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The first thing Aerion noticed was the sound.
It was not the crack he expected. Not the sharp clean report of silk and skin and humiliation. It was duller than that, wetter, followed by a breath he did not remember taking. The world tipped sideways and the ground rushed up to meet him with shocking intimacy.
His mouth filled with copper.
Aerion lay still, stunned not by the fall but by the taste. He pressed his tongue against his lip without thinking and felt the sting answer him back. Blood. His blood. Warm. Real. Not imagined. Not ceremonial. Not politely spilled in training yards or dueling rings.
Laughter bubbled up before he could stop it, soft and broken, dragged out of him by something bright and vicious that caught fire behind his ribs.
He had been struck before. Slapped by tutors who pretended it was discipline. Corrected by knights who bowed as they did it. Hurt in ways that always felt distant, like pain delivered through gloves. This was different. This was direct. This was earned.
He rolled his head to the side and saw him.
Ser Duncan the Tall stood there with his fists clenched, chest heaving, eyes dark with a fury that had rules. Not fear. Not ambition. Judgment. The kind that did not ask permission before it acted.
That was what burned.
Aerion pushed himself upright, ignoring the way the world swam. The crowd roared now, outrage and delight tangling together, but he barely heard it. His attention narrowed until there was only the knight and the space between them.
Fire, he thought, and smiled.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the smear of red left behind. A prince was not meant to bleed like this. Not publicly. Not honestly. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted his name, panicked, angry, afraid. It all slid past him.
He looked back at Duncan and felt something settle into place inside him, heavy and certain.
Justice could hit back.
That was new.
Aerion stood, dust clinging to his clothes, blood still on his lip, and laughed again. This time he did not try to stop himself at all.
—
They kept Dunk in a room that smelled of old straw and damp stone, which felt fitting in a way he did not like to think about. He sat on the bench with his hands braced on his knees and replayed the sound of Aerion’s tooth loosening under his fist until it made him feel sick.
He had hit a prince.
That was the thought that kept circling back, no matter how many times he tried to replace it with Tanselle’s broken finger or the way Aerion had smiled while hurting her. He had hit a prince, and princes did not forgive. Princes collected.
When the door opened, Dunk hauled himself to his feet, heart thudding, expecting guards or Baelor or the quiet end of things.
Instead, Aerion Targaryen stepped inside alone.
He looked cleaner than Dunk felt. Fresh silk. Hair combed back. A faint bruise along his jaw, already yellowing. When he smiled, one tooth sat just a little wrong.
Dunk swallowed. “Your Grace.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked to his hands, then to his shoulders, then back to his face, slow and curious, like a man appraising a horse. “You hit me,” he said, pleasantly, as if remarking on the weather.
“Yes,” Dunk said, because lying felt worse than death. “And I’ll do it agian.”
Aerion laughed. Not loudly. Not cruelly. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, studying the ceiling as if the stones might answer him back. “Do you know what surprised me most?”
Dunk waited.
“That it hurt,” Aerion said. He pressed his tongue briefly against his teeth, winced, and smiled wider. “I have been struck before. Slapped. Corrected. Always softly. Always with fear tucked into the blow. You did not do that.”
“I was angry,” Dunk said, uselessly.
“Yes,” Aerion said, delighted. “That was it.”
The door stayed closed. No guards came. No council. No judgment. Dunk’s pulse began to race in a new and terrible direction.
“I am told you requested a trial by combat,” Aerion continued.
Dunk nodded. “I did.”
“A sensible choice for a man with arms like yours.” Aerion stepped closer, close enough that Dunk could smell wine and something sharp beneath it. “I will not accept.”
The words landed wrong. Dunk blinked. “You will not?”
Aerion tilted his head. “A duel is dull. A trial by seven is theatrical, but it ends too quickly. And then what would I do with the rest of my life, knowing that I have already met the most interesting man I will ever be struck by?”
Dunk stared at him.
“I have decided,” Aerion went on, “that instead of demanding your blood, I will demand your company.”
Silence stretched, thin and cracking.
“I do not understand,” Dunk said finally.
“That is all right,” Aerion replied. “I do.”
The door opened behind them. Egg slipped inside, eyes sharp and furious, his small hands clenched so tight they shook. “You cannot,” he said. “You cannot just take him.”
Aerion looked at his brother with fond amusement. “I am not taking him. I am attaching myself.”
“You are doing this to punish him,” Egg said. “You are doing this to hurt him.”
Aerion’s gaze drifted back to Dunk. “I am doing this because he is fire and I am tired of cold things.”
Egg turned to Dunk, betrayal and fear warring on his face. “He will not leave you alone,” he said again, as if saying it twice might make it less true.
“I will behave,” Aerion said. “Mostly.”
Baelor arrived shortly after, relief written so plainly on his face that it almost hurt to see. The word trial was spoken, then unspoken. Demands softened into arrangements. Honor was invoked and carefully sidestepped. A prince who wanted blood was a danger. A prince who wanted a knight was a nuisance. Nuisances could be managed.
By dusk, Dunk was free.
By morning, Aerion rode behind him.
He did not speak much on the road. He watched. When Dunk corrected Egg’s grip on the reins, Aerion smiled. When Dunk shared his bread with a hungry child, Aerion frowned in thought. When Dunk lost his temper at a crooked innkeeper and then mastered it again, Aerion looked almost reverent.
Dunk tried to tell himself this would pass. That obsession burned fast and died young. That princes forgot.
But when he woke in the night and found Aerion sitting by the fire, eyes bright, watching him breathe, he knew better.
Somewhere behind them, a trial never happened. A good man did not ride to his death at dawn. History shifted its weight and kept moving.
Ahead of them walked Ser Duncan the Tall, knight of no great name, carrying justice like a burden and a promise.
Behind him followed a dragon who had finally found something that burned back.
—