you frightened? Or were you hungry?"
(He was. But not for food.)
"I was trying not to crush you," Dunk grunted, staring somewhere over Aerion’s shoulder. "You're... fragile."
Aerion’s eyes flashed. "I am not—"
CRACK-ZZZTT.
A loud, electrical pop cut through the tension. A shower of blue sparks erupted from the wall unit behind them.
Both men jumped.
Dunk spun around. The violence of his tackle had done more than just pin the prince. The heavy-duty body cords, designed for civilized lunges, had been yanked well past their breaking point.
The retractable reel system on the wall—a sleek, Italian-made box of chrome and glass—had been ripped clean off its mountings. It dangled by a single frayed wire, sparking intermittently. The expensive scoring machine on the console was smoking, its digital display flickering a death rattle of random numbers before going dark.
Dunk felt the blood drain from his face.
"Oh," he said, his voice very small.
Aerion walked past him, surveying the wreckage. He nudged the broken reel box with the toe of his shoe. Clatter.
"That," Aerion said, his tone shifting from seductive to clinically bored, "was a Favero reel system. Custom calibrated. Imported from Milan."
He turned to the scoring machine. "And that console... well. Let’s just say the microprocessor alone costs more than your annual salary."
Dunk swallowed hard.
He did the math in his head.
He had forty dollars in his bank account and a half-eaten sandwich in the break room.
"I... I can fix it," Dunk lied. "I know a guy. In the city. He fixes radios."
Aerion looked at him with genuine pity. "You think you can fix a solid-state high-velocity scoring processor with a soldering iron and prayer?"
"I'll pay for it," Dunk said, straightening his spine. "Dock my pay. Take it out of my checks."
Aerion did the mental calculation instantly. "At your current rate, assuming you don't eat or pay rent, you will have paid off this equipment by the time Aegon is 45 years old."
Dunk slumped. His career was over. He’d be fired, sued, and probably blacklisted. Maekar would crush him.
"I'm sorry," Dunk muttered, looking at his hands. "I'll pack my things."
"Don't be dramatic," Aerion snapped. He walked over to the bench, picked up a towel, and wiped the sweat from his neck. He watched Dunk in the mirror, his eyes narrowing, calculating.
Aerion didn't care about the machine. He could buy ten more before lunch.
But he saw an opening. A lever. A hook.
"I don't want your money, Duncan," Aerion said, uncharacteristically soft. He turned to face him. "Whatever pittance it is."
Dunk looked up, hopeful. "You don't?"
"No. I want value." Aerion tossed the towel onto the bench and crossed his arms. The white fencing jacket was scuffed with grey marks from the floor—evidence of Dunk’s victory.
Aerion touched the spot on his chest where Dunk had impacted him.
"You beat me," Aerion said, the admission tasting sour and sweet in his mouth. "Without technique. Without style. You used... brute force. Physics. Weight."
"I used what I had," Dunk said defensively.
"Exactly." Aerion stepped closer. "The fencing masters teach me rules. They teach me honor. But you... you fought like a rat in a corner."
Aerion’s violet eyes locked onto Dunk’s.
"That is what I want. I want to learn that."
Dunk frowned. "You want me to teach you how to... tackle people?"
"I want you to teach me how to fight dirty," Aerion corrected. "How to use elbows. Knees. Weight. I want to know how to win when the referee isn't looking. Actual fighting."
Dunk hesitated. "Your father hired me to keep you safe, not turn you into a thug."
"My father isn't here," Aerion hissed. "And you owe me a twenty-thousand-dollar machine."
He stepped in close again, looking up at Dunk. The heated, charged, unmistakably sexual tension from earlier flared up, hot and sudden.
"But that’s not all," Aerion added, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You have free time, don't you? While Aegon is in class? While he sleeps?"
"I... suppose."
"Good." Aerion smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a cat that had just cornered a particularly large mouse.
"From now on, you belong to me during those hours. You will be my personal assistant. My runner. My... cupbearer."
"Cupbearer?" Dunk asked, baffled. "Like... fetching drinks?"
"Drinks. Dry cleaning. Documents. Whatever I require," Aerion said airily. "You will drive me where I want to go, and you won't tell my father. You will answer my texts immediately. You will be at my beck and call."
"I'm a bodyguard," Dunk protested. "Not a servant."
Aerion gestured to the smoking ruins of the fencing equipment. "Currently, you are a vandal with a massive debt. Do we have an agreement, Ser Duncan? Or shall I call Father and show him the security footage of you destroying his property?"
Dunk looked at the broken machine, then at the imperious, beautiful, terrible man standing in front of him.
He was trapped.
Thick as a castle wall, and just as stuck.
He sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat.
"Fine," Dunk grumbled. "I'll teach you. And I'll... fetch your coffee."
"Excellent." Aerion clapped his hands together once, delighted. "Lesson one starts tomorrow. But first..."
He pointed to his feet.
"My laces have come undone during our little tussle. Fix them."
Dunk blinked. "You want me to tie your shoes?"
Aerion raised an eyebrow, waiting. "You're the cupbearer now, Duncan. Consider it your first task."
Dunk stared at him for a long moment. He could crush Aerion with one hand. He could walk out.
But he didn't.
Slowly, painfully, Dunk lowered himself to one knee. He reached out with his large, scarred hands and took the delicate laces of Aerion’s expensive fencing shoes.
Aerion looked down at him, watching the giant kneel at his feet. A shiver of pure, unadulterated power went through him, far more satisfying than any fencing point.
"Make a double knot," Aerion whispered. "I don't want to trip again."