Archive of Our Own ^beta

Previously on this series—

"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.

The dream began with the smell of lemons and summer rain.

It was a memory, sharp and saturated in color, unlike the monochromatic world Aerion lived in now. He was seven years old. He was in the solarium of their summer home in Summerhall.

He had broken something. A vase? A statue?

It didn't matter.

He remembered the shatter, the sound of porcelain exploding against the stone floor. He remembered the feeling of wild, uncontrollable energy in his chest—the buzzing under his skin that made him want to run, to scream, to break things just to see how they broke.

He was cowering under a table, waiting for the shouting. Waiting for his father.

But it was a pair of soft hands that found him.

"Aerion," a voice cooed. Warm. Safe.

He looked up.

It was his mother, Dyanna, and she was smiling at him.

She didn't look at the broken porcelain, only at him. She had violet eyes like his, but hers were soft, crinkled at the corners with amusement, not hardened by expectation.

"My little dragon," she whispered, pulling him out from under the table. She smelled of citrus and old books. She kissed his forehead, right where the headache usually started. "So much fire in such a small vessel. You’ll burn the world down if we don't teach you how to be warm instead of hot."

"I didn't mean to," he sobbed into her dress.

"I know," she soothed, rocking him. "I know, sweetling. You never mean to. You just… are."

“You aren’t… angry?”

“Oh, I’m pissed. That vase was an antique,” she laughed softly. “But you, my boy, will be in a world of trouble if your father sees me even remotely annoyed.”

She guided him to the door. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up. Tell your father that we were play fighting. It’ll temper him if we share the blame.”

The scene shifted. The warmth evaporated, replaced by the sterile, freezing air of his father’s study.

Aerion was older now. Twelve. Fourteen. He was standing at attention in front of the massive oak desk.

Maekar sat behind it, a wall of muscle and granite. He was reading a report card. Then a letter from the Dean of Students about a fight. About a fire he started.

"Explain," Maekar said. He didn't look up.

"It was an experiment," Aerion said, his voice barely stable. "I was trying to—"

"You were trying to embarrass me," Maekar slammed his hand on the desk. The sound cracked like hitting an anvil. "You are a Targaryen, Aerion! We do not make mistakes. We do not have accidents. We are precise. We are excellent."

Maekar stood up. He loomed over the desk, casting a shadow that swallowed Aerion whole.

"Your brother Daeron is a drunk. You’re next in line, and you," Maekar pointed a finger like a dagger, "were supposed to be the sharp one. The bright flame. Instead, you are a wildfire. Uncontrolled. Useless."

"I got an A in Chemistry," Aerion tried to say.

"You set a bathroom on fire!" Maekar roared. "Do you think the world cares about your grades when you cannot control your own impulses? Get out of my sight. You give your mother migraines. You are killing her with worry."

He tossed the report card. Maekar only ever looked at Aerion’s flaws, after all.

The scene dissolved into black umbrellas and the sound of heavy, relentless rain hitting a mahogany casket.

A funeral.

Mother’s funeral.

Aerion stood at the edge of the grave. He was seventeen. He was wearing a suit that cost four thousand dollars, tailored within an inch of its life. He wore black sunglasses, even though the sky was dark.

People were crying. Aerys was weeping openly. Little Aegon was sobbing into Duncan’s side—wait, no, Duncan wasn't there yet—into the nanny’s skirt.

Aerion stood perfectly still. He felt… nothing. He felt like his insides had been scooped out with a melon baller, leaving only a hollow shell.

If he let himself feel the reality of the box being lowered into the ground—the reality that the lemon scent and the soft hands were gone forever—he would scream until his throat bled. He would jump into the hole.

So he did what he did best: putting on a show.

"It’s a lovely mahogany," Aerion drawled to his cousin Valarr, loud enough for people to hear. "Though the brass fittings are a bit tacky. Mother always hated brass."

Valarr looked at him with horror. "Aerion, shut up."

"I'm just critiquing the aesthetics," Aerion said, checking his watch. "Are we almost done? I have a reservation at Dorsia at eight."

He saw the looks. Heartless. Monster. Sociopath.

He drank them in. Better to be a monster than a grieving son. Monsters didn't hurt. Monsters didn't break.

The rain stopped. The grave vanished.

He was back in the house. The night of the funeral. The air was thick with whiskey and grief.

Maekar found him in the kitchen. Aerion was eating a slice of cake. He wasn't hungry, but he was shoving the sweetness into his mouth to fill the void.

Maekar looked destroyed. His eyes were red, his face haggard. He looked at Aerion—calm, cool, cake-eating Aerion—and something inside the older man snapped.

"You," Maekar growled. It was a sound from the deepest pit of hell.

Aerion put the fork down. "Father. The catering was adequate, I suppose. Though the salmon was—"

Maekar crossed the room in two strides. He grabbed Aerion by the lapels of his expensive suit and slammed him against the refrigerator.

"Stop it!" Maekar screamed. "Stop the act! Stop the lies!"

"I don't know what you mean," Aerion gasped, his feet dangling off the floor.

"She is dead!" Maekar shook him. "Your mother is dead! And you stand there eating cake? You stand there checking your watch?"

"People die, Father," Aerion said, his voice shaking, trying to maintain the mask. "It’s a biological inevitability. Her heart gave out. It happens."

"Her heart gave out because it was tired!" Maekar roared, his spit flying into Aerion’s face. "Because for seventeen years she spent every waking moment worrying about you! Worrying about your cruelty! Worrying about your madness!"

The subtext was clear.

You killed her.

"No," Aerion whispered. "No."

"Yes!" Maekar’s face was inches from his own. It was like looking in a twisted mirror. They had the same nose. The same jaw. The same violet eyes.

But Maekar’s eyes were full of hate.

"You did this," Maekar hissed. "With your suspensions. With your court cases. With your endless, bottomless need for attention. You wore her down. You took her light and you suffocated it."

Aerion couldn't breathe. The kitchen was spinning.

Maekar stared at him, his grip tightening on Aerion’s throat. He looked at his son’s face—his own face, reflected back at him.

"The gods have been cruel," Maekar whispered, his voice trembling with a terrible, quiet rage. "To put my face… to put my face on the son who caused my wife’s death."

He shoved Aerion away. Aerion hit the floor, sliding against the cold tiles.

"You should have been the one in the box," Maekar snarled one last time.

He walked away.

Aerion woke up with a gasp.

His body jerked violently, his heels kicking against the marble floor of the penthouse bathroom. He scrambled backward, his hands slipping on the cold tile, until his back hit the porcelain of the bathtub.

"I didn't," he choked out, his chest heaving. "I didn't mean to."

The bathroom was silent. Not the quiet of a library, but the silence of a vacuum.

It was 5:30 AM. He hadn't meant to sleep on the bathroom floor. He had just sat down against the cold marble of the tub after… after everything—the argument with Duncan, raging his fists and throat out, consuming the entire pantry and flushing it away—and his body had simply shut down.

Aerion pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to push the image of his father’s face back into the dark. He was shaking. He was cold.

He was twenty-one years old, rich, brilliant, and alone on a bathroom floor.

He looked at his hands. They were trembling so hard they looked blurred.

"Get up," he whispered to himself, his voice cracking. "Get up, Brightflame. Put the armor on."

He dragged himself to the sink and splashed freezing water on his face, washing away the sweat of the nightmare. He looked at his reflection.

His father’s face looked back.

Aerion squeezed his eyes shut, gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white, and screamed—a silent, airless scream that lived and died entirely in his throat.

He showered, scrubbing his skin until it was red, trying to wash off the feeling of patheticness. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled.

He didn't eat breakfast. The thought of more food made his throat close up.

He took the elevator down to the lobby. He dreaded this. He would have to ask the concierge for his keys. He would have to explain why his driver wasn't there.

He would have to admit, even silently, that he had driven away the only person who had looked at him like a human being in years.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened.

Aerion walked to the front desk, keeping his sunglasses on to hide the circles under his eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Targaryen," the concierge said, beaming.

"My keys," Aerion clipped out, extending a hand. "The… absolute unit of a tool who had my car last night. Did he leave them?"

The concierge frowned, checking the logbook. "No, sir. No keys were dropped off."

Aerion felt a flash of cold panic. Had the idiot stolen the car? Had he crashed it into a ditch out of spite?

"However," the concierge continued, pointing toward the glass doors. "Your vehicle is waiting at the curb."

Aerion turned.

Through the glass, he saw the sleek black silhouette of his Porsche, the Cannibal. And leaning against the hood, looking like a gargoyle in a grey hoodie, was Duncan.

Aerion’s heart did a strange, painful flip in his chest.

He marched through the automatic doors, the morning air biting at his exposed face.

Duncan straightened up as Aerion approached. He looked tired. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He clearly hadn't slept well.

"I told you," Aerion hissed, keeping his voice low so the doormen wouldn't hear, "that the debt was cancelled, that you’re fired. I told you to leave the keys."

Dunk didn't flinch. He just held out a Seastarbucks cup.

"Venti Cold Brew. Black. Two pumps sugar-free vanilla."

Aerion stared at the cup. Steam wasn't rising from it—it was iced, obviously—but the condensation on the side told him it was fresh.

"Did you hear me, Duncan? I said the arrangement is over."

"Yeah, I heard you," Dunk said, his voice calm and steady, like a slow river. "But I checked the employee handbook. You can't fire someone without two weeks' notice. It’s against university policy for student workers."

Aerion blinked. "You… you don't work for the university. You work for me. It’s a private contract."

"Technically," Dunk said, scratching the back of his neck and looking at the sky, "since you’re paying me through the 'Research Assistant' grant fund so you can write it off as an academic expense… I’m a university employee."

Dunk looked back down at Aerion. There was no pity in his eyes. Just a stubborn, maddening factualness.

"And besides. After I pay my debt off, I need the money. My truck needs a new transmission. So unless you want to file a formal complaint with the Dean—your grandfather—and explain why you’re firing your Research Assistant after one day…"

Duncan shrugged. He dangled the keys on one finger.

"You're stuck with me for at least two weeks."

Aerion stared at him.

It was a lie. A blatant, clumsy lie. There was no grant fund—he would have paid him in cash. There was no handbook for this.

Duncan was giving him an excuse.

He was framing his return not as an act of charity or concern, but as a bureaucratic necessity. He was making it about money. He was making it safe.

Aerion looked at the cup. He looked at the car. He looked at the giant who refused to be moved by cruelty or shame.

Aerion snatched the cup from Duncan’s hand.

"It better not be watered down," Aerion muttered, walking past him to the passenger door.

Duncan let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for twelve hours. "Fresh pot. I made them brew a new batch."

They got into the car. The interior was warm. Duncan had been running the heater.

As he pulled out into traffic, the silence stretched between them. But it wasn't the jagged silence of the night before. It was tentative. Fragile.

Aerion took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect. The bitterness cut through the phantom taste of bile in his mouth.

He glanced sideways. Duncan was focused on the road, his large hands gentle on the wheel.

"You're thick," Aerion said suddenly.

Duncan glanced over. "What?"

"Thick," Aerion repeated, staring out the window. "You have the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. I insult you, I degrade you, I scream at you, and you come back with coffee."

"Arlan used to say I was stubborn," Duncan said. "And I like driving this car. It’s smooth."

"It’s German engineering," Aerion corrected automatically.

"Right. German."

They drove for another mile. The campus buildings came into view.

"I don't want to talk about it," Aerion said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "Last night. I don't… we are not discussing it. It was a lapse in judgment. A chemical imbalance. It is handled."

Duncan signaled a left turn. He checked the mirror.

"Talk about what?" he asked blankly.

Aerion looked at him. Duncan’s face was the picture of confusion.

"I just remember you said you needed a ride to class," he continued. "And that I need to get my suit fitted next week."

Aerion studied Duncan's profile. The strong jaw, the honest brow.

He knew Duncan remembered. He knew Duncan had seen the monster in the garage. But Duncan was choosing to close the door on it, to stand guard outside instead of forcing his way in.

Aerion felt a strange sensation in his chest. It felt like… exhaling.

"Yes," Aerion said softly, sinking back into the leather seat. "The suit. We need to schedule a second fitting. If you gain any weight and ruin the lines of that jacket, I will garnish your wages."

"I'll try to skip dessert," Duncan said dryly. “Not like I have the money for it anyway.”

"See that you do," Aerion sniffed.

I’ll buy you dessert, he almost blurted out, but he bit his tongue until it bled.

He took another sip of coffee to soothe the sting. "And Duncan?"

"Yeah?"

"Drive slower. The potholes on this street are atrocious."

"On it, boss."

Duncan slowed the car down. He didn't look over, but a small, barely there smile touched the corner of his mouth.

Aerion watched the city pass by through the tinted glass.

He was still hungry. He was still hollow. The dragon was still screaming somewhere deep inside.

But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't driving the car alone.

The parking garage beneath the Engineering wing was a cavern of concrete and fluorescent hums. Dunk navigated the Cannibal into the reserved spot—marked A. Targaryen in bold yellow paint—with surprising delicacy for a man of his size.

He killed the engine. The silence returned, heavy and thick, but it wasn't suffocating. It was just quiet.

Aerion didn't move immediately. His hand hovered over the door handle. His body felt light, untethered, as if gravity had lost interest in him.

The adrenaline of the confrontation and the caffeine were the only things keeping his blood pumping, but underneath that artificial energy, he was running on fumes.

"We're here," Duncan said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"I can see that," Aerion snapped, though the bite was weak. "Your parking is crooked. We are at least two degrees off-center."

"Inside the lines is inside the lines," Duncan rumbled, opening his door.

Aerion took a breath, steeled himself, and swung his legs out.

As soon as he stood up, the world tilted.

It wasn't a subtle shift. It was a violent lurch, as if the concrete floor had suddenly become the wall. Black spots danced across his vision, obscuring the sleek black metal of the car. His knees, weakened by malnutrition and the morning’s tremors, simply folded.

He didn't hit the ground.

A massive hand clamped onto his upper arm, holding him upright with the ease of someone catching a falling towel.

It was firm, warm, and humiliatingly necessary.

"Woah," Duncan said. "Easy."

Aerion blinked rapidly, trying to banish the darkness swimming in his eyes. He was leaning heavily against Duncan’s chest, the rough fabric of the faded hoodie scratching against his cheek. He could smell the cheap laundry detergent Duncan used—something pretending to be 'ocean breeze'—and the underlying scent of warm skin.

It was repulsive.

It was the most comforting thing he had ever smelled.

Aerion shoved himself away, staggering back until his spine hit the side of his car. He adjusted his sunglasses, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs.

"I tripped," Aerion lied, his voice breathless. "There is… oil on the floor. I'll have the janitorial staff fired."

Duncan looked at the pristine, bone-dry concrete floor. Then he looked at Aerion, whose face was the color of old parchment.

"Right," Duncan said slowly. "Oil."

Duncan didn't step back. He stayed in Aerion's orbit, hovering just close enough to catch him again, but far enough away to grant him the illusion of dignity.

"You got a granola bar or something?" Duncan asked, patting his own pockets. "I'm starving. Skipped breakfast."

Aerion curled his lip. "I do not carry… snacks, Duncan. I am not a toddler."

"Shame," Duncan muttered. "I get dizzy when I don't eat. Get the shakes and everything. Makes me look like a fool in practice."

Aerion froze. He peered over the rim of his glasses. Duncan was looking at him with an expression of total blandness. It was a lie. A graceful, clumsy, beautiful lie offered up like a shield.

He was claiming the weakness so Aerion wouldn't have to.

Aerion hated him for it. He wanted to scream at him for being so perceptive.

Instead, Aerion straightened his coat, buttoning it to hide the fact that his shirt felt loose around his waist today.

"If you are quite done discussing your metabolic failings," Aerion said, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual imperious ice, "walk me to the elevator. People stare when I walk alone. I prefer to have a deterrent."

"Lead the way, boss," Duncan said.

They walked to the elevator bank. Aerion moved with deliberate slowness, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, terrified that his body would betray him again. Duncan matched his pace, walking slightly behind and to the left—the position of a bodyguard. Or a keeper.

When the elevator arrived, Aerion stepped in. Duncan reached in to press the button for the 4th floor, but remained in the lobby.

"I have History in the Humanities building," he said, holding the door open with one hand. "I'll see you… when?"

Aerion felt a spike of irrational fear. He's leaving. The logic of the 'two-week notice' lie felt flimsy in the harsh light of the garage.

If Duncan walked away now, he might realize he didn't need the money that badly. He might realize that babysitting a starving sociopath wasn't worth a transmission.

Aerion needed a hook. A command. A tether.

"Lunch," Aerion blurted out.

Duncan raised a thick eyebrow. "Lunch?"

"Yes. Noon. Sharp." Aerion crossed his arms, hiding his shaking hands in his armpits. "Meet me at the courtyard fountain. And do not bring a packed lunch. It smells and it’s depressing."

"I can't afford the cafeteria food, Aerion. A sandwich is like fifteen bucks."

"I didn't ask about your finances," Aerion sneered, desperate to regain control. "I said meet me. I require… someone to hold my books while I eat. It’s part of your duties."

It was absurd. It was pathetic.

Duncan looked at him. He looked at the white-knuckled grip Aerion had on his own coat.

"Holding books," Duncan echoed. He nodded—not mocking, just… knowing. He suppressed a smile. "Alright. Noon.”

He let go of the door.

"And Duncan?" Aerion called out as the doors began to slide shut.

"Yeah?"

Aerion swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to say thank you.

He wanted to say please come back.

He wanted to say I'm scared I'm going to die if you don’t.

"Get a haircut," Aerion said coldly. "You look like a sheepdog."

The doors shut, sealing him into the silence once more.

Aerion slumped against the metal wall of the elevator, the mask falling instantly. He slid down until he was crouching, his head in his hands, breathing through the dizziness.

Noon, he told himself, anchoring his mind to the time. Just make it to noon.

The stone rim of the courtyard fountain was digging into Dunk’s backside. It was 12:20 PM.

He had been sitting here for twenty minutes.

Students streamed past him in a blur of denim and backpacks, laughing, complaining about midterms, eating sandwiches that cost fifteen dollars. Dunk felt like a boulder in a stream—large, immovable, and increasingly stupid.

He checked his phone again. No messages. Not that he expected one.

He realized with a jolt of annoyance that he didn't actually have Aerion’s number. Aerion had hacked his email, broken into his schedule, and rearranged his life, but he hadn't deigned to give Dunk a simple ten-digit contact.

He’s not coming. Dunk thought, the familiar thick as a castle wall refrain echoing in his head. He blew me off. The two weeks thing was just him needing a ride, and now he’s bored.

Dunk’s stomach gave a loud, treacherous growl. He hadn't eaten since last night’s leftovers.

"Fine," Dunk grumbled to the empty spot next to him. "Be that way, Your Highness."

He hauled himself up, ignoring the looks from a group of freshmen intimidated by his height, and trudged toward the cafeteria.

The smell hit him like a physical blow—grease, industrial sanitizer, and pizza. To Dunk, it smelled like heaven.

He got in line, doing the mental math he always did. He had twelve dollars in his account. That meant he could get the 'Student Special' (mystery meatloaf) and a water, but no sides. Maybe an apple if the cashier wasn't looking too closely.

He reached the front. Mrs. Gable, a woman with hair purely constructed of hairspray and kindness, was manning the register. She’d slipped him extra rolls before when he looked particularly gaunt during football season.

"Afternoon, heavy hitter," she chirped. "Meatloaf again?"

"Yeah," Dunk said, reaching for his student ID card. "And… uh… how much for the extra scoop of mash?"

Mrs. Gable looked at him. Then she looked at the register screen. Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

"Put your card away, honey," she said, waving a hand at him. "You’re good."

Dunk paused, card hovering mid-air. "What? No, I gotta pay. The system locks me out if I go negative."

"I said put it away," she laughed, tapping the screen with a long, acrylic nail. "Flagged as of 8:00 AM this morning. 'Unlimited Meal Plan via Executive Grant'. Says here your balance is covered until… well, until you graduate, looks like. Including the premium station."

Dunk stared at her. The noise of the cafeteria seemed to drop away.

"Executive Grant?" Dunk asked, his voice thick. "From who?"

Mrs. Gable shrugged, already turning to the next student. "Doesn't say. Just a memo from the Administration Office. Usually only the athletes on the big donor scholarships get this code. Someone upstairs must like you, Duncan."

She winked. "Go get the roast beef. It’s actually beef today."

Dunk stepped out of line, dazed. He looked at the buffet. The roast beef. The fresh fruit. The sandwiches that cost fifteen dollars.

I didn't ask about your finances, Aerion had sneered in the car.

Dunk felt a flush of heat rise up his neck. It wasn't embarrassment, rather it was… something else. Aerion had seen him counting pennies. Aerion, who flushed wagyu beef down the toilet, had seen Dunk worrying about a sandwich and, with a wave of his hand (and probably his father’s money), had fixed it.

It was arrogant. It was controlling.

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for him since he started college.

Dunk grabbed a tray. He piled it high—two sandwiches, a bowl of soup, an apple, a Gatorade. He ate with the ferocity of a man who suddenly didn't have to worry about tomorrow.

But with every bite, the worry shifted. It moved from his stomach to his chest.

Why did he do this if he wasn't going to show up?

Dunk checked the Engineering building first.

Lab 303 was dark. The door he had kicked in was boarded up with a piece of plywood and a terrifying "DANGER: CHEMICAL HAZARD" sign.

He checked the library. He checked the quad. He even checked the Seastarbucks, asking the barista if "the guy who complains about the ice" had been in.

"Haven't seen him," the girl said, looking relieved.

Dunk stood on the sidewalk, frustration warring with panic.

"Stupid," Dunk growled, hitting his own forehead with the heel of his hand. "So stupid. Why didn't I ask for his number? Why didn't I ask where he was going before lunch?"

He had the car keys. He had the meal plan. But he didn't have the guy.

He remembered the garage. The way Aerion had fallen against him. The oil on the floor, or the lack thereof. The shaking hands.

I get dizzy when I don't eat, Dunk had just advised a few hours prior.

He froze.

He started running.

The University Health Center was a sterile, white brick building on the edge of campus. Dunk burst through the double doors, startling a sick-looking student in the waiting area.

He marched up to the front desk. The nurse, a stern woman who looked like she’d seen everything from alcohol poisoning to broken hearts, looked up over her spectacles.

"Can I help you, young man?"

"Aerion," Dunk panted, leaning on the high counter. "Aerion Targaryen. Is he here?"

The nurse’s expression tightened instantly. The professional mask slammed down.

"I cannot release patient information to—"

"I'm his… I'm his RA," Dunk lied, desperate. "I’m his driver. I have his car keys. We were supposed to meet for lunch and he didn't show. He was sick this morning. Dizzy."

The nurse hesitated. She looked at Dunk—the genuine fear in his eyes, the sweat on his brow. Then she glanced at the computer screen.

Her face softened, just a fraction.

"You missed him," she said quietly.

Dunk’s heart hammered. "Missed him? Did he leave?"

"He was brought in around 11:30," the nurse said, lowering her voice. "Collapsed in the corridor of the Engineering wing. Dehydration and… severe exhaustion."

Dunk gripped the edge of the counter. "Is he okay?"

"He was stabilized," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "But he was discharged about an hour ago."

"Discharged? To whom? He can barely walk."

"Family transport," the nurse said. She looked at Dunk with a strange expression—pity, maybe? Or warning. "Two men in suits came to fetch him. Private security, I assume. They took him out the back entrance."

Fetched.

The word hung in the air like a lead weight. You fetched a parcel. You fetched a dog. You didn't fetch a person.

"Did he… did he say anything?" Dunk asked, feeling helpless.

"He was barely conscious, son," the nurse said gently. "Go home. If his family has him, he’s… where he needs to be."

Dunk walked out of the clinic into the blinding afternoon sun.

He had the meal plan. He had the expensive German car waiting in the garage. But Aerion was gone, swallowed up by the very resources he had screamed about the night before.

Dunk looked at the phone in his hand. Useless.

He’s not where he needs to be, Dunk thought, a cold knot forming in his gut where the free lunch sat heavy and churning. He’s back in the dark.

Dunk pulled the Cannibal up to the curb of The Valyrian, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He didn't know what he was going to do. Storm the lobby? Demand to see the men in suits?

If Aerion had been fetched by private security, that sounded less like a medical transport and more like a kidnapping. Or an arrest.

The nurse’s words echoed in his head: Family transport.

Dunk put the car in park, leaving the engine running. He scanned the glass facade of the building, half-expecting to see Aerion dangling from a balcony or the black SUVs the nurse had mentioned.

Instead, he saw a kid.

The boy was sitting on the curb, kicking his heels against the concrete. He couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. He was wearing a backpack that looked too big for him, expensive riding boots that came up to his knees, and—most strikingly—he was completely bald. His head was shaved clean, shining in the afternoon sun.

He looked like a miniature, aerodynamic monk.

As soon as Dunk pulled up, the kid’s head snapped up. His eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, marching toward the car with a confidence that seemed genetically encoded.

Dunk rolled down the window.

"Hey," Dunk started, "kid, you gotta move, I’m looking for—"

"That’s my brother’s car," the kid interrupted.

Dunk blinked. He looked at the shaved head, the sharp jawline that was just beginning to emerge from baby fat, and the eyes. They were violet. Deep, inquisitive, intelligent violet.

"Oh," Dunk said. "You're… Egg?"

The kid scrunched up his nose. "Don't call me that. Only my brothers call me that. And Aemon. And sometimes my dad when he’s not yelling." He crossed his arms, looking Dunk up and down. "You're not Aerion. You're… huge."

"I get that a lot," Dunk muttered. "I'm Duncan. I'm… helping Aerion. With research."

"Research," the boy repeated flatly. "Is that what he calls it now? Usually, he calls it 'indentured servitude' or 'minion labor'."

Despite the pit in his stomach, Dunk felt a small smile tug at his lips. "Something like that. Look, is he upstairs? I went to the clinic and they said—"

"Clinic?"

The boy’s face fell, the bravado slipping for a second. "He went to the clinic again?"

"Yeah. Collapsed. Dehydration, they said." Dunk watched the kid’s face carefully. "The nurse said 'family transport' picked him up. Do you know where they took him? Is he here?"

The boy sighed, a long, suffering sound that belonged to a forty-year-old accountant, not a middle schooler. He kicked the tire of the Porsche.

"If Father sent the guards, they probably took him to the estate in the countryside. To 'dry out'. That’s what they call it when Aerion stops eating normally and starts vibrating." The boy shrugged, looking away.

It was a casual, practiced shrug. The kind you learn when your family is a disaster and you’re trying to pretend it’s normal.

"So he's not upstairs?" Dunk asked, his chest tightening. The countryside estate sounded far away. And lonely.

"Nope. Just me." The boy looked up at Dunk, his eyes narrowing. "And since you have the car, that explains why Happy wasn't here."

"Happy?"

"Harold. The driver. We call him Happy because he never smiles. He was supposed to pick me up twenty minutes ago for my lesson."

The boy then gestured to his riding boots. "I have jumping today. If I miss it, my instructor tells my dad, and then I get the lecture about 'Targaryen Excellence'."

Dunk looked at the kid. He looked lost, standing there on the sidewalk with his big backpack and his shiny head, abandoned by the same pressure that had swallowed Aerion.

Aerion is gone, Dunk realized. Fetched. Hidden away.

But there was another Targaryen right here. One who wasn't shaking or screaming, but who was just as alone.

"Where are the stables?" Dunk asked.

The boy’s eyes lit up. "King’s Landing Equestrian Center. It’s only twenty minutes if you drive like Aerion. Thirty if you drive like a normal person."

"I drive safe," Dunk said, unlocking the doors. "Get in."

The boy didn't hesitate. He threw his backpack into the backseat and climbed into the passenger side. He looked tiny in the leather bucket seat, his legs barely reaching the floor mat.

"Don't touch the radio," the boy commanded, buckling his seatbelt. "Aerion has the presets set to classical and if you change it, he has a meltdown."

"I know," Dunk said heavily, putting the car in gear. "Believe me, I know."

"I'm Aegon, by the way," the boy said, extending a small hand. "But since you’re driving the Cannibal and you haven't crashed it yet, I guess you can call me Egg. Everyone else does."

Dunk shook the small hand. "Duncan. But everyone calls me Dunk."

"Dunk," Egg tested the name. He grinned. "Like a basketball?"

"Thick as a castle wall," Dunk sighed, checking the mirror.

“Thick as a castle wall?”

Dunk shrugged. “People used to call me stupid.”

Egg waited for the punchline, an explanation. A beat passed. Then another.

Alas, there was none.

“I can see why,” Egg mumbled.

As Dunk pulled away from the curb, leaving the empty apartment building behind, he felt a strange sense of duty settle over him. He couldn't fix Aerion today. He couldn't fight the men in suits.

But he could get this kid to his horse lesson on time. And maybe, just maybe, if he stuck with the little brother, he’d find a way back to the big one.

"Alright, Egg," Dunk said, merging into traffic. "Hold on. Let's see what this German engineering can do."

Egg cheered.

The King’s Landing Equestrian Center smelled like money and manure—mostly money.

Dunk leaned against the white fence of the showjumping arena, his elbows resting on the top rail. He was the only spectator wearing a faded grey hoodie and sneakers that had seen better days. Around him, parents in quilted vests and riding breeches sipped espresso and critiqued the posture of their ponies.

"Shoulders back!" a woman hissed at her daughter. "You look like a sack of potatoes!"

Dunk winced.

Inside the ring, Egg was trotting on a massive dappled grey mare named 'Lady Vance'. For a kid who barely reached Dunk’s hip, Egg rode with a surprising amount of grit.

He wasn't elegant, not really—he didn't look like a painting, which Dunk imagined how Aerion would be—but he was sticky. He moved with the horse, his shaved head bobbing as he concentrated, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.

"Alright, Aegon!" the instructor shouted, a man with a mustache so waxed it defied gravity. "Take the oxer! Eyes up!"

Egg urged the mare forward. They picked up speed. Clop-clop-clop-clop.

Dunk found himself holding his breath. The jump looked way too high for a kid that small.

The horse launched. Egg leaned forward, burying his hands in the mane, his butt hovering out of the saddle. For a second, they were flying.

They landed on the other side with a heavy thud, dirt kicking up. The pole stayed up.

"YES!" Dunk roared, throwing a fist in the air. "THAT’S IT, EGG! WAY TO GO!"

The sound startled the nearby parents so badly that a woman dropped her leash, and a golden retriever broke free to chase a butterfly.

In the ring, Egg turned bright red. But as he circled the mare back around, he looked over at Dunk and flashed a grin so wide it nearly split his face. He gave a thumbs-up.

Dunk gave two thumbs-ups back.

The drive back was quieter. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange—Targaryen colors, Dunk noted grimly.

Or bruises.

Egg was slumped in the passenger seat, exhausted but buzzing with the specific endorphin high of physical exertion. He had raided the glove box and found a stash of Aerion’s emergency mints, which he was currently crunching loudly.

"You yelled really loud," Egg said, staring out the window at the passing city lights.

"Sorry," Dunk said, not sounding sorry at all. "It was a good jump. You cleared it by a mile."

"Aerion says my form is sloppy," Egg mumbled. "He says I ride like a peasant fleeing a tax collector."

Dunk tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The mention of the name sucked the air out of the car.

"Aerion says a lot of things," Dunk said carefully.

He glanced at the kid. Egg was kicking his boots against the floor mat again.

"Does he… do this a lot?" Dunk asked. He kept his eyes on the road, trying to sound casual. "Get sick like that? Disappear?"

Egg stopped chewing the mint. He was quiet for a long time.

"Yeah," Egg said finally. "Usually around finals. Or his birthday. Or… well, mostly when Father is in town."

"The nurse said 'family transport' took him," Dunk probed gently. "Is that… normal?"

"It's the unspoken rule," Egg said, his voice taking on a maturity that didn't fit his twelve years. "If Aerion breaks, hide the pieces. Father doesn't like it when the heir looks cracked. So they take him to Summerhall. They hook him up to IVs, feed him vitamins, and let him sleep for three days until he stops shaking."

Dunk felt a cold shiver run down his spine. It sounded less like a recovery and more like a rebooting of a machine.

"He shouldn't be alone," Dunk said, almost to himself.

Egg turned in his seat, tucking his knees up to his chest. He looked at Dunk with those intelligent, unnerving violet eyes.

"He's a mess," Egg said bluntly. "You know that, right? He’s not just… sad. He’s strange."

Egg picked at a loose thread on his riding breeches.

"Sometimes he looks at me and I don't think he sees his brother. He sees… I don't know. A rival? An annoyance? Once, when I was seven, he held a lighter under my hand just to see how long it would take for me to pull away. He said he was testing my heat tolerance."

Dunk’s stomach turned over. "Gods, Egg."

"He's terrifying," Egg admitted, his voice small. "And he’s mean. He thinks he’s better than everyone because he remembers the periodic table but can't remember to say 'thank you'. He acts like he’s a dragon in a human suit and we’re all just… sheep."

Egg looked out the window again, his reflection ghosting against the glass.

"But… he's family, you know? He’s my big brother."

He sighed, a long, rattling exhale.

"He wasn't always that bad. I mean, he was always weird. Intense. But he used to… he used to read to me. Before."

"Before what?" Dunk asked softly.

"Before Mother died," Egg whispered.

The car hummed over a patch of rough asphalt.

"She was the only one who knew how to calm him down," Egg said. "She’d put her hand on his neck, right here"—Egg touched the back of his own neck—"and he’d just… stop vibrating. When she died, it was like someone cut the string that was holding his balloon to the ground. He just floated off."

Egg looked at Dunk, his eyes shining in the dashboard light.

"Father blames him, you know. Father doesn't say it, not anymore at least, but Aerion still hears it. I think that’s why he tries so hard to be perfect. And why he gets so sick when he fails."

Dunk stared at the road ahead.

He thought of the raw knuckles. The three-hundred-dollar sushi flushed down the toilet. The desperate, screaming need to be enough that was eating Aerion alive from the inside out.

"He’s not a dragon," Dunk said, his voice thick with emotion. "He’s just a guy who misses his mom."

Egg nodded slowly. "It’s not that simple, I think. But yeah. Don’t tell him that though. He’ll probably try to set you on fire."

Dunk smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fireproof, kid. Thick as a castle wall."

He reached over and ruffled Egg’s shaved head. The boy leaned into the touch, just for a second, before swatting Dunk’s hand away.

"Watch the road, sir," Egg commanded, sounding exactly like a tiny, benevolent king. "I want to get home before curfew."

The Cannibal purred to a stop in front of the glass doors of The Valyrian. The doorman, a guy who was even bigger than Dunk, nodded in recognition of the car, then looked confused when he saw who was driving.

Egg unbuckled his seatbelt. He looked small again, the adrenaline of the ride fading into the reality of going back to an empty penthouse.

"Thanks for the ride, Dunk," Egg said, hefting his oversized backpack. "I'll tell Father that Happy got a flat tire. He hates incompetence, but he hates traffic more, so he'll buy it."

"Don't lie for me, kid," Dunk said, putting the car in park. "Just tell him the truth.”

Egg paused, his hand on the door handle. He looked at Dunk, scanning his face for any sign of the usual adult deception.

"You really are thick," Egg said, but there was a fondness in it now. "Honesty gets you killed in this family, Dunk. But okay."

"Hey," Dunk said, leaning over the console. "One more thing."

Egg stopped. "Yeah?"

"Your heels," Dunk said seriously. "Keep them down. And when you approach the jump, stop looking at the ground. Look where you want to go. The horse feels it if you're looking at the dirt."

Egg blinked. He had expected a lecture about school or safety.

"My instructor says that."

"Your instructor is right," Dunk said. "You got good instincts, Egg. Don't let anyone—not even your dad, not even Aerion—tell you you're not tough enough for the saddle. You stayed on."

Egg puffed up his chest a little, a flush of pride hitting his cheeks. "I stayed on."

"Damn right."

Dunk hesitated, then cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Listen… before you go. I need something."

"Money?" Egg asked instantly, reaching for his pocket. "I have a debit card for emergencies."

"No," Dunk said quickly, horrified. "Gods, no. Put that away. I need… I need Aerion’s number."

Egg froze. The debit card hovered halfway out of his pocket. He looked at Dunk with genuine bafflement.

"Why?" Egg asked slowly. "You said he fired you. Pretty sure he insulted you too. He’s currently… away. Why would you want to talk to him?"

"Because I have his car," Dunk said, tapping the steering wheel. "And because… look, just give it to me, kid. Please."

Egg studied him for a long, agonizing moment. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of unleashing Dunk on his volatile brother.

"He won't answer," Egg warned. "He ignores texts. He blocks numbers that annoy him. He once threw his phone into the Blackwater because a telemarketer called him twice."

"I'll take my chances."

Egg sighed, the weight of the world on his small shoulders. He reached over and took Dunk’s cracked Android phone. He typed in a number with lightning speed, saved the contact, and handed it back.

"I saved it as 'Do Not Answer'," Egg said dryly.

Dunk looked at the screen.

Aerion (Do Not Answer).

"Thanks, Egg."

"Good luck, sir," Egg said, opening the door. He hopped out, his boots clicking on the pavement.

He didn't look back as he marched into the lobby, a tiny soldier returning to his fortress.

Dunk’s dorm room was a shoebox. It smelled of gym socks, old pizza boxes, and the distinct mustiness of a room that never got enough sunlight.

He sat on the edge of his twin mattress, his knees almost touching his chest. His roommate, Glendon, was already asleep, snoring softly in the bunk above.

The contrast was jarring. An hour ago, Dunk had been driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car. Now, he was listening to the dripping faucet in the communal bathroom down the hall.

He stared at the phone screen. The blue light illuminated his face in the dark.

Aerion (Do Not Answer).

Dunk’s thumb hovered over the message bar.

He thought about what to say. He thought about Are you okay? (Too soft). He thought about Where are you? (Too demanding).

He thought about I'm sorry (For what? Trying to help?).

He typed, deleted, and retyped.

Finally, he settled on the facts. Facts were safe. Facts were sturdy.

To: Aerion (Do Not Answer)

Sent 9:42 PM

Egg is home safe. He rides good. I still have the car keys. I'm keeping them until you get back.

He hesitated. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he added one more line.

Drink some water.

-Dunk

He hit send.

He watched the screen.

Delivered.

He waited. One minute. Five minutes. Ten.

The screen dimmed, then went black.

No bubbles appeared. No Read receipt. Just the silence of a signal sent out into the void, bouncing off a satellite somewhere, and landing in a pocket that was miles away, probably in a room with padded walls and expensive doctors.

Dunk sighed, tossing the phone onto his pillow. He lay back, staring at the water stains on the ceiling.

"Thick as a castle wall," he whispered to the dark.

He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. He just waited.

Three days passed in radio silence.

Dunk checked his phone roughly forty times an hour. He checked it between sets at the gym. He checked it during his History of Westeros lecture (earning a glare from Professor Pycelle). He checked it while brushing his teeth.

Aerion (Do Not Answer) remained stubbornly silent. No Read receipt. No typing bubbles. Just the void.

The Cannibal always sat in the student parking lot like a sleek black spaceship surrounded by rusted sedans. Dunk expected to be arrested every time he unlocked it, but no police came. No men in suits appeared to reclaim the vehicle.

It seemed that in the Targaryen family, if you were useful, you were ignored. And right now, Dunk was useful.

He had become, by default, the nanny.

"Heels down!" Dunk bellowed from the fence.

Egg, aboard Lady Vance, adjusted his posture instantly. He took the double combination jump—thud-swish, thud-swish—and landed clean.

Dunk pumped a fist. "That’s it! Look where you're going, not where you've been!"

The riding instructor, a man called Ser Glendon (but had no relation to his roommate, Dunk noted weirdly), had stopped yelling at him and started nodding instead.

Apparently, having a giant cheerleading section was good for the boy’s confidence.

Egg finished the round, his face flushed and sweaty, his bald head gleaming under the arena lights. He trotted over to the fence, grinning.

"Did you see the lead change?" Egg asked, breathless. "I got the lead change!"

"I saw it," Dunk beamed, handing him a water bottle through the rails. "Smooth as butter, kid. You're riding like a knight."

Egg drank the water like he’d been lost in a desert for a week. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

"Father is supposed to come to the showcase tomorrow," Egg said, his voice dropping a little. "Do you think… do you think Aerion will be back by then?"

The question hung heavy in the sawdust-filled air.

Dunk looked at the phone in his pocket. It was still a brick.

“He’s cruel and unnecessarily ruthless, but he gives good advice. It would be nice to have a cheerleader, even if said cheerleader is yelling insults eighty percent of the time,” Egg mumbled.

"I don't know, Egg," Dunk said honestly. "But if he's not, I'll be there. I'll make enough noise for both of them."

Egg smiled, a small, grateful thing. "You're louder than them anyway."

By the time they got back to the car, it was dark. The streetlights of King’s Landing reflected off the hood of the Porsche.

Egg threw his gear into the back seat and climbed in, buckling up with the efficiency of routine.

"I'm starving," Egg announced, clutching his stomach. "I think my stomach is eating itself. It’s autophagia. I read about it."

"You're not eating yourself," Dunk snorted, starting the engine. "You just burned a thousand calories trying to control a twelve-hundred-pound animal."

"Can we go to The Dragonpit?" Egg asked hopefuly. "They have those truffle fries Aerion likes. And the sliders are only twenty dollars."

Dunk looked at the kid. Twelve years old, wearing custom leather boots, thinking twenty dollars for a tiny burger was a steal.

"No," Dunk said firmly. "We are not eating truffle anything. And we are not going anywhere that requires a reservation."

"But I have the debit card—"

"Put the plastic away, Bruce Wayne," Dunk said, pulling out of the lot. "Tonight, you're eating like a normal human being. Consider it... cultural anthropology."

Egg looked skeptical. "Is it going to be sanitary?"

"It's going to be delicious. And greasy. And it’s going to cost six dollars."

Dunk took him to The Shield Hall.

It wasn't a hall, and it certainly wasn't shielded from health code violations. It was a hole-in-the-wall diner near the older dorms, smelling permanently of onions, grill grease, and stale beer. The neon sign in the window flickered OP_N.

They sat in a red vinyl booth that had been patched with duct tape. Egg looked around as if he had landed on Mars. He poked the sticky table with one finger.

"It sticks," Egg observed.

"That’s flavor," Dunk said, grabbing a laminated menu. "Order a Maester’s Burger and a chocolate shake. Trust me."

When the food arrived, Egg’s eyes widened. The burger was wrapped in silver foil, already soaking through with grease. The fries were piled high in a red plastic basket, glistening with salt. The milkshake was thick enough to stand a spoon in.

"Go on," Dunk encouraged, unwrapping his own burger. "Two hands. Don't be shy."

Egg picked up the burger. It was messy. Cheese oozed out the side.

He took a bite.

Dunk watched him. He watched the way Egg chewed—enthusiastic, unselfconscious, hungry. He watched a drop of ketchup land on Egg’s chin.

It was such a stark, painful contrast to his first ever meal with a Targaryen. Aerion had eaten like he was performing a surgery he hated. Egg ate like a boy who loved food.

"Oh my gods," Egg mumbled around a mouthful. "Why is this so good?"

"It's the griddle," Dunk said, taking a massive bite of his own. "They haven't cleaned it since the Conquest. Keeps the seasoning."

Egg laughed, a genuine, belly-deep sound. He dipped a fry into his milkshake—a move Dunk had taught him two days ago—and shoved it in his mouth.

"Aerion would hate this," Egg said, wiping his hands on a flimsy paper napkin that disintegrated instantly. "He'd say the lighting is unflattering and the cholesterol is a personal insult."

Dunk paused, his burger halfway to his mouth.

"Yeah," Dunk said softly. "He would."

He looked at the empty seat next to Egg. He imagined Aerion sitting there, in his silk shirt, looking at the grease with horror, making some cutting remark about clogged arteries and the decline of civilization.

Dunk missed it.

He missed the sharp edges. He missed the challenge.

He missed him.

"He'd hate it," Dunk affirmed again, taking a sip of his soda. "But he'd probably eat the fries if no one was looking."

Egg smiled, but his eyes were sad. "He loves fries. He just… he pretends he doesn't."

Dunk reached across the sticky table and stole one of Egg’s fries.

"Well," Dunk said, trying to lighten the mood. "More for us then. Eat up, squirt. You got a big jump tomorrow. Gotta build some castle walls."

Egg took another bite, grease running down his hand.

For a moment, amidst the smell of onions and the flicker of the neon sign, the kid didn't look like a lonely heir to a dynasty. He just looked like a boy having dinner with his big brother.

Dunk checked his phone under the table one more time.

No new messages.

He shoved it back in his pocket and focused on the kid. One Targaryen was safe. He’d have to settle for that for now.

The neon sign of The Shield Hall flickered in the rearview mirror of the Porsche. Egg was slumped in the passenger seat, a grease stain on his riding breeches and a look of terrified anticipation on his face.

"You're sure that you’re coming, right?" Egg asked, picking at a loose thread on the seatbelt. "Even if... even if nobody else shows up?"

Dunk glanced at the kid. He saw the vulnerability there, the fear of scanning the crowd and seeing only empty seats where a family should be.

"Try and keep me away," Dunk grunted, turning the wheel. "I gotta see if you keep those heels down. Thick as a castle wall, remember?"

Egg smiled, a small, grateful thing. "Castle wall."

The King’s Landing Equestrian Center was a sea of tweed, polished leather, and old money. The air smelled of expensive sawdust and ambition.

Dunk felt woefully underdressed in his cleanest pair of jeans and a polo shirt that was tight across the shoulders. He navigated the labyrinth of temporary stalls, looking for the name TARGARYEN on a placard.

He found them at the end of Row A. Of course.

But Egg wasn't alone.

Standing by the stall door, brushing lint off Egg’s show jacket with aggressive, jerky movements, was Aerion.

Dunk’s breath hitched.

Aerion looked… sharper. Thinner, if that was possible. He was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck, a tailored blazer, and sunglasses that hid his eyes completely. His hair was pulled back, severe and perfect.

He looked like a statue carved out of ice and anxiety.

"Stand still," Aerion hissed, adjusting Egg’s tie. "You look like a vagrant. Did you sleep in this shirt?"

"It's just wrinkles, Aerion," Egg mumbled, looking at his boots. "It happens when you sit down."

"It happens when you lack discipline," Aerion corrected, smoothing the fabric with a force that looked painful. "Father is not coming. It is just us. That means we represent the House. Do not embarrass me."

"He looks fine," Dunk said. His voice was a low rumble that cut through the sharp, anxious air of the stable.

Aerion froze. His hands stopped mid-adjustment on Egg’s collar.

Slowly, mechanically, Aerion turned around. He lowered his sunglasses just enough to peer over the rim. His violet eyes were clear—too clear. The red was gone, replaced by a glassy, medicated vacancy.

"Duncan," Aerion said. His voice was flat. "I was under the impression I fired you."

"I was under the impression you needed two weeks' notice," Dunk countered, stepping into the space.

He offered Egg a wink, which the boy returned with a relieved grin.

"And," Dunk added, "I have your car keys. Unless you want to hotwire the Porsche."

Aerion stared at him. He looked at Dunk’s polo shirt. He looked at the way Egg relaxed instantly now that the giant was nearby.

"How," Aerion asked, his gaze snapping to his little brother, "does the help know where our stall is?"

"He drove me," Egg said, stepping away from Aerion’s fussing hands. "He drove me to practice all week. While you were… away."

Aerion stiffened. The word away hung in the air, heavy with the weight of rehab clinics and silent rooms.

A flicker of something—anger? shame?—crossed his face, but he clamped it down instantly.

"I see," Aerion said coldly. "How industrious."

He checked his watch. "Your class is called in ten minutes, Aegon. Go warm up. Do not let the mare rush the vertical."

Egg scrambled to mount his horse, shooting Dunk one last desperate look before trotting off toward the warm-up ring.

Aerion watched him go. Then he turned to Dunk.

"Come," he commanded, walking toward the VIP stands without waiting for a response. "If I have to endure this, I require a buffer."

They sat in a private box. It was separated from the hoi polloi by a velvet rope and a waiter who brought them sparkling water with lime.

The atmosphere was tense.

Below them, horses thundered over jumps. The polite applause of the crowd sounded like dry rain.

Aerion had ordered a fruit plate. He was eating grapes.

He didn't just eat them, rather he dissected them. He picked one up, inspected it for flaws, placed it in his mouth, chewed exactly three times, and swallowed.

It was rhythmic. It was terrifying.

Dunk was eating a hot pretzel he’d bought from a vendor. Mustard stained the corner of his mouth.

"So," Dunk said, watching a chestnut mare knock down a rail. "Summerhall, huh?"

Aerion didn't look at him. He watched the ring with laser focus. "It is a family estate. I required... solitude. The air in the city is toxic."

"Egg said you were sick," Dunk pressed. "Said they 'fetched' you."

Aerion’s hand paused halfway to his mouth. The grape trembled slightly between his fingers.

"Aegon has an active imagination," Aerion said smoothly. "I was fatigued. I rested. I am revitalized."

He popped the grape in. Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow.

"You look thin," Dunk said.

"I look aerodynamic," Aerion corrected.

Below them, the announcer’s voice boomed: "Now entering the ring, number 404. Aegon Targaryen riding Lady Vance."

Aerion sat up straighter. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his entire body tense.

Egg trotted into the ring. He looked tiny against the massive jumps. He saluted the judges.

"Shoulders," Aerion hissed under his breath. "Back straight, you slouching little gargoyle."

Egg started the course. He approached the first jump.

Clop-clop-clop.

"Too fast," Aerion muttered, picking up another grape. "Check your pace. Check it."

Egg cleared the first jump. The crowd clapped.

"Lucky," Aerion whispered. He didn't clap. He ate. "He’s rushing the stride. He’s going to clip the oxer if he doesn't half-halt."

"He's doing great," Dunk said, annoyed by the commentary. "He's having fun."

"Fun is for hobbyists," Aerion snapped, his eyes glued to his brother. "Excellence is for Targaryens."

Egg took a tight turn. It was risky, but it shaved seconds off his time. He cleared the double combination.

Dunk leaned back, feeling a swell of pride. "See? He’s got instincts. He told me he gets nervous, but once he's up there…"

Dunk hesitated.

He watched Aerion’s face—the critical, unyielding mask. He thought about what Egg had said in the car. About the mother. About the neck rub. About the boy who used to read stories before the grief turned him into this wire-taut ghost.

"He told me about your mom," Dunk said softly.

The silence in the box was instant. It was deafening. Below, the crowd cheered as Egg cleared a water jump.

But between them, the world had stopped.

Aerion didn't move.

He held a grape between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't look at the ring. He didn't look at Dunk. He stared straight ahead at nothing.

"He told me," Dunk continued, thinking he was bridging a gap, thinking he was offering understanding, "that she used to rub your neck. To help with the… the shaking. He said you guys were close."

Dunk took a bite of his pretzel. "It explains a lot. Why you're so hard on him. You're just… you're missing her, right?"

Squish.

The sound was small, wet, and violent.

Aerion had crushed the grape. Juice and pulp ran down his thumb, dripping onto his pristine cream trousers.

Slowly, Aerion turned his head.

The vacancy in his eyes was gone. In its place was a cold, white-hot fury that made Dunk’s skin crawl.

It was the look of a man who had been stripped naked in public.

"He… told you," Aerion whispered. His voice was barely audible, but it vibrated with menace.

"Yeah," Dunk said, suddenly realizing he had made a mistake. "Just… you know. Talking. He’s worried about you, Aerion."

Aerion looked down at the ring. Egg was approaching the final jump—the biggest one. He was smiling. He was having a good ride.

Aerion stared at his little brother with a look of pure loathing.

"That little… rat," Aerion hissed. "That leaking, pathetic little sieve."

He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. He grabbed a napkin and wiped the grape juice from his hand with violent, jerky motions.

"Aerion, wait," Dunk started, standing up. "I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to what?" Aerion snapped, whirling on him. "To psychoanalyze me? To trade tragic family secrets with a twelve-year-old over—let me guess—greasy fast food?"

Aerion stepped into Dunk’s space. He was shaking again. The revitalized facade was cracking, revealing the raw, jagged edges underneath.

"You think because you drove him to his lessons, you understand this family?" Aerion spat. "You think because he told you a bedtime story, you have the right to speak her name to me?"

"I was trying to help," Dunk said, his voice rising. "You pretend you're a robot, but you're just a sad kid who—"

"STOP!" Aerion screamed.

People in the nearby boxes turned to look.

Aerion didn't care.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He looked at Dunk with betrayal—deep, stinging betrayal. He had let Dunk see him weak once, and now Dunk was using it, digging into the soft spots Aerion had spent years armoring over.

"You are a driver, Duncan," Aerion said, his voice trembling with rage. "You are a paid employee. You are not my friend. You are not my therapist. And you are certainly not part of this family."

He threw the napkin onto the table. It landed on the fruit plate, staining the white linen red.

"Stay away from my brother," Aerion growled. "And stay the hell away from me."

"Aerion!" Dunk called out.

But Aerion was already moving. He stormed out of the box, his coat billowing behind him, fleeing the scene just as the crowd erupted into applause.

Down in the ring, Egg had just cleared the final jump.

The applause in the arena was thunderous.

He pumped his fist in the air, beaming, circling. Lady Vance’s reins lay loose in his hands, a wide, triumphant grin plastered across his face. He was scanning the stands, looking for the brother who had demanded perfection and the gigantic friend who couldn’t care less.

Dunk stood at the railing of the VIP box, his knuckles white as he gripped the velvet rope.

He was torn in two.

His chest ached with the need to run, to chase the volatile ghost that had just stormed out, but his feet were rooted by the sight of the twelve-year-old boy down below who had just ridden the best round of his life.

I can't leave him, Dunk thought, panic rising in his throat. I can't be another empty chair.

Then, Egg saw him.

The boy’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second as he registered Aerion’s absence. But then, he looked at Dunk, squinting slightly, and saw the terror and the indecision written on the big man’s face.

Egg didn't pout. He didn't cry. He squared his small shoulders, gathered his reins, and gave Dunk a sharp, firm nod.

Go.

It was a permission slip signed in bravery.

Dunk didn't hesitate.

He vaulted over the velvet rope, ignoring the scandalized gasp of a waiter, and sprinted into the corridor.

He didn't have to guess where Aerion went. He followed the scent of wealth and the faint, terrified silence that trailed in the wake of a Targaryen storm. He followed the instinct that screamed darkness, small spaces, hiding.

He reached the door marked Gentlemen – VIP Guests Only.

The door was heavy mahogany, polished to a shine. Dunk tried the handle. Locked.

From inside, he heard it. A sound that made his blood run cold—a violent, wet, choking retch that sounded like someone trying to turn their own body inside out.

"Aerion!" Dunk shouted, pounding on the wood. "Open the door!"

Another sound. A crash. Wet coughing.

Dunk didn't ask again.

He slammed his linebacker shoulder into the heavy door. The lock splintered with a deafening CRACK, and the door swung inward, banging violently against the marble wall.

The scene inside was a nightmare painted in porcelain and gold.

The smell hit him first—acrid bile, expensive cologne, and the sharp, chemical tang of something medicinal.

Aerion was on the floor.

He was huddled over the toilet bowl, his expensive cream blazer discarded in a puddle of water. His white shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his sullen frame.

"Aerion!" Dunk roared, the sound echoing off the tile.

Aerion didn't look up. He was frantic, his fingers jammed deep into his throat, gagging, choking, forcing his body to reject the three grapes he had eaten, to reject the anger, to reject the very air in his lungs.

He was expelling… nothing.

There was nothing left. He was heaving up yellow bile and blood, his body convulsing with the violence of the spasms.

Dunk froze.

"Stop,” Dunk whispered, rooted to the floor in horror.

"Get out!" Aerion screamed, his voice raw and wet, before heaving again. Bile and clear fluid splashed into the water. "Get out, you mongrel!"

“No.”

Dunk lunged forward.

He grabbed Aerion by the shoulders, his large hands clamping down on the lithe, trembling frame. He tried to haul him back, away from the toilet.

"Get off!" Aerion screamed, the sound tearing out of his raw throat. He thrashed, his elbows flying backward, connecting with Dunk’s ribs. "Get off me! I have to—I have to get it out!"

"There's nothing in there!" Dunk yelled, pinning Aerion’s arms to his sides. He dragged him away from the toilet, sliding on the wet marble floor. "You're hurting yourself! Stop it!"

Aerion fought like a trapped animal. He bit Dunk’s forearm, hard. He scratched at Dunk’s face, his nails digging into skin. His eyes were wide, blown black, seeing things that weren't there.

"It’s poison!" Aerion shrieked, saliva and blood flying from his mouth. "Get it out! I’m dirty! I’m dirty!"

"You're not dirty!" Dunk shouted back, holding him tight, wrapping his massive arms around his shaking, sweating torso. "You're sick, Aerion! Just breathe!"

"You don't understand!" Aerion was sobbing now, dry, tearless sobs that racked his chest. He thrashed, snapping his head back, trying to bite Dunk, trying to get free. "It’s inside me! The weakness! The filth! I have to purge it! Let me go or I’ll kill you!"

"I’m not letting go," Dunk grunted, eerily calm and steady and strong.

He dragged Aerion to the center of the room, away from the stall. He nearly slipped but held on tight.

“Enough. I’ve got you. Just breathe, I’ve got you,” he soothed.

Aerion slumped against him, his resistance breaking. He retched again, dryly, nothing coming up but a string of saliva and blood where he’d scratched his own throat.

He was burning up. His skin felt like a furnace through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Mother," Aerion whimpered, his head lolling back against Dunk’s chest. The fight drained out of him in a rush, leaving him terrifyingly heavy. "I didn't… I didn't mean to break it. I didn’t mean to kill you…"

"Aerion?" Dunk shifted his grip, panic rising in his throat. "Aerion, look at me."

Aerion gave one last, massive heave, his entire body arching like a bow string. He gagged, choking on air, his face turning a terrifying shade of purple.

"Aerion!" Dunk shook him.

Aerion’s eyes rolled back in his head, showing only the whites.

Then, he went limp.

Not the limpness of sleep, but the lifeless, fluid limpness of a dead weight. It was the sudden, terrifying slackness of a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Aerion?" Dunk panted, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Aerion, hey. Come on. Don't pass out."

Dunk shifted his grip, trying to prop him up. His skin was cold. Clammy.

"Aerion!" Dunk tapped his cheek lightly. "Hey, wake up. Don't do this."

Nothing.

Dunk pressed two fingers to Aerion’s neck, searching for a pulse.

He found it. But it was wrong.

It wasn't a rhythm. It was a chaotic, flickering vibration. Thump-thump-thump… pause… thump… pause… thump-thump-thump. It was a bird trying to batter its way out of a cage, fast and then terrifyingly slow.

A flame consuming the last of its oxygen.

"No, no, no," Dunk gasped, shaking him again. "What’s wrong with you? Yell at me. Fight me. But don't you dare quit on me."

Flicker… pause… thump… pause…

Dunk cursed.

"HELP!" he screamed at the door, but the hallway was empty. The cheering from the arena drowned him out.

He looked down at Aerion’s face. It was turning a color he had never seen on a living person—a greyish-blue, the lips tinged with violet that wasn't from his eyes.

He scrambled to loosen Aerion’s collar. "Come on, breathe. Breathe."

He looked around the room, panic finally setting in, looking for a towel, water, anything.

That’s when he saw it. There, on the marble counter, was a small, orange plastic bottle.

And right next to it, arranged in neat, crushed lines, was a white, powdery substance. A rolled-up hundred-dollar bill sat next to it.

He squinted at the prescription label of the bottle. Propranolol. Beta-blockers.

And the powder? It smelled chemical. Sharp. Maybe Adderall?

Or cocaine.

His blood ran cold.

"Revitalized," he whispered, the horror crashing down on him.

Aerion hadn't just been purging the grapes. He had been speed-balling. He had taken uppers to make him sharp for the show, to make him perfect, and downers to stop the shaking, to control the heart rate.

And now his heart didn't know whether to sprint or stop.

Dunk looked back at Aerion.

The convulsions started.

Small at first, then violent. A seizure. Foam—pink and frothy—began to bubble at the corner of Aerion’s mouth.

"Oh gods," he choked out. He grabbed Aerion’s head, turning it to the side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.

"911!" He screamed, his voice cracking, primal and terrified. "SOMEBODY! EMERGENCY!"

He put his hand on Aerion’s chest. He could feel it through the shirt. The organ was vibrating, failing, giving up the ghost.

Aerion’s eyes were open, staring blindly at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

"Don't you die," Dunk rasped, pressing his hand over the flickering heart as if he could hold it together by sheer force of will.

"You rich, stupid bastard, don't you die!” he roared.

He ripped the silk shirt open, buttons flying across the room like shrapnel, exposing the pale, bird-like chest that was far too still.

"Don't you do it," he sobbed, interlacing his hands over Aerion’s sternum. "Don't you dare let Egg see you like this."

Don’t you dare leave me like this.

He pushed down. Hard.

CRACK.

The sound of a rib giving way under his strength was sickening, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

"Come on!" he screamed at the lifeless body, pumping the chest of the boy who had everything and still had nothing. "Breathe, you stupid bastard! Breathe!”

But Aerion just stared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, lost in the dark where no amount of money could reach him.

The lights of the bathroom seemed to hum, loud and indifferent. The crowd outside cheered for another rider.

And on the floor, amidst the bile and the crushed powder, the Brightflame was burning out.

Flicker… flicker… pause.