Archive of Our Own ^beta

Previously on this series—

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.

The rhythm of the chest compressions—one, two, three, four—faded into the muted, weeping static of a relentless rain.

Flicker… pause… silence.

The world didn't go black. It went dull. A suffocating, heavy slate monochrome that smelled of wet wool and cloying lilies and mourning.

The sky above mirrored them, the raindrops rhythmically drumming on a sea of black coats and umbrellas that shifted like a dark tide, faceless and murmuring.

Dunk stood at the edge of the open grave.

He felt too big for his suit. The black fabric pulled tight across his shoulders, restricting his movement, making him feel like a giant trapped in a dollhouse world.

A week from now, he was supposed to get his suit tailored.

He stared at the casket. It was mahogany. Polished to a high shine, slick with rain.

That bathroom door was mahogany, too.

They say funerals are for the living. That’s what the Septons tell you, standing there in their crystal-spun robes with practiced sympathy etched into their soft faces. They say it’s a closure, a final goodbye, a way to let the spirit rest.

Dunk thought that was a load of shit.

Funerals aren't for the living. They are for the regret. They are a stage where you stand and stare at a wooden box and realize that every I'll do it tomorrow and every next time has just expired.

The clock suddenly stops—no, it shatters, and the glass shards cut deeper than the silence.

The mud was slick under his boots. He felt massive and useless, a tower of grief that was swaying in the wind, threatening to topple over and crush the mourners gathered in their black coats.

He didn't look at them. He couldn't. They were just shapes—blurring shadows in the periphery of his vision. He could hear their murmurs, the soft, polite weeping that sounded like rustling dry leaves.

They didn't know. None of them knew the weight of the silence that was currently screaming in Dunk’s ears.

He only had eyes for the figure in the casket.

The skin was waxy. Artificial. The mortician had done their best to hide the struggle, smoothing out the lines of pain, painting life back into cheeks that had gone colorless.

But they couldn't hide the stillness. They couldn’t hide the emptiness. They couldn’t hide the absence.

It doesn't matter, he mused, a dull roar against the sound of the rain. It doesn't matter if you have twenty years or twenty minutes. It’s never enough. You always think there’s going to be one more conversation. One more drive. One more lesson.

He stared at the hands.

He remembered how strong they used to be. Now, they were folded over a chest that would never rise again. Pale. Interlocked fingers that looked like cold marble.

"He looks asleep," a small voice whispered beside him.

Dunk looked down.

Egg was standing there. He wasn't wearing his riding gear today. He was in a small black suit, his tie knotted perfectly, his bald head shining wet with the drizzle. He looked tiny against the backdrop of the grey sky and the looming headstones.

"Yeah," Dunk rasped, his throat feeling like it was full of broken glass. "He does."

"Do you think he was scared?" Egg asked. He was staring at the figure in the box, his violet eyes wide and unblinking.

"I think…" Dunk swallowed hard. "I think he felt peace. He was a fighter, though. He fought until the very end, and then he felt peace."

I knew he fought, Dunk thought. He wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t.

"He shouldn't be in a box, I think," Egg whispered, his voice trembling. He moved closer to Dunk, pressing his shoulder against Dunk’s thigh. "He doesn’t fit there."

Dunk placed a heavy hand on Egg’s shoulder. He felt the boy shaking.

"He’s not in there, kid," Dunk said, reciting the lie he hoped was true. "That’s just... that’s just the shell. The rest of him is... gone."

The Septon stepped forward. He began to drone on about the Seven, about the Father’s judgment and the Mother’s mercy. The words washed over Dunk without sinking in.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of A—“

Dunk zoned out.

Celebrate, Dunk thought bitterly. Lies. A pretty word to bandage the pain.

"It is time," the Septon intoned.

The pallbearers stepped forward. The mechanism creaked—a rusted, metal groan that sounded like a scream.

Dust to dust. Ash to ash. The Stranger comes for all.

Dunk felt his knees buckle. The physical reality of it hit him. They were putting him in the ground. They were going to cover him with dirt, and the rain would fall, and the sun would rise tomorrow, and Dunk would have to wake up in a world where he didn't exist.

Descend.

Going down. Into the dark. Into the cold, wet earth.

He swayed. The earth seemed to tilt on its axis.

A small weight pressed against his side.

Egg leaned into him. To the observers, the men and women in black standing under their umbrellas, it looked like the child was seeking comfort from the giant. It looked like the little brother needing the big brother.

But Dunk knew the truth.

Egg was propping him up. The boy was leaning his entire shoulder into Dunk’s hip, grounding him, locking his knees, reminding him that there was still something solid in the world.

Creak… creak.

Dunk stared into the darkness. The abyss stared back. He watched each inch disappear.

Don't go, he screamed inside his head. Come back. I can fix it. I can try harder. Just come back.

But the casket hit the bottom with a final, hollow thud.

The sound of the first shovel of dirt hitting the lid was the loudest thing Dunk had ever heard.

The crowd dispersed quickly when the rain picked up. They hurried to their cars, eager to get back to the warmth, back to the living.

Dunk didn't move.

He stood there until his shoes were soaked through. He stood there until the gravediggers had finished their work and left, respectful of the large, silent man keeping vigil.

The fresh mound of dirt was dark against the green grass. And at the head of it, the new stone stood carved and solemn.

Dunk stared at the engraving. The rain filled the grooves of the letters, making them weep.

He sat in the grass. He didn't care about the mud soaking into his slacks. He sat with his legs crossed, his elbows on his knees, staring at the granite.

It wasn't marble. It wasn't etched with dragons or gold leaf. It was a simple, sturdy stone, rough-hewn and honest.

He traced the letters with his eyes, the name he had spoken a thousand times, the name of the man who had found him in Flea Bottom and taught him that even a giant could be a knight.

ARLAN OF PENNYTREE.

A Knight to the End.

Father. Mentor. Friend.

Dunk exhaled a breath he felt like he had been holding for days.

You save one, he thought, staring at the grave of the man who had raised him, and you lose the other.

The call had come two hours after Dunk had collapsed in the hospital waiting room, his hands still shaking from the adrenaline of saving Aerion. It was the nursing home.

A stroke. Massive. Instant.

Painless, the doctors told him. He had to believe them, for his sanity.

The irony tasted like ash in his mouth.

He had spent so much energy terrified of losing the boy who treated him like a servant, that he hadn't been there to hold the hand of the man who had treated him like a son.

Aerion was currently in a private room at the University Hospital, hooked up to a ventilator, alive because Dunk had broken his ribs.

Aerion was safe.

But Arlan was gone.

"I'm sorry, old man," Dunk whispered to the dirt. "I wasn't there. I was... I was busy trying to be a castle wall for someone else."

A rustle of fabric.

Egg sat down next to him.

He didn't say anything about the mud ruining his suit. He didn't complain about the rain. He just sat there, crossing his legs to mirror Dunk, looking at the grave of a man he had never met, but whose ghost hung over Dunk like a protective cloak.

"He had a cool name," Egg said quietly, breaking the silence. "Pennytree."

Dunk huffed a wet, painful laugh. "Yeah. He did."

A beat of respectful silence.

"Aerion is still asleep," Egg muttered. "But the doctors said his brain activity is good. They don’t know when he’ll wake up, but the prognosis is that he’s going to be okay."

"That’s good," Dunk said.

Egg hummed, picking up a small stone and turning it over in his hand.

Then, he leaned his shoulder against Dunk’s arm.

Simple. Solid. Present.

Dunk turned his head slightly, looking at the boy through his fingers. Egg was staring at Arlan’s headstone, his expression solemn and respectful.

"He taught you how to be a castle wall. Bet he was not as thick as you though," Egg whispered.

Dunk let out a quivering, affectionate chuckle that turned into a sob.

"Yeah," Dunk choked out, leaning back against the kid, accepting the support and warmth. "Yeah, he wasn’t."

As the world kept turning without his father, the pair sat together in the quiet of the boneyard—two friends soaking in the rain—praying that the next funeral wouldn't be for the boy who wanted to be a dragon.

The shift from the graveyard to the ICU was one kind of cold to another.

The graveyard had been wet, earthy, and organic—the cold of nature claiming its own. The hospital room was sterile, pressurized, and artificial—the cold of science fighting a war against the inevitable.

Dunk sat in the uncomfortable vinyl chair next to the bed. He hadn't changed his clothes. The cuffs of his black slacks were stiff with dried mud from Arlan’s grave. He still smelled like rain and wet wool, a sharp, jarring scent in the sanitized room.

Aerion was still the same.

The ventilator hissed and clicked—hiss, click, rise, fall—a mechanical lung doing the work Aerion’s body had refused to do. The swelling in his face had gone down slightly, but he still looked like a marble effigy, his features sharp and terrifyingly still.

Egg stood on the other side of the bed. He was still in his small funeral suit, though he had loosened the tie. He was tracing the plastic tubing of the IV line with a finger, his expression unreadable.

"He's dreaming," Egg said softly. "I can see his eyes moving under the lids."

"Maybe," Dunk rasped. He felt hollowed out. He had left one father in the ground to come watch over a friend—friend? toxic boss? something more?—who might never wake up to see his own.

"Or maybe it's just the synapses firing,” Dunk muttered.

"He's dreaming," Egg insisted. "He's probably dreaming about winning a Nobel Prize. Or yelling at me about my posture."

Dunk managed a weak, tired smile. "Probably."

The door to the private room opened. It didn't drift open; it was pushed with authority.

Maekar stepped in.

The room seemed to shrink instantly.

Maekar filled the space not just with his physical bulk, which rivaled Dunk’s, but with a gravitational pull of sheer, suffocating expectation. He was wearing a navy suit, immaculate and flawless, his silver hair cropped close to his skull.

He looked at Aerion for exactly two seconds. A cursory inventory.

Still alive. Still a problem.

Then his violet eyes slid to Dunk.

He took in the mud on the shoes. The wrinkled coat. The exhaustion etched into the dark circles under Dunk’s eyes.

"Aegon," Maekar said. He didn't look at his youngest son.

Egg straightened up, his hand falling away from the IV line. "Yes, Father?"

"I require coffee," Maekar said. "Black. From the kiosk in the lobby. Not the machine water in the hallway."

Egg hesitated. He looked at Dunk, then at Maekar. He was young, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. He knew he was being relocated.

"I… I can stay," Egg tried, his voice small. "Dunk looks tired. I can—"

"Now, Aegon," Maekar said. His voice didn't rise, but the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Egg flinched. He grabbed his wallet. "Yes, Father."

He shot Dunk an apologetic, worried look before slipping out the door, the heavy latch clicking shut behind him like a lock.

Dunk didn't stand up. He didn't have the energy to play soldier. He just sat there, covered in grave dirt, and looked at the billionaire.

"You look like a vagrant," Maekar observed, walking around the foot of the bed. He stood by the window, looking out at the city skyline, turning his back on his comatose son.

"I was at a funeral," Dunk said bluntly.

"My condolences," Maekar said, in a tone that suggested he had never felt a genuine emotion in his life. "Though your presence here, in that state, is… unsanitary."

He turned to face Dunk, crossing his arms over his chest. The cufflinks caught the harsh fluorescent light.

"Let us dispense with the pantomime, Duncan. You have been here every day since Aerion overdosed. You sleep in that chair. You harass the nurses for updates. Then you cling to my youngest son like a limpet."

Maekar took a step closer.

"Why?"

"Because he's my friend," Dunk said. "And because I promised Egg I wouldn't leave him."

"Friend," Maekar tasted the word like it was spoiled milk. "Aerion does not have friends, Duncan. He has sycophants. He has dealers. He has parasites who attach themselves to the legacy of my House because they enjoy the warmth of the money burning."

Maekar gestured to Aerion’s prone form.

"Look at him,” he huffed. “He is a monument to excess. He attracts… a certain element."

His eyes bored into Dunk, narrowing. "Did you sell him the powder? Is that why you're hovering? Making sure he doesn't wake up and name you?"

Dunk stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I flushed his drugs," Dunk growled, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I'm the one who found him dying on a bathroom floor while you were sitting in a board meeting somewhere. I didn't put him here. You did."

Maekar didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

He studied Dunk with a cold, clinical curiosity, like a smith examining the details of a blade laid on an anvil.

"If not the drugs, then the money," Maekar mused. "You are poor. Destitute, from what I hear. A scholarship student from Flea Bottom. You see a broken, vulnerable Targaryen prince and you think... what? A payday? A settlement?"

"I don't want your money," Dunk spat.

"Everyone wants the money," Maekar said sternly. "Eventually."

He stepped into Dunk’s space. He was almost the same height, but his presence was sharper, heavier.

He lowered his voice, so low that the hum of the ventilator almost drowned it out.

"Or, is it something else?"

Maekar tilted his head, his eyes scanning Dunk’s face—the rough jaw, the messy hair, the undeniable, brute masculinity of him.

Then he looked at Aerion—pale, delicate, beautiful even in ruin.

"Aerion has always been, hm… fluid," Maekar said. The word was an accusation. "He has a taste for the dramatic. For the… unconventional."

Maekar looked back at Dunk, his expression curdling into something between disgust and suspicion.

"Is that what this is? Do you want him, Duncan?"

Dunk’s brain worked overtime to translate Maekar’s meaning.

Fluid?

Unconventional?

The question hung in the air, toxic and heavy. It wasn't asked with curiosity. It was asked with the disdain of a man who viewed his son’s complexities as flaws in the manufacturing.

…queer.

Oh. Oh.

"Is this some sordid little infatuation?" Maekar pressed, his voice silky with menace. "Does the rough-handed giant fancy the broken prince? Are you waiting for him to wake up so you can play the savior and… collect your reward?"

Dunk felt the blood rush to his face.

It wasn't shame. It was pure, unadulterated shock at the cruelty of the man.

"He's dying," Dunk whispered, shaking with rage. "He's lying there with a tube in his throat, and you're worried about… about that?"

"I am worried about the purity of this family," Maekar snapped. "And you, Duncan, are dirt. You are mud on a showroom floor. You do not belong here. You do not belong with him."

"I belong here more than you do," Dunk shot back, stepping forward until he was chest-to-chest with the older man. "Because I actually give a damn if he wakes up. You? You're just worried he’ll wake up and embarrass you again."

Maekar’s jaw tightened. His eyes flashed with a dangerous light.

"Careful, boy," Maekar warned. "You are standing on a precipice. I can ruin you with a phone call. I can have your scholarship revoked. I can have you expelled. I can make sure you never work in this city again."

"Do it," Dunk challenged. "Go ahead. But I'm not leaving this room until he opens his eyes. And if you try to make me, I’ll make a scene that even your PR team can't fix."

They stared at each other. The air crackled with voltage.

It was a standoff between the immovable object and the irresistible force.

Click.

The door handle turned.

"I got the coffee," Egg’s voice chirped, breathless and anxious.

The tension in the room snapped like a rubber band.

Maekar stepped back smoothly, the mask of the composed patriarch sliding back into place instantly. He adjusted his cuffs.

Dunk didn't move as fast. He stood there, heaving, his hands shaking, staring at the monster in the expensive suit.

Egg walked in, holding a cardboard tray. He looked from his father to Dunk, his eyes wide. He sensed the violence in the air—the way the room felt like it had been sucked dry of oxygen.

"Did… did I miss anything?" Egg asked weakly.

"Nothing of consequence," Maekar said coldly. He took the coffee cup from the tray. He didn't drink it.

"Come, Aegon," Maekar commanded, placing a hand on Egg’s shoulder. It looked less like affection and more like ownership. "We are leaving."

"But—" Egg looked at Dunk, then at Aerion. "I just got here. I wanted to sit with him."

"We have a dinner with the Board of Trustees," Maekar said. "You are expected to attend. It is time you started learning the business. Since your brother is… indisposed."

He cast one last look at Aerion—a look of profound disappointment—and then turned his back.

"Wash yourself, Duncan," Maekar threw over his shoulder as he steered Egg toward the door. "You smell like a grave."

The door closed.

Dunk was alone again.

He stood in the silence, the ventilator hissing in his ears. Hiss. Click.

He looked at Aerion. He looked at the pale, still face that Maekar had just dismissed as a broken asset.

"He thinks I'm dirt," Dunk whispered to the unconscious boy. "He thinks I'm mud."

He sank back into the chair, the exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. He reached out and took Aerion’s cold, limp hand in his own mud-stained one.

"Well," Dunk choked out, a tear cutting a track through the grime on his face. "Mud is what holds the castle up, you stupid bastard. Mud is what keeps you grounded."

He squeezed the hand.

"Wake up," Dunk pleaded. "Just wake up and tell me I'm wrong."

Only the ventilator answered.

Hiss. Click.

He didn't move for a long time. He just sat there, the adrenaline of the argument draining out of him, leaving behind a sediment of pure exhaustion. The chair creaked under his weight.

He looked down at his hand. It was still wrapped around Aerion’s.

Dunk’s skin was rough, calloused, and stained with the dark, rich soil of Arlan’s grave. Aerion’s hand was pale, manicured, and cold. It looked like a tree root wrapping around a piece of fine china.

Dirt, Maekar had called him. Mud.

Dunk rubbed his thumb over the back of Aerion’s hand, avoiding the IV tape.

Why am I doing this?

The question floated up through the fog of his brain, unbidden. Maekar had asked it with a sneer, but now Dunk asked it with a terrified kind of honesty.

He was a scholarship kid from Flea Bottom. He had twelve dollars in his bank account and a half-eaten sandwich in his backpack. He was supposed to be worrying about passing History and keeping his spot on the KLU Kingsguards.

Instead, he was sleeping in a chair next to a billionaire prince who had treated him like a servant.

Aerion was cruel. He was arrogant. He was a mess of sharp edges and chemical burns.

So why did the thought of leaving this room make Dunk’s chest ache?

Because I promised Egg, Dunk told himself. That was the safe answer. That was the knightly answer.

You protect the little brother by watching the big brother.

But that was a lie. Or at least, it wasn't the whole truth.

Dunk looked at Aerion’s face. The ventilator tube distorted his mouth, but his eyelashes—long, silver-gold lashes that cast shadows on his cheeks—were peaceful.

When Dunk had found him in that bathroom, when he had felt that frantic, dying flame of a heartbeat under his palm, he hadn't thought about Egg. He hadn't thought about anything beyond that bathroom door. He had thought only one thing.

Not him. Anyone but him.

He felt… territorial. That was the word.

When he washed the vomit off Aerion’s face, it hadn't felt like a chore. It felt like an act of reclamation. When he stood between Maekar and Aerion’s sleeping form, he hadn't felt like an employee protecting a boss.

He felt like a wall protecting the thing it was built to guard.

It was a fierce, hot, stubborn protectiveness that sat heavy in his gut. It was the same feeling he used to get when Arlan was sick, but sharper. More volatile.

Is that what this is? Dunk wondered, his heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm. Do I want him?

Maekar’s voice echoed in the room, silky with venom—A sordid little infatuation.

Dunk felt a flush of heat crawl up his neck, burning through the chill of the room.

He had never… he wasn't like that. He liked girls. He liked the barmaids at the Eel Alley Inn who laughed at his jokes and didn't mind that he was clumsy. He liked the tall puppeteer he met briefly. He had never looked at a guy in the locker room and felt anything other than camaraderie or annoyance.

But Aerion wasn't just a guy.

Aerion was a creature made of fire and glass. Aerion was the only person who had ever looked at Dunk and seen a challenge, not just a tool. Aerion was the smell of wintergreen and expensive cologne and trauma.

Dunk thought about the way Aerion looked in the passenger seat of the Porsche—sunglasses on, vulnerability hidden, asking Dunk to drive slower.

He thought about the way Aerion’s voice sounded when he talked about his mother.

He thought about the raw knuckles.

And he thought about the way he had felt holding Aerion’s body on the bathroom floor—the desperate, terrifying intimacy of trying to keep a soul inside a body.

I don't know, Dunk thought, squeezing his eyes shut. I don't know what this is.

He wasn't smart like Aerion. He couldn't dissect it. He couldn't put it on a burette and label the chemicals.

All he knew was that Maekar was wrong about the money. He didn't want the check. He didn't want the car.

He just wanted the eyes to open. He wanted the violet to snap back at him. He wanted Aerion to wake up and insult his clothes and tell him he smelled like a grave and call him stupid for not knowing the purpose of different spoons.

He just wanted the fire back.

"You're confusing me," Dunk whispered to the unconscious boy. "You're making my head hurt."

He sighed, a sound that rattled in his chest.

"Maekar thinks I'm dirt," Dunk murmured, looking at their joined hands again. "Maybe he's right. But dirt is what holds the roots, Aerion. Dirt is what catches you when you fall."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the metal rail of the bed, right next to Aerion’s arm.

"I've never… I've never thought about guys," Dunk confessed to the silence, his voice barely audible over the hiss-click of the machine.

"And…” he trailed off.

I don't know if I'm thinking about them now. I think I'm just thinking about you.

It was a terrifying thought. A dangerous thought.

But as he sat there in the dim light, smelling of rain and death, holding the hand of the boy who had tried to burn himself out, Dunk knew one thing for sure.

He wasn't going anywhere.

"Just wake up," Dunk whispered. "We'll figure out the rest later. Just come back."

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of noise that Dunk moved through like a ghost.

University was a joke. The world outside Room 404 was loud, bright, and aggressively normal. It felt like a personal insult.

Dunk dragged himself through his Monday classes like a man wading through waist-deep mud. He sat in the back of the lecture hall for History of the Realm, staring at Professor Pycelle’s droning mouth. The words—The Doom, succession crisis, bloodlines—floated past him, dissolving before they hit his brain.

Every time he looked at the whiteboard, the dates blurred.

He only saw the numbers on the monitor above Aerion’s bed.

He tried to take notes, but when he looked down, he had just written Breathe and Wake up in the margins of his notebook, over and over again until the ballpoint tore through the paper.

He closed his notebook. The pen snapped in his grip, ink bleeding onto his fingers like black blood.

Fluid, Maekar had said. Unconventional.

Dunk stared at the back of the student’s head in front of him. A guy. Short hair. Normal neck.

Dunk felt nothing. No spark. No pull. Just a neck.

So why did the memory of Aerion’s throat—pale and exposed as he tilted his head back to sneer at Dunk’s beat up truck—make Dunk’s hands sweat?

It’s just because he’s sick, Dunk told himself. It’s because I saved him. You get attached to the things you save. It’s like… it’s like a dog with a bone.

But he knew it wasn't a dog with a bone. It was a moth with a flame.

And the flame was currently smothered under a plastic mask in the ICU.

Practice was worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it.

The interschool football tournament—KLU Kingsguards versus EC Blackfyres—was two weeks away. The team was vibrating with energy. The locker room smelled of Old Spice, testosterone, and damp towels. A sharp, aggressive scent that was the complete opposite of the hospital’s lavender and bleach.

"Kingsguards! Line up!" Coach Baelor shouted, his whistle cutting the air. "Tournament is in two weeks! I want to see hunger! I want to see violence!"

Dunk strapped on his pads. He taped his wrists. He pulled his helmet down, caging his face.

On the field, he was a monster.

"Hut! Hike!"

Dunk exploded off the line.

He didn't see the offensive lineman in front of him. He saw the mahogany casket. He saw Maekar’s sneer. He saw the white powder on the black marble.

CRASH!

He drove his shoulder into the blocker’s chest with the force of a car wreck. He felt the wind leave the other guy, felt the satisfying resistance of a body giving way to superior force.

Why? Maekar’s voice sneered in his head. Is it a sordid little infatuation?

Dunk lined up again.

Hut!

He hit the sled this time. Bam.

He wasn’t gay. Or was he? No—he knew who he was. He was a guy from Flea Bottom who liked simple things. Girls. Burgers. Football.

Bam.

But he couldn't stop thinking about the eyelashes.

Bam.

He couldn't stop thinking about the way Aerion’s voice sounded—raspy, arrogant, terrified. I didn't mean to break it, Mother.

Bam!

He hit the sled so hard it tipped over.

He shed the block. He found the quarterback—the coach’s kid named Valarr who played with too much flash.

He didn't use technique. He didn't use the swim move he’d been practicing. He used pure, unadulterated kinetic rage.

Dunk hit him—BAM!

He didn't wrap up gently. He drove him into the turf, burying him under three hundred pounds of frustration and grief.

Get up, Dunk thought as he slammed Valarr into the dirt. Why won't you get up?

"Woah, easy, boy!" Coach Baelor blew his whistle, jogging over. "Save it for the game, Duncan! You trying to kill him?"

Dunk stood up, offering a hand to the wheezing quarterback.

"Sorry," Dunk grunted.

He wasn't sorry. He wanted to hit something until his own chest stopped hurting. He wanted to bruise the outside of his body so the inside would stop feeling so raw.

As he jogged back to the line, wiping sweat and turf from his eyes, his mind drifted back to the quiet room.

He wondered if Aerion was dreaming. He wondered if Aerion’s heart was still doing that terrifying, fluttering flame-dance.

He wondered if Aerion knew that Dunk was out here, hitting people, just to keep from driving back to the hospital and shaking him awake.

Do you want him? Maekar’s voice whispered in the earhole of his helmet.

Dunk grit his teeth and dug his cleats into the grass.

"Shut up," he growled to no one.

Maybe it was a savior complex. His favorite movie ever is The Princess Bride, after all.

(Though he’d never admit that to anyone. Much less Aerion.)

But I don't want to be his savior, Dunk thought, getting in position. I just want to be the one standing there when he opens his eyes.

And if that was infatuation, then Dunk was screwed. Because it felt less like a crush and more like a haunting.

The hospital at night was a different world. The cafeteria was closed, the hallways dimmed. The only light came from the nurses' stations and the glowing monitors in the rooms.

Dunk walked into Room 404 at 8:00 PM. He had showered in the locker room, scrubbing his skin raw to get the sweat and the field dirt off, but he still felt like he was tracking the outside world in with him.

Egg was asleep.

He was curled up in the uncomfortable vinyl recliner in the corner, covered by a thin hospital blanket. His feet, still in the riding boots, hung off the edge. A textbook lay open on his chest—Intro to Algebra.

Dunk moved quietly, placing his gym bag on the floor. He walked over to the chair and gently pulled the book from Egg’s hands, marking the page before setting it on the table.

Egg stirred. His eyes fluttered open, violet and sleepy.

"Dunk?" he mumbled.

"Hey, kid. How is he?" Dunk asked, looking at the bed.

Aerion hadn't moved. The tube was still there. The bruise on his chest had darkened to a sickly yellow-black.

"The same," Egg said, rubbing his eyes. "The nurse came in to suction the tube. It… it sounded awful."

Dunk winced.

"Did Maekar come back?"

"No," Egg said. He sounded resigned, not surprised. "He sent a fruit basket. It’s over there."

Dunk looked at the massive, cellophane-wrapped basket of pears and apples sitting on the counter. It looked like a mockery. Here is some fruit for the son who cannot eat.

"Nice of him," Dunk grunted.

"Dunk?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think he can hear us?" Egg asked. He reached out and touched Aerion’s arm, careful not to disturb the wires. "The doctor said hearing is the last thing to go and the first thing to come back."

"I think he hears us," Dunk said firmly. "I think he’s listening to every word so he can correct our grammar when he wakes up."

Egg managed a small, tired smile. "Yeah. He hates it when I dangle my participles."

They sat in silence for a while, the rhythm of the ventilator marking the passing seconds. Egg was looking at Dunk. He studied the wet hair, the fresh bruises on Dunk’s arms from practice, the tension in his jaw.

"You look sad," Egg said. It wasn't a question.

"I had a long day," Dunk deflected. "Class was annoying. Got and gave some bruises. Same old, same old."

Egg didn't smile. He reached out a small hand and tugged on the sleeve of Dunk’s hoodie.

"You don't have to stay," Egg whispered. "I know Father is… awful. You don't have to prove anything."

Dunk looked at the kid. He covered Egg’s hand with his own.

"I'm not proving anything, Egg. I'm just waiting."

"For what?"

Dunk looked at the bed. At the rise and fall of the chest.

"For the fire," Dunk murmured. "It’s too cold in here without it."

Egg held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something Dunk wasn't ready to admit even to himself. Then, the boy nodded. He slid back down into the chair, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

"Wake me up if he does anything," Egg said.

"I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise. A Kingsguard keeps his oaths."

Egg curled up in the armchair. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his oversized coat around himself like a blanket. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, syncing with the hiss-click of the machine.

Dunk was alone with the flame again.

He pulled the plastic chair closer to the bed, the legs scraping softly against the floor. He sat down, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

He watched Aerion.

The swelling was almost gone now. Aerion looked breathtakingly beautiful, in that terrifying, fragile way that icicles are beautiful before they fall and impale you. His skin was pale, translucent enough to show the blue veins at his temples.

Dunk reached out.

His hand hovered over Aerion’s arm. He hesitated.

Is this sordid? he wondered. Is this wrong?

He thought about all the girls he had ever liked. Soft. Kind. Gentle.

This wasn't gentle. This was brutal. This was jagged. This was a guy who made him feel stupid and angry and desperate all at once.

Dunk lowered his hand.

He covered Aerion’s fingers—the ones Maekar hadn't bothered to touch—with his own. The contact sent a jolt through him, sharper than the hits on the football field.

He ran his thumb over the inside of Aerion’s wrist. He felt the pulse.

Thump... thump... thump.

Stronger now. Steady.

Dunk’s breath hitched. The sensation traveled up his arm, straight to his chest. It wasn't just relief. It was a physical pull. A tether.

It felt like the click of a lighter igniting.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Dunk whispered to the sleeping prince.

He traced the line of Aerion’s thumb with his own calloused thumb. "You got me skipping class. You got me fighting your dad. You got me confused as hell."

Dunk swallowed. The lump in his throat was back.

"I don't know what this is, Aerion. I really don't. I'm just a guy from the Bottoms. I don't know the words for… for whatever is happening in my head."

He looked at Aerion’s lips, parted slightly around the tube.

"But I know I hate this," Dunk rasped. "I hate seeing you quiet. It's wrong. You're supposed to be loud. You're supposed to be burning."

He thought about Maekar’s words. Fluid. Unconventional.

Dunk leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling tiles.

Do you want him?

He thought about the way he had felt in the car, when Aerion had insulted his clothes, and instead of being angry, Dunk had just felt… seen.

What is wrong with me? Dunk thought, tracing the blue vein under Aerion’s translucent skin. You’re a prince. I’m a pauper. You’re a guy. I’m a guy.

It shouldn't work. He didn’t even know it was a thing.

But as he sat there in the dark, watching the shadows play across Aerion’s face, Dunk realized he didn't care about the logistics. He didn't care about the gender. He didn't care about the money.

He just missed him.

He missed the challenge. He missed the way Aerion made him feel like he had to be sharper, faster, stronger just to keep up. He missed the passenger seat driver who hated potholes.

"You win," Dunk whispered to the sleeping face. "Okay? You win. I'm obsessed. I'm your hound. I’m down bad, or whatever the kids say."

Hiss. Click.

"Look… it’s not fair, alright? It’s not fair that you get to lie there, quiet, while my head is screaming."

Dunk leaned closer, his forehead resting against the cold metal rail of the bed, his voice dropping to a rough, wet whisper that scratched against the silence.

"I kicked down the door of Lab 303. That was it. That was the job. I was supposed to put out a fire, write a report, and go back to being the scholarship kid who mops the floors. I wasn't supposed to…" he trailed off.

He stared at the hand engulfed in his own. He ran his thumb over the cold, pale skin, feeling the delicate bones beneath.

He felt massive, clumsy, and terrifyingly awake.

Dunk’s other fist clenched. "No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to check out now."

He let out a shaky breath that rattled in his chest.

"I wasn't—gods—I wasn’t supposed to find you in the smoke. I wasn't supposed to learn how you take your coffee, or how you drive that stupid car, or how you look when you're scared."

Dunk swallowed hard, calming his outburst. His thumb rubbed a slow, trembling circle over Aerion’s knuckles—the raw, scraped knuckles.

“And even then, I was just supposed to be your assistant. Your indentured servant, as you put it. That was the deal. I run your errands, you call me an idiot. Case closed."

"But you…” he squeezed Aerion’s hand, desperate for a response, a twitch, anything, “…you didn't stick to the deal. Somewhere in between the insults and the coffee runs and you screaming at me in the car… you got me."

There it was.

The truth laid out in bare.

“You got your claws in me, Aerion. Deep. And I don’t know how to get them out.”

I don’t even know if I want them out.

His eyes remained fixed on Aerion’s knuckles. “I don't know when it happened. Maybe when you insulted my shoes. Maybe when you bought me lunch for the rest of my program. Maybe when I felt your heart trying to beat out of your chest on that bathroom floor."

Dunk huffed a humorless, broken laugh.

"Damn you, it shouldn’t be this way. You're mean. You're arrogant. You treat me like furniture. But… gods, when you look at me… like I’m the only thing standing between you and a cliff…"

I'd rather be furniture in your room than a king anywhere else.

"I’m a fool," Dunk choked out, a wet sniffle escaping him. "Arlan always said I was thick, but this? Sitting here, holding the hand of a guy who’d probably make me lick his shoe for the fun of if? That takes the cake. I’m a fool. But… I think I’m your fool."

He looked up at Aerion’s face—the tape, the tube, the stillness that was so wrong on a creature made of fire.

"So here’s the new deal," Dunk said, his voice dropping to a fierce, stubborn rumble. "I’ll wait. I’ll sit right here in this uncomfortable chair. I’ll stare at that monitor until my eyes bleed. I’ll stay here for a thousand years if I have to."

He sat up straighter, his shoulders squaring.

"I’m a castle wall, remember? That’s what I do. I stand here. I take the hits, from your brain or your dad, it doesn’t matter. I don't move. I can do that for you. I can be the wall while you… figure out how to come back."

He reached out with his free hand and brushed a stray lock of silver-gold hair off Aerion’s forehead.

"Take your time," Dunk whispered, his voice cracking on the last word. "But you gotta wake up. You hear me? You don't get to leave me here feeling like this. Please, just… just come back."

He pressed Aerion’s cold hand to his own rough cheek, closing his eyes.

"Please," Dunk breathed. "Just come back."

The Tuesday afternoon practice was brutal. Coach Baelor was in a mood, running drills that felt less like football and more like trench warfare.

Dunk was grateful for it. He needed to hit something. He needed to burn off the restless energy that had kept him awake in the plastic chair until 4:00 AM.

Every time he tackled the sled, he pictured Maekar’s smug face. Bam. Every time he sprinted, he was running away from the confused, terrifying confession he had whispered into a cold palm.

During a water break, Dunk jogged to the sidelines, his breath pluming in the cold air.

He spotted a small figure bundled up in a familiar oversized black coat sitting on the metal bleachers.

"Egg?" Dunk panted, leaning on the chain-link fence. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the hospital?"

Panic flared in his chest, hot and instant.

"Is he alone?" Dunk demanded, his voice rising. "Did you leave him alone? If Maekar goes in there and—"

"Relax, Dunk," Egg said, holding up a hand. He was eating a bag of popcorn he’d scavenged from somewhere. "He's not alone. Aemon is with him."

Dunk paused, the name not registering immediately. "Aemon?"

"My other brother," Egg explained, chewing a kernel. "The smart one. The one who's studying to be a surgeon. He took the train down from Oldtown this morning when he heard."

Egg offered the popcorn bag to Dunk through the fence.

"Aemon is… he's good," Egg said earnestly. "He's quiet. He reads books to Aerion. He won't let Father yell. Aemon has this way of talking that makes Father feel stupid without him realizing it. It’s a superpower."

Dunk felt the tension leak out of his shoulders. Aemon. The quiet one. The one who wasn't a dragon or a drunk.

"Okay," Dunk exhaled, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Okay. Good. Don't… don't let him be by himself, Egg."

"I know," Egg said softly. He looked at Dunk, his violet eyes serious. "Go hit people. I'll watch."

Dunk nodded once, then jogged back.

Egg pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his coat tighter against the wind.

He liked watching Dunk practice.

It was different from watching Aerion ride. When Aerion rode, everything was sharp, tense, and terrifyingly perfect. You held your breath, waiting for something to snap.

Watching Dunk was like watching an avalanche. It was heavy, undeniable, and awesome.

The whistle blew. The offensive line surged forward. Dunk—number 99—stood up from his stance and simply erased the guy in front of him. It wasn't mean. It wasn't cruel. It was just physics. Dunk was a castle wall that had decided to move.

"Yeah!" Egg cheered, his voice lost in the shouts of the players. "Go, Dunk!"

He felt a swell of pride in his chest. That giant out there? That was his friend. That was the guy who bought him greasy burgers and didn't care about his last name. That was the guy who had pumped life back to his brother’s heart with his hands and refused to let go.

The other players looked small next to him. Dunk moved with a surprising grace for someone so big, planting his feet, shedding a block, and wrapping up the ball carrier with arms that looked like tree trunks.

He was safe. Dunk was the safest thing Egg had ever known.

Egg smiled, digging into his popcorn. It felt nice, just for an hour, to be a normal kid watching a football game, pretending that his brother wasn't hooked up to a machine three miles away.

Bzzzz.

The phone in Egg’s pocket vibrated against his leg.

Egg frowned. He wiped the popcorn salt off his fingers and pulled it out.

Aemon.

Egg felt a cold prickle of dread.

Aemon never texted. Aemon wrote letters with wax seals because he was a hundred years old in a twenty-year-old’s body. If Aemon was texting, he was in a hurry.

Egg unlocked the screen.

From: Aemon

Egg. Come back. Hurry.

That was it. No punctuation. No explanation.

Egg stared at the words. Hurry.

The popcorn bag slid off his lap, spilling kernels onto the metal bleachers.

Why? Was he waking up? Was he dying? Did his heart stop again? Did Maekar come back?

Egg stood up, his legs shaking. He clutched the phone so hard the screen blurred.

"Good stop, Duncan!" Coach Baelor yelled, slapping Dunk on the shoulder pad. "That’s the fire I’m talking about! That’s a Kingsguard!"

Dunk felt a rush of endorphins. For the first time in days, he felt strong. He felt capable. He wasn't the helpless guy in the hospital chair, but the anchor of the defense.

He stood up, chest heaving, steam rising off his jersey into the cold afternoon air.

He wanted to share it. He wanted to see the kid smile.

Dunk turned toward the bleachers, pulling his helmet off with a grin. He was ready to point, to wink, to do a little flex—just to make Egg laugh.

See that, kid? Beefy as a castle wall.

"Hey, Egg! Did you see—"

The words died in his throat.

Egg was standing on the bleachers. He wasn't smiling.

He was staring at his phone, his face a mask of absolute, bloodless horror. The color had drained from his skin so completely that his eyes looked like dark bruises. He looked small. He looked terrified.

He looked exactly like he had in the hospital hallway.

Dunk didn't need a text. He didn't need to ask.

The football dropped from Dunk’s hand. It hit the turf with a dull thud.

"Duncan?" Coach Baelor asked, frowning. "Where are you going? We’re not done with—"

Dunk didn't hear him.

He bolted.

He didn't jog. He didn't ask for permission. He exploded into a sprint, cleats tearing up the turf, bypassing the locker room entirely. He vaulted the chain-link fence in one motion, landing hard on the asphalt, and kept running toward the parking lot where the Cannibal was waiting.

Behind him, Coach Baelor was yelling.

Dunk didn't care. The wall was moving. And gods help anyone who got in his way.