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The fluorescent lights of the Targaryen Science Center, which was smack dab in the middle of KLU’s campus, hummed with a sound that felt like it was drilling directly into the base of Dunk’s skull.
It was 2:15 AM on a Tuesday.
Dunk hated the graveyard shift. He was already exhausted from two-a-day football practices, and his massive frame wasn't built for the uncomfortable plastic chairs at the security desk. But the scholarship didn't cover everything, and the university paid time-and-a-half for the shifts nobody else wanted.
He was doing his rounds on the third floor—Chemical Engineering. It was usually the quietest floor, smelling faintly of ammonia and floor wax.
But tonight, there was something else.
A scent. Sharp, acrid, and distinctly like burning sulfur.
Dunk stopped, his heavy work boots squeaking on the linoleum. He sniffed the air again. It was coming from the end of the hall, near the advanced labs. The "authorized personnel only" wing.
He started to jog, the heavy ring of keys at his hip jangling like a warning bell.
As he rounded the corner, he saw it.
Under the door of Lab 303, a flicker of light. Not the steady glow of a lamp, but the erratic, dancing orange-and-green light of a flame.
Panic, cold and familiar, washed over him. Fire.
If the science wing burned down on his watch, he wouldn't just lose his job. He’d lose the whole damn scholarship.
He’d be back in Flea Bottom within the week.
He reached the door. Locked. He fumbled for his master key, his large hands shaking slightly, but the lock was jammed—or maybe he was just too clumsy in his panic. Through the reinforced glass of the small window, he saw a figure standing amidst the smoke, silhouetted against a burst of violent green fire that seemed to be climbing the walls.
"Hey!" Dunk shouted, pounding on the glass. "Get out of there!"
The figure didn't move.
He’s trapped, Dunk thought. He’s gonna burn.
Dunk didn't think. He didn't consider protocol.
He stepped back, planted his back foot, and launched his entire weight at the door.
The lock shattered with a bang. The heavy oak door flew inward, crashing violently against the stopper.
Dunk barreled into the room, ripping the industrial fire extinguisher from the wall mount in one fluid motion. He pinpointed the source of the blaze—a complex glass apparatus on the center island spewing emerald flames—and squeezed the trigger.
FWOOSH.
A massive cloud of white chemical foam exploded into the room, suffocating the fire instantly.
Dunk didn't stop until the canister was half empty, coating the table, the expensive glassware, the floor, and the figure standing next to it in a thick layer of fire-retardant snow.
Silence fell over the lab. The only sound was Dunk’s heavy breathing and the drip, drip, drip of foam hitting the floor.
"Safe," Dunk panted, adrenaline still coursing through him. "You're safe."
The figure standing by the table slowly raised a hand and wiped a glob of white foam from the lens of his safety goggles.
"Safe," the voice said.
It wasn't grateful. It was cold, high, and trembling with a rage so potent it felt colder than the foam.
The boy—he couldn't have been much older than Dunk—pulled the goggles off. He had silver-blonde hair that was now plastered to his forehead with chemical slush, and eyes that were a startling, unnatural shade of violet. He was wearing a silk shirt under his lab coat, now ruined.
"You," the boy whispered, looking at the pile of shattered glass and white sludge that used to be his experiment. "You gargantuan, breathing waste of space."
Dunk lowered the extinguisher, the adrenaline fading into confusion. "There was a fire. I saw the flames. Green flames."
"It was a controlled combustion of trimethyl borate," the boy hissed, stepping forward. He slipped on the foam, regained his balance with graceful fury, and poked a gloved finger into Dunk’s chest. "I was stabilizing the reaction. It was perfect."
Dunk blinked, looking down at the smaller man. "It... it looked like it was exploding."
"It was supposed to look like that!" The boy screamed, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to synthesize that compound? Do you have any idea how much that glassware cost?"
Dunk swallowed hard. "I... I'm security. I have to act if I see a hazard. The handbook says—"
"I don't care what the handbook says, you illiterate ox," the boy spat.
He looked around the room, taking in the devastation. "That was a custom distillation column. Imported from Myr. Three thousand dollars. The reagents? Another five hundred. My shirt?" He looked down at the ruined silk. "Priceless, considering it’s no longer in production."
Dunk felt the blood drain from his face. "I... I can't pay for that. I'm on a scholarship."
The boy stopped. The rage seemed to evaporate, replaced by something sharper, more calculating.
He looked up at Dunk. He took in the frayed collar of Dunk's uniform, the scuffed boots, the sheer size of him.
"Scholarship," the boy repeated. He checked the ID badge clipped to Dunk’s chest. "Duncan. Kinesiology, I assume? You certainly don't look like a physics major."
"Football," Dunk mumbled, feeling very small despite towering over the other boy.
"Football," the boy sneered. "Of course. The university pays for your brain damage while you smash things the rest of us build."
The boy walked over to a clean sink, washing the foam from his hands with deliberate, slow movements. "My name is Aerion Targaryen. Does that mean anything to you, Duncan?"
Dunk’s stomach dropped. "This... this science center."
"My father built this building," Aerion said haughtily. "He pays the Dean’s salary. He pays the salary of the man who hired you. If I pick up that phone and make a call, you will be fired for destruction of university property. You will be expelled for gross incompetence. You will lose your scholarship, your dorm room, and likely your future. You will be saying goodbye to KLU.”
Dunk gripped the handle of the extinguisher until his knuckles turned white. "I was trying to help."
"And yet," Aerion turned around, leaning against the sink, crossing his arms. A cruel smile played on his lips. "You ruined my night. You ruined my work."
Aerion looked at the mess, then back at Dunk. His eyes narrowed, analyzing the utility of the wall of muscle standing before him.
"However," Aerion drawled, "I find myself in need of... assistance. My previous lab assistant lacked the physical constitution for the hours I keep. And my car needs detailing. And I have quite a few errands that require heavy lifting."
Dunk stared at him. "What?"
"I won't report you," Aerion said, stepping closer, invading Dunk’s personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne and burnt chemicals. "But you owe me. Three thousand, five hundred dollars. Plus interest for the emotional distress."
"I don't have money," Dunk said, his voice thick.
"I know you don't," Aerion smiled.
It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of Satan himself.
"So,” he drawled, “you’re going to work it off.”
Aerion gestured vaguely at the foam-covered lab.
"Start cleaning, Duncan. When the floor is spotless, you can drive me to my dorm. And tomorrow morning? Be outside my apartment at 7:00 AM. Bring coffee. Black. Don't make me wait."
Dunk looked at the door he had kicked in, then at the ruined experiment, and finally at the imperious, violet-eyed boy holding his entire life in his hands.
"Yes," Dunk said, defeated. "Yes, okay."
Aerion clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp and final. "Excellent. Chop chop, lunk. I have a new hypothesis to formulate, and I can't do it while standing in this filth.”
He sashayed—actually fucking sashayed—away, and sat on the teacher’s desk.
The only sound in Lab 303 was the wet, rhythmic shlop of wet paper towels hitting the inside of a trash bag and the scratching of Aerion’s fountain pen.
Dunk was on his hands and knees. The chemical foam had deflated into a sticky, pungent sludge that smelled like rotting lemons and bleach. It soaked into the knees of his work trousers—university issue, polyester, uncomfortable—and coated his hands.
Aerion had his legs crossed, right ankle over left knee, looking like a king on a throne despite the fact that he was surrounded by devastation. He was sketching something in a leather-bound notebook, occasionally glancing up to critique Dunk’s form.
"You missed a spot near the gas valve," Aerion said, not looking up from his page. "If that residue dries, it becomes corrosive. I assume you don’t want to be responsible for a gas leak that levels the engineering wing?"
Dunk gritted his teeth, his jaw aching. "No."
"No, what?"
"No... Aerion."
"No, Brightflame," Aerion corrected, his voice light and sharp. "It’s a nickname. You haven’t earned the right to use my given name yet. You’re currently working off a debt. Think of yourself as an indentured servant. It’s a very historical dynamic."
Dunk scrubbed harder at the floor tile, his knuckles white.
He was used to hard work. He’d grown up in the Bottoms—the worst neighborhood in the city, a concrete maze of housing projects and payday loan centers known locally as “Flea Bottom."
He’d spent his summers hauling scrap metal for Ser Arlan, an old man who ran a junk yard and had taken Dunk in when his parents vanished into the system. Arlan had taught him to keep his head down, do the work, and never let them see you bleed.
Thick as a castle wall, Dunk recited internally. Just get it done.
"So," Aerion said, closing his notebook with a snap that made Dunk flinch. "Let’s assess the asset. You’re massive. Six-seven?"
"Six-eleven," Dunk muttered.
Aerion whistled, a low, impressed sound. "Freakish. And I assume you’re here on the Coach’s dime? My uncle Baelor sure loves his charity cases."
Dunk stopped scrubbing. He sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. "Coach Baelor gave me a chance. I’m the first person from my neighborhood to go to a D1 school."
"A heartwarming tale," Aerion said, his voice dripping with boredom. "Let me guess. The Bottoms? You have that specific accent. You drop your T’s when you’re tired. It’s very gutter."
"It’s home," Dunk said defensively. "And the scholarship covers tuition and board. I send the rest of my check back to Arlan."
"How noble," Aerion sneered, standing up and walking over to where Dunk was kneeling. He looked down, his violet eyes gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. "See, that’s where we differ, lunk. You’re here because you can throw a ball and knock people over. You’re here because the university needs entertainment."
Aerion leaned down, bringing his face uncomfortably close to Dunk’s.
"I am here because my father, Maekar, expects me to own this university by the time I’m thirty. I am here because if I don’t graduate with a 4.0 and a patent pending, I am considered a failure in the House of Targaryen. My tuition costs more than your entire life’s earnings, and yet..."
Aerion gestured to the ruined experiment, his face twisting into something ugly and vulnerable for a split second.
"...and yet, I am currently supervising a giant who smells like cheap floor cleaner."
Dunk looked at him. He saw the expensive clothes—the ruined silk shirt was probably worth three of Dunk's paychecks—but he also saw the dark circles under Aerion’s eyes. The guy was vibrating with caffeine and something darker. Panic, maybe.
"You were in here alone," Dunk said quietly. "At 2 AM. On a Tuesday."
"Genius does not adhere to a schedule," Aerion snapped, straightening up instantly, the mask back in place.
"Or maybe you’re scared you’re not gonna be good enough," Dunk said.
It was a stupid thing to say. He knew it as soon as it left his mouth. It was something Arlan would have slapped him for.
The silence that followed was heavy. Aerion stared at him, his face completely blank.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. It wasn't Satan’s smile from before. It was colder. More terrifying.
"Insight," Aerion whispered. "Dangerous for a man of your station. You think because you’re big, you’re safe? My brother Egg thinks that way. He thinks the world is soft."
Aerion walked over to the lab bench and picked up a glass beaker that had survived the foam. He held it up to the light.
"I could have you expelled in ten minutes, Duncan. I could call the Dean—my uncle Aerys—and tell him you robbed me. Who would they believe? The Brightflame heir, or the scholarship kid from the Bottoms who broke a door?"
Dunk looked at the door hanging off its hinges. He looked at his dirty hands. "You."
"Me," Aerion agreed. He set the beaker down. "But I won’t. Because you’re right. I was here at 2 AM. And I need someone to make sure I don't... burn out. Or burn down the building."
Aerion pulled a sleek, silver smartphone from his pocket. He tapped the screen a few times, then turned it to show Dunk. It was a digital calendar, color-coded and packed so tight it looked like a mosaic.
"Your new schedule," Aerion said. "I’ve synced it to your student email. You’re blocked out for my lab hours, my gym hours—I need a spotter who won't ask questions—and my weekend errands."
"I have practice," Dunk protested, his heart hammering. "I have classes. History. Kinesiology."
"I moved your History section," Aerion waved a hand dismissively. "I know the registrar. You’re in the evening class now. It frees up your mornings for my coffee runs."
Dunk stared at him, horror dawning. "You... you changed my class schedule?"
"I optimized it," Aerion corrected. "You’re barely passing History anyway. The evening professor is easier. You’re welcome."
Aerion stepped over a puddle of foam and headed for the door, stepping carefully over the broken lock.
"Finish cleaning, Duncan. I want to see my reflection in those tiles. And tomorrow? 7 AM. Seastarbucks. Venti Cold Brew, black, two pumps of sugar-free vanilla. If it’s lukewarm, I’m pouring it on your shoes."
Aerion paused at the threshold, looking back at the massive figure kneeling in the mess.
"Don't be late. We have a legacy to uphold, you and I."
He walked out, his footsteps clicking down the hallway, leaving Dunk alone with the smell of chemicals and the sinking realization that he had just sold his soul to the devil in a silk shirt.
Dunk looked at the foam on his hands. He sighed, a long, deep rumble in his chest.
"Thick as a castle wall," he whispered to the empty room. Then he picked up the scrub brush.
The morning sun hadn't even crested over the campus library when Dunk found himself standing in line at the campus Seastarbucks, feeling like an intruder in a foreign land.
It was 6:45 AM. The line was already out the door, filled with nursing students and premeds clutching index cards. Dunk, in his oversized hoodie and worn-out sweatpants, towered over everyone. He felt the familiar itch of eyes on him—the look at the size of him stare that he’d lived with since he was twelve.
When he reached the counter, the barista, a girl with tired eyes, blinked up at him.
"Can I help you?"
Dunk pulled a crumpled sticky note from his pocket. "Yeah. Uh. A Venti Cold Brew. Black. Two pumps sugar-free vanilla." He paused, reading Aerion’s jagged handwriting. "And... light ice? It says 'don't drown it'."
The barista didn't even blink. "Name for the order?"
Dunk hesitated. "Aerion."
She stopped typing and looked up, her expression shifting from boredom to something like pity. "Oh. You're picking up for him?"
"Yeah," Dunk muttered. "I guess."
"Good luck," she said, writing the name on the cup with a heavy Sharpie stroke. "He made the last guy cry because the ice cubes were 'aesthetically displeasing'."
At 6:58 AM, Dunk pulled his rust-bucket of a pickup truck, ‘Thunder’, up to the curb of The Valyrian, the most expensive off-campus apartment complex in the city. It was a glass-and-steel monstrosity that looked more like a villain’s lair than student housing.
Dunk’s truck backfired as he put it in park, a loud BANG that made a jogger on the sidewalk jump.
Dunk winced. He checked his phone. 6:59 AM.
He got out, balancing the coffee carrier in one massive hand. He felt ridiculous. He was the starting defensive tackle for the KLU Kingsguards, and here he was, delivering customized bean water to a chemistry major with a god complex.
The glass doors of the lobby slid open.
Aerion emerged.
He was wearing a charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than Dunk’s truck, a black turtleneck, and tailored trousers. His silver-gold hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place despite the early hour. He wore dark sunglasses, hiding his violet eyes from the morning glare.
He stopped ten feet away from Dunk, looking at the truck, then at Dunk, then at the coffee.
"You're thirty seconds early," Aerion said. His voice was raspy, the morning vocal fry making him sound bored and dangerous.
"Better than late," Dunk grunted, extending the cup.
Aerion took it. He didn't drink it immediately. He swirled the cup, listening to the sound of the ice against the plastic. He popped the lid, took a small, tentative sip, and paused.
Dunk held his breath.
"Acceptable," Aerion decided, snapping the lid back on. "Though the roasted notes are a bit acidic today. Remind me to file a complaint with the franchise owner."
He walked past Dunk, heading straight for the passenger door of the truck. Then he stopped. He looked at the rusted handle, the dented fender, and the bumper sticker that said 'HONK IF YOU LOVE TACKLING'.
Aerion turned slowly to Dunk.
"You cannot be serious."
"What?" Dunk asked, opening his own door.
"You expect me to enter that... vehicle?" Aerion gestured at the truck with his coffee cup. "It looks like it has tetanus. I am wearing Italian wool, Duncan. I am not sitting on a seat that smells of wet dog and despair."
"It's the only car I have," Dunk said, exasperated. "You said you needed a ride."
"I said I needed a driver," Aerion corrected. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a key fob. It was heavy, sleek, and bore a crest of a three-headed dragon.
He tossed it through the air.
Dunk caught it instinctively, his large hand swallowing the fob. "What's this?"
"That," Aerion said, walking toward a sleek, black sports car parked in the reserved spot under the awning—a vehicle that looked like it could break the sound barrier while parked—"is the keys to my car. The Cannibal. Don't scratch it. Don't rev the engine unless necessary. And for the love of the Seven, adjust the mirrors back when you're done."
Dunk stared at the car. It was an actual fucking Porsche. "You want me to drive your car?"
"I certainly can't drive it," Aerion said, opening the passenger door and sliding into the leather seat with the grace of a viper. "My license is currently... suspended."
"Suspended?" Dunk walked over, feeling like he was stepping into a trap. "Why?"
Aerion lowered his sunglasses, fixing Dunk with a flat stare. "I may have tried to run over a relentless parking enforcement officer. Allegedly. Now get in. We have an 8:00 AM lecture in the Engineering building, and I refuse to be late."
Dunk squeezed himself into the driver's seat. It was a tight fit. His knees were practically at his chest until he found the electronic seat adjustment. The interior smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and something vaguely illicit.
(Drugs, probably. Exclusive ones.)
He put the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life with a low, throaty rumble that vibrated through the steering wheel.
"Careful," Aerion warned, sipping his coffee and opening a tablet on his lap. "She bites."
Dunk eased the car out of the lot, his hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, terrified of putting even a smudge on the leather.
"So," Dunk said, trying to fill the tense silence as they merged onto the main road. "Chemistry. You got a big test or something?"
"I am the test, Duncan," Aerion muttered, scrolling through a digital schematic of a molecule. "And don't make small talk. Focus on the road. The suspension on this car is tuned for performance, not for you to hit every pothole in King’s Landing."
Dunk sighed, keeping his eyes on the road. "You know, Coach Baelor isn't gonna like me missing morning weights for this."
"I sent Coach Baelor an email from your account stating you had a family emergency," Aerion said casually. "Something about a sick grandmother in Oldtown. Very tragic."
Dunk slammed on the brakes at a red light, the seatbelt locking against his chest. He turned to Aerion, eyes wide. "You hacked my email?"
"Hacked implies it was difficult," Aerion said, not looking up. "Your password was 'Dunk123'. It was insulting to my intelligence. I changed it to something alphanumeric. I'll write it down for you later."
Dunk stared at him, mouth slightly open. The light turned green.
"Drive, Duncan," Aerion commanded, tapping the glass of his tablet. "The light is green. And close your mouth. You look like a fish gasping for air."
Dunk grit his teeth and pressed the gas. He gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked.
Three thousand, five hundred dollars, he reminded himself. Just don't kill him. Just don't kill him.
"By the way," Aerion added, a smirk touching his lips as he saw Dunk’s knuckles turn white. "After class, we’re going to the tailor."
"Tailor?"
"If you're going to be seen with me," Aerion said, looking Dunk up and down with disdain, "we have to do something about... all of this. You look like a lumberjack who got lost on the way to a deforestation protest."
"I can't afford a tailor."
"Put it on my tab," Aerion said lightly. "Consider it a uniform expense. Just add it to your debt. You're up to four thousand now."
Dunk groaned, a low sound of misery, as he turned the expensive car toward the university gates. This was going to be a very long semester.
The lecture had been a blur of formulas Dunk didn’t understand, made worse by Aerion kicking the back of his chair every time Dunk started to nod off. By the time 11:30 rolled around, Dunk was starving. His stomach gave a growl loud enough to turn heads in the hallway.
Aerion, surprisingly, didn't make a snide comment. He just checked his watch—a sleek, silver chronograph—and jerked his chin toward the exit.
"We need fuel. Come on."
They ended up at The Painted Table, a bistro near campus that served sandwiches costing more than Dunk’s weekly grocery budget.
Dunk felt massive in the delicate wrought-iron chair, terrified he was going to bend the legs. He ordered the cheapest thing on the menu: a grilled cheese that still cost twelve dollars.
Aerion ordered a Cobb salad and a basket of truffle fries.
When the food arrived, Dunk expected Aerion to pick at it like a bird, dissecting the lettuce leaves and complaining about the dressing. That fit the princely persona.
Instead, Aerion ate with a mechanical fervor that was almost alarming.
He didn't talk. He didn't check his phone. He just... consumed.
He cut the salad into precise bites but shoveled them in with a mechanical, rhythmic speed. He decimated the fries, dipping them in aioli and swallowing them almost whole. It wasn't the way a hungry rich kid ate. It was the way a starving dog devoured before someone could kick it away.
Dunk, halfway through his grilled cheese, paused mid-chew. He watched Aerion finish the last fry, wipe his mouth with a linen napkin, and immediately signal the waiter for the check.
"You... in a rush?" Dunk asked, wiping a crumb from his chin.
"Efficiency, Duncan," Aerion said, his voice a little tight. He tossed a platinum credit card onto the table without looking at the bill. "Time is a commodity. I don't intend to waste it chewing."
The moment the card was returned, Aerion stood up abruptly.
"Start the car," Aerion commanded, tossing the keys to Dunk. "I need to use the restroom. I'll meet you out front."
Dunk caught the keys. "Sure. Just... don't take all day."
Aerion didn't answer. He turned on his heel and walked briskly toward the back of the restaurant.
Dunk went to the car. He waited for ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
He drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel of the Porsche. He adjusted the mirrors. He changed the radio station from classical to a rock station, then back to classical in case Aerion checked.
Twenty minutes.
"Did he fall in?" Dunk muttered to himself.
He cracked the window. It was a nice day, but the inside of the car was starting to feel stifling. He wondered if Aerion had ditched him—slipped out the back door just to make Dunk sit there like an idiot.
Finally, the bistro door opened.
Aerion emerged into the sunlight. He had his sunglasses back on, his coat buttoned up to his chin despite the mild weather. He walked with that same sharp, imperious gait, but something was off.
He looked... brittle. Like glass that had been tapped too hard.
He opened the passenger door and slid in, bringing with him a sudden, overpowering scent of wintergreen mints and harsh antiseptic soap.
Dunk put the car in drive but kept his foot on the brake. He looked over, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, ready to give the guy a hard time.
"Took you long enough," Dunk drawled, keeping his tone light. "What, did you get lost in the mirror? Have to fix your hair for the—"
The joke died in his throat.
Aerion had taken his sunglasses off to clean a smudge, and for the first time, Dunk saw him clearly in the harsh midday light.
Aerion’s eyes, usually a sharp, piercing violet, were swimming in red. The whites were completely bloodshot, the capillaries burst in jagged, angry lines. The skin beneath them was puffy and bruised-looking, contrasting sharply with the pale, clammy sheen of his forehead.
But it was the hands that made Dunk’s stomach turn over.
Aerion was gripping his sunglasses, his knuckles white with tension. On the back of his right hand, across the knuckles of his index and middle finger, the skin was raw. It was red, scraped, and angry—a fresh abrasion, like he’d punched a wall. Or scraped them against something hard. repeatedly.
Dunk knew that mark.
He’d seen it back in Flea Bottom. He’d seen it on the wrestlers who needed to make weight class by any means necessary.
Russell’s sign. That’s what the team trainer called it.
The fast eating. The immediate exit. The long wait. The mints. The raw knuckles.
"Drive," Aerion croaked. His voice was rough, like he’d been screaming.
Dunk didn’t obey.
Aerion cleared his throat violently and put the sunglasses back on, hiding the damage. "Why are we not moving? I have a lab report to file."
Dunk stared at him. The teasing remark about vanity felt heavy and cruel in his mouth now. He looked at the scrapes on Aerion’s hand again, then at the perfect, sharp line of his jaw which was currently clenched tight enough to snap bone.
"Aerion," Dunk said, his voice dropping an octave. It was the quiet, rumble of the guy who broke up fights.
"Don't," Aerion snapped. He didn't look at Dunk. He stared straight ahead at the dashboard, his chest heaving slightly with shallow, controlled breaths. "Don't look at me. Just drive the damn car."
Dunk hesitated.
His instincts screamed at him to ask, to say something, to offer a water bottle, anything.
But he saw the way Aerion was trembling—a fine, high-frequency vibration in his hands. He was holding himself together with nothing but spite and hairspray.
If Dunk pushed now, Aerion would shatter.
Dunk looked back at the road. He eased his foot off the brake.
"Alright," Dunk said softly. "Alright."
He pulled the car out into traffic, driving significantly slower than before, careful not to hit any bumps.
The drive to the tailor was silent. The air in the car felt thin, pressurized. Dunk kept his eyes on the road, occasionally glancing at the passenger seat where Aerion sat with his head leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed behind his dark sunglasses. He looked pale, almost translucent against the black leather.
They pulled up to a storefront in the upscale district—Mott’s Bespoke. There was no price list in the window, just a single mannequin wearing a suit that probably cost more than Dunk’s tuition.
"We're here," Dunk said softly.
Aerion’s eyes snapped open.
For a second, he looked disoriented, panic flaring in the violet depths before the mask slammed back down. He sat up, cleared his throat, and adjusted his collar.
"Park in the back," Aerion commanded, his voice regaining some of its sharp edge, though it sounded brittle. "Tobho reserves a spot for me.”
Inside, the shop smelled of cedar, steam, and money.
A bell chimed as they entered. A heavy-set man with a magnificent beard and a measuring tape draped around his neck bustled out from the back.
"Mr. Targaryen!" the tailor, Tobho Mott, exclaimed, beaming. "I wasn't expecting you until next week for the velvet blazer."
"Change of plans, Tobho," Aerion said, breezing past him to run a hand over a bolt of navy wool. He didn't look at Dunk. He seemed to be using the tactile sensation of the fabric to ground himself. "I have a... project. A refurbishment, if you will."
He gestured vaguely at Dunk, who was hovering by the door, trying not to knock over a display of silk ties with his shoulders.
Tobho looked up. And up. And up.
"Good heavens," the tailor murmured. "He’s... considerable."
"He’s a monstrosity of proportions," Aerion corrected, walking over to a rack of shirts. "Shoulders too broad, waist surprisingly narrow, legs like tree trunks. Off the rack is a joke. He looks like he’s wearing a tent."
Dunk shifted his weight. "I like my hoodies."
"Burn them," Aerion said flatly. He pulled a crisp white dress shirt from a hanger and thrust it at Dunk. "Put this on. Step onto the podium. And for the love of the Seven, stop slouching. You’re six-foot-eleven, not a hunchback."
Dunk sighed but did as he was told. He went behind the changing screen, wrestling his arms into the shirt. It was tight across the back, the fabric straining when he moved.
When he stepped out and onto the small circular podium, he felt ridiculous. He was a giant doll on display.
Aerion circled him like a shark in the water, critical and precise.
"Too tight in the lats," Aerion muttered, reaching out to pinch the fabric at Dunk’s side. "It’s pulling. Tobho, we need to let it out here. And the sleeves... look at his wrists. Exposed bone. Disgusting."
Dunk looked down. Aerion was standing right in front of him, staring at the buttons on Dunk’s chest.
"You're shaking," Dunk said quietly.
It was true. Aerion’s hands, hovering over the fabric, were trembling. Not a little—a lot.
The kind of tremors you get when your blood sugar crashes hard.
Aerion froze. He looked up, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough for Dunk to see those bloodshot, tired eyes again.
"It’s the coffee," Aerion lied, his voice barely a whisper. "Caffeine jitters."
"You didn't drink the coffee," Dunk pointed out. "I watched you dump it in the planter outside the chem lab."
Aerion’s jaw tightened. He stepped back, putting distance between them. "I don't pay you to observe me, Duncan. I pay you to lift heavy things and stand still."
He turned to the tailor, his voice rising, becoming shrill. "Tobho! The charcoal wool. The Super 150s. And get me the swatch book for the linings. I want a deep crimson. Blood red. Something that says 'I am not a peasant' despite all evidence to the contrary."
As Tobho scrambled to obey, Aerion leaned against a heavy mahogany table, gripping the edge until his knuckles—the raw, scraped ones—turned white.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
Dunk watched him from the podium. He saw the sweat beading on Aerion’s forehead. He saw the way the younger man was swaying slightly, his center of gravity off.
He’s going to pass out, Dunk realized.
Dunk stepped off the podium. He didn't ask permission. He crossed the two steps between them in a single stride.
Just as Aerion’s knees buckled, Dunk was there.
He didn't make a scene. He didn't catch him in a dramatic swoop. He simply moved into Aerion’s space and placed one massive hand on the small of Aerion’s back and the other on his elbow, steadying him.
Effectively, he became a wall for Aerion to lean on.
"Easy," Dunk murmured, his voice a low rumble that only Aerion could hear.
Aerion stiffened. His instinct was to lash out, to bite, to scream. But he had no strength. He sagged against Dunk’s hand, his weight negligible against Dunk’s frame.
"Get off me," Aerion hissed, but there was no heat in it. He sounded exhausted.
"Just look at the fabric," Dunk said, pretending to examine a swatch book on the table, shielding Aerion from the tailor’s view with his wide back. "Pretend you’re showing me the... thread count. Or whatever."
Aerion blinked, his vision clearing. He looked up at Dunk. He saw no mockery in the big man’s face.
No pity, even. Just... solidity.
Aerion took a breath. He leaned a fraction more of his weight against Dunk’s hand.
"It's not thread count," Aerion whispered, his voice trembling. "It's the weave. You utilize a herringbone weave for durability."
"Right," Dunk said, nodding seriously at a piece of cloth. "Herringbone. Got it."
"You're an idiot," Aerion breathed, the insult almost affectionate in its weakness.
"Yeah," Dunk agreed. "But I'm holding you up."
Aerion went silent. He stared at the swatch book, his chest heaving as he fought the nausea. He stayed there for a long moment, grounded by the massive, warm hand on his back.
When Tobho returned with the bolts of fabric, Aerion pushed himself off Dunk. He straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair, and turned to the tailor with a terrifyingly perfect, porcelain smile.
"Excellent, Tobho," Aerion said, his voice crisp and commanding, as if he hadn't just been seconds away from collapsing. "Let’s begin with the trousers. And make sure there’s enough room in the thigh. He insists on crouching, apparently."
Dunk watched him go back to work, dissecting seams and criticizing stitches.
He’s drowning, Dunk thought, stepping back onto the podium. He’s drowning in plain sight, and nobody sees it but me.
"Duncan!" Aerion snapped, snapping his fingers. "Arms up. Don't make this difficult."
Dunk raised his arms. "Yes, boss.”
The drive back to The Valyrian was suffocating. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable quiet of two people who had shared a long day. It was the pressurized silence of a bomb squad waiting for the wire to snap.
Dunk pulled the Porsche into the underground garage, the tires screeching softly on the polished concrete. He put the car in park but didn't kill the engine. The low rumble of the motor vibrated through the seats, a heartbeat for the metal beast.
Aerion’s hand was already on the door handle. He was desperate to escape, to get back to his penthouse where he could lock the door and disintegrate in peace.
"Unlock the doors, Duncan," Aerion said, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall.
Dunk didn't move. He kept his large hands on the steering wheel, staring at his own knuckles.
"Aerion," Dunk said. The name felt heavy in his mouth.
"I said unlock the doors. I have a differential equations set to finish before midnight."
"You're sick," Dunk said.
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same flat certainty Dunk used when he said it’s raining or the defensive line is weak.
Aerion froze. His fingers curled around the silver handle, his knuckles turning white—whiter than the rest of his pale hand. He didn't turn his head.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Aerion said, his voice brittle. "I am arguably the most intelligent student in the STEM program. My GPA is a 4.0. My physical—"
"I know what you did," Dunk interrupted, his voice soft. "In the bathroom at the bistro. I know why you took so long."
Aerion stopped breathing. The air in the car seemed to vanish.
"And your hand," Dunk continued, nodding toward Aerion’s right hand, still gripping the door handle. The raw, red abrasions on his knuckles were stark against the black leather. "That’s not from a lab accident. And you're shaking so bad you couldn't even sign the receipt at the tailor."
Dunk turned in his seat, the leather creaking under his bulk. He looked at the prince of the university—this terrified, shivering thing wrapped in Italian wool.
"You need help, Aerion. Real help. Not... whatever this is."
Aerion finally turned.
His violet eyes were wide, the pupils blown. He looked like an animal cornered in a trap, assessing whether to gnaw its own leg off or attack the hunter.
"Help," Aerion repeated, the word tasting like ash.
"Yeah," Dunk said, earnest and imploring. "Look, you... you have money, right? You never shut up about it. You can afford the best doctors. We can go to the university hospital right now. Or a private clinic. Someone who knows about... eating stuff. And the shaking."
He then leaned forward slightly, his massive frame filling the space. "You don't have to live like this. You have the resources to fix it. Just use them."
For a second, silence hung suspended in the dark garage.
Then, a sound broke it. A low, dry, hacking sound.
Aerion was laughing.
But he absolutely was not happy.
His laugh was a jagged, ugly sound that scraped against the inside of the car. He let go of the door handle and turned fully toward Dunk, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom.
"Resources," Aerion whispered mockingly. "The lunk thinks I need resources."
"I’m just saying—"
"Do you know who sits on the board of the University Hospital?" he snapped, his voice rising, sharp as a whip crack. "My uncle Aerys. Do you know who funded the psychiatric wing? My father. Do you know who my primary care physician is? The former Surgeon General of Westeros."
He unbuckled his seatbelt with a violent click, turning to face Dunk, his eyes wild.
"You think I haven't tried?!”
The question was a scream, contained only by the soundproofing of the luxury car.
"I have seen the best nutritionists in Oldtown. I have been psychoanalyzed by three different specialists in Braavos. I have a medicine cabinet in my bathroom that looks like a pharmacy, Duncan! I have pills to make me sleep, pills to wake me up, pills to stabilize my mood, and pills to stop the shaking caused by the other pills!"
Aerion slammed his hand against the dashboard. Dunk flinched, but Aerion didn't stop. The floodgates had opened, and the poison was pouring out.
"I have infinite resources!" Aerion yelled, tears of rage pricking the corners of his bloodshot eyes. "I can buy a new liver. I can buy a new heart. I can buy this entire city if I wanted to. But I cannot buy a new brain!"
He jabbed a finger at his own temple, hard enough to leave a mark.
"The problem isn't the doctor, you simpleton! The problem is in here! It’s the wiring! It’s the chemistry! It’s the fact that I can stare at a periodic table and understand the fundamental building blocks of the universe, but I cannot sit through a meal without feeling like I am swallowing glass!"
Aerion was panting now, his chest heaving, his face flushed.
He looked manic, beautiful, and terrifying.
"You look at me and you see a rich brat who needs a hug and a meal plan," Aerion spat, his voice dropping to a low, trembling growl. "But my money is the curse, Duncan. Because when you’re poor and you’re crazy, people lock you up. They fix you. Or they forget you."
He leaned in close, so close Dunk could smell the mints masking the bile, and the underlying scent of fear.
"But when you’re a Targaryen? When you’re the Brightflame? When you’re me?”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“They don't lock you up. They nod. They prescribe. They take the check. And they let you walk out the door because nobody tells the donor’s son he’s a danger to himself."
Aerion fell back against the seat, exhausted by the outburst.
He stared up at the roof of the car, his hands shaking uncontrollably in his lap.
"I have tried everything," he rasped, the fight draining out of him, leaving only the hollow ache. "I have everything. And it fixes nothing."
Dunk sat there, stunned into silence.
He felt small. For all his size, for all his strength, he suddenly realized that he was completely unequipped for this battle. He couldn't punch this enemy. He couldn't tackle it.
"Aerion," Dunk started, his voice rough.
"Unlock the door.”
Aerion didn't look at Dunk.
He sounded dead. "Unlock the door, or I will drive this car into the wall myself."
Dunk hesitated for a heartbeat, looking at the broken boy beside him. Then, with a heavy sigh, he pressed the button.
Click.
Aerion was out of the car before the lock had fully disengaged. He didn't look back. He marched toward the elevator bank, his expensive coat billowing behind him, leaving Dunk alone in the garage with the humming engine and the echo of a scream that no amount of money could silence.
Dunk didn't think.
He didn't lock the car.
He scrambled out, his boots hitting the concrete hard, and sprinted toward the elevator bank.
Aerion was repeatedly jamming the 'Up' button, his back rigid, vibrating with the need to escape. When he heard the heavy footsteps, he didn't turn around. He just pressed the button harder, as if he could summon the elevator through sheer force of will.
"Aerion," Dunk panted, reaching the lobby. He put his massive body between Aerion and the elevator doors. A living barricade.
"Move," Aerion whispered. He looked small, huddled inside his expensive coat.
"No," Dunk said. His voice wasn't loud, but it filled the concrete space. "I’m sorry. I didn’t just mean doctors, Aerion. And I wasn’t just talking about pills. I’m talking about... just not being alone with it."
Dunk took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"My old man, Arlan... he used to say that the worst demons get bigger in the dark. You're in the dark, Aerion. I can see it. You don't have to pay me. You don't have to owe me anything. I can just... be there. When you eat. Or when you feel like you can't."
He held out a hand, palm up. Rough, calloused, honest.
"I can just sit with you. I’m good at sitting. I’m big enough to block the door if you try to run to the bathroom."
It was a clumsy offer. It was raw and unpolished, devoid of clinical terminology or professional detachment.
It was simply one human being offering to be an anchor for another.
Aerion stared at the hand. For a second, his face crumpled.
A flash of desperate longing crossed his features—the terrifying urge to just let go, to let someone else carry the weight of his own skin.
Then, the fear took over. The shame. The absolute, blinding humiliation of being seen by someone he considered beneath him.
Aerion slapped Dunk’s hand away.
The sound echoed sharp and stinging in the lobby.
"You think you can fix me?" Aerion hissed, stepping back, his face twisting into a sneer that looked painful to hold. "You think because you’re big and dumb and have a heart of gold, you can save the tragic prince? This isn't a fairy tale, Duncan. It’s pathology."
Aerion laughed, a wet, jagged sound. He gestured wildly around them, at the luxury building, at his own clothes.
"You want to talk about darkness? You want to know what I do with this money you’re so jealous of?"
He stepped into Dunk’s space, weaponizing his wealth like a bludgeon.
"While you’re scraping together change for instant noodles, Duncan, I am ordering three hundred dollars worth of sushi at 2 AM. I order wagyu beef sliders. I order truffles. I buy the most exquisite, expensive food this city has to offer."
Aerion’s eyes were wild, glittering with tears he refused to shed.
"And do you know what I do with it? I shovel it down my throat until I can't breathe, and then I go to my marble bathroom with heated floors, and I flush it all away. I flush your entire semester's tuition down the toilet in a single night!"
Dunk flinched. The image was visceral, grotesque. It was a slap in the face of everything Dunk knew about survival, about hunger.
"That is what I am," Aerion spat, trembling. "I am a sinkhole. I am a waste of resources. I am disgusting, Duncan. And the fact that you—a slum rat who barely knows which fork to use—are standing here looking at me with pity? It makes me want to retch."
The elevator chimed behind Dunk. The doors slid open.
Aerion didn't wait. He shoved past Dunk, hard. Dunk stumbled, not from the force, but from the shock.
"The debt is cancelled," Aerion said, stepping into the elevator. He didn't turn around. He pressed the button for the penthouse. "Keep the car for the night. Leave the keys at the desk tomorrow. You're fired."
"Aerion—"
"Don't come back," Aerion said, his voice cracking. "Stay in your world, Duncan. Don't touch mine. You'll only get dirty."
The doors began to slide shut.
Close, Aerion pleaded. Just close. Please close.
As the silver doors finally slid together, cutting off the view of Duncan’s stricken face, Aerion felt his legs give out. He slid down the mirrored wall of the elevator until he hit the floor, curling his knees to his chest.
He hated him. He hated Duncan for seeing him. He hated him for being so solid, so simple, so alive.
Aerion looked at his hands. They were shaking so badly he couldn't make a fist.
He had won. He had driven the giant away.
He had used the only weapon he had—his cruelty, his excess—to make himself repulsive. Duncan would leave now. He would go back to his dorm and tell his friends about the freak in the penthouse who threw up gold coins.
He was safe. He was alone.
I am a dragon, Aerion thought, squeezing his eyes shut as the elevator rocketed upward at a speed that made his empty stomach lurch.
Dragons don't need help. Dragons burn. That’s all they do.
But as the tears finally spilled over, hot and humiliating, he knew the truth. He wasn't a dragon.
He was just a boy starving to death in a castle full of food, and he had just severed the only hand that had ever reached through the bars.
Downstairs, the garage was quiet again.
The Porsche was still purring behind Dunk, the black beast costing more than what Arlan and his ancestors had made their entire lives.
Dunk stood in front of the closed elevator doors for a long time.
He felt heavy. Usually, his size made him feel grounded, but now he just felt like a clumsy, useless oaf.
Thick as a castle wall, he thought bitterly. Too thick to understand.
He replayed Aerion’s words.
The waste. The anger.
The sheer, terrifying loneliness of it.
Dunk had been hungry before. He knew the gnawing ache of an empty belly.
But he had never known the hunger Aerion had—the hunger that ate you from the inside out, no matter how much you fed it. The kind of hunger that haunts the brain, not the stomach.
He looked at his hand, the one Aerion had slapped away. It was still stinging.
I shouldn't have pushed. I should have just listened. I moved too fast.
He turned back to the car. He had to return it. He had to walk away, like he was told. That was the smart thing to do. That was the safe thing to do.
But as he climbed back into the driver's seat, smelling the faint scent of wintergreen and fear that lingered in the leather, Dunk knew he wasn't going to stay away.
He was a Kingsguard. Even if it was just for a football team, even if it was just a title. You didn't leave people behind. Not when they were bleeding.
You’re fired, Aerion had said.
Dunk put the car in reverse.
We’ll see about that, he thought. We’ll see.