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New York smelled like sugar, artificial fog, and questionable decisions. Sirens wailed in the distance, kids shouting “trick or treat,” teenagers dressed as slightly illegal versions of Disney characters, adults handing out cheap candy at their front doors, and plastic pumpkins and skull decorations everywhere.
It was Halloween, the one holiday where everything boiled down to costumes, candy, and mischief… There was nothing more American than that day.
And in the middle of the sidewalks, walking like the entire city was his personal runway, came Aerion.
Aerion Targaryen was ready.
Ready to shine. Ready to be the center of attention. Ready to make everyone at Lyonel Baratheon’s party drool with envy over the creativity, the detail, the dragon blood running through his veins.
Huge red wings, dramatic, stretching nearly five feet of pure winged arrogance, chosen in the exact shade of coagulated blood after a three-hour internal debate, because a dragon does not wear just any red. 3D scales spread across his chest and arms and climbed up his neck, made with silicone glue and glitter, the result of a YouTube tutorial he watched seventeen times, at one point he almost cried because the line wasn’t symmetrical. Almost.
But now? Now he was art.
Curved white horns glued to his forehead with surgical precision. Silver chains clinking against his stylishly ripped pants. A red fishnet crop top. Detailed makeup that turned his skin into legend, his face covered in perfect scales. Platform combat boots to guarantee a few extra inches because dragon vanity is practically an ancestral commandment…
He wasn’t wearing a costume. He had been reborn. A Valyrian dragon reincarnated on the streets of New York.
Some people might say he was overdoing it. That it was just a party. That no one there would be evaluating craftsmanship, historical accuracy, or aesthetic cohesion. Half the guests would probably show up in something they panic-bought online, poorly fitted, synthetic fabric shining under blacklight. The other half would smear fake blood at the corner of their mouths and stick in two plastic fangs, like Daeron did, and call it a vampire. The height of laziness. Not even a decent red cape. Not even a hint of drama. Just… teeth and hope.
But how do you argue with people who have no artistic commitment?
Aerion wasn’t “going to a party.” He was making a statement. He was one of the last descendants of Valyria, while the rest of the world consisted of iPhone 13 peasants who thought ripping up an old T-shirt and smudging black eyeshadow around their eyes qualified as “urban zombie concept.”
Sexy versions of characters from Wicked? Ghosts who looked like they just lost a fight with their closet? No. No. No.
They would never understand the greatness of Halloween.
The biggest and best holiday of the year. The one night when the world accepts the extraordinary as the rule. The only night he could walk the streets dressed as a dragon without someone threatening to call the cops, an exorcist priest, or his father suggesting a psychiatrist.
Aerion always went all out on that day of the year. Because a dragon always does.
And it was worth every minute of effort.
He felt hot. Dangerous. Almost flammable.
And, above all, excited…
This year came with a delicious complication: Duncan, his official boyfriend of six months, two days, and fourteen hours (yes, he counted).
Dunk, as he was known to those close to him, was basically a human lamppost with broad shoulders, a sweet smile, and absolutely no sense of fashion, culture, or anything that didn’t involve street basketball, burgers, or binge-watching the Fast & Furious franchise.
But despite having the size and occasionally the brain of a door, Aerion loved him and was beyond excited to spend that iconic holiday together.
And best of all, the cherry on top: Dunk had said they would coordinate their costumes for the party, and Aerion couldn’t have been happier.
He had sent several messages to his adorable giant. Photos of the wings he bought. TikTok tutorials on how to make simple scales that even Dunk could manage. Pinterest inspiration boards. A four-minute voice memo explaining the importance of Valyrian culture, because Dunk needed to understand it wasn’t just a “cute little dragon.”
And of course, Duncan replied to everything with a flood of cute emojis and enthusiastic messages.
“This looks amazing, babe 🤩🥰”
“I’m working on my part, it’s gonna be perfect 😚😚😚”
“Can’t wait to see you dressed like that 😏😏😏😏😏”
It was Aerion who was truly counting the minutes.
The party? A detail. Lyonel? Irrelevant.
The real event of the night would be his beautiful, absurdly tall, indecently hot boyfriend dressed as a dragon.
He could already picture it with cinematic precision: Duncan appearing at the top of the staircase with massive black wings, almost menacing, black and silver scales painted across his face and trailing down his muscular arms…
They wouldn’t make it past the living room. Probably not even past the sidewalk. Aerion would grab Dunk right there, completely ignoring the fact that Arlan existed in the same house.
Dragons mating was, without the slightest exaggeration, Aerion’s number one fetish.
Number one by a landslide.
Just imagining it was enough to trigger the beginnings of a nervous breakdown. Anxiety. Anticipation. A nearly physical need to confirm that vision.
That was why the young Targaryen immediately declined the ride offered by his father and the even more tragic idea of going along with Daeron and his friends. He was not about to waste twenty precious minutes waiting for Maekar to finish helping Daella wedge that gigantic purple wig from Rumi of K-Pop Demon Hunters into place, while Rhae, dressed as a fairy-princess-mermaid-pop-star, or whatever it was she had tried to explain, attempted to confiscate Captain America’s shield from Egg’s costume, and Aemon spiked his own hair with gel in front of the mirror like he was conducting a capillary science experiment.
Absolutely not.
Or worse. Much worse. Being crammed into the backseat of one of Daeron’s idiot friends’ cars while they debated some meaningless nonsense.
No.
Aerion had dignity. And wings.
So he called a rideshare himself and crossed from Manhattan to Queens like a displaced mythological creature seated on leather upholstery, while the driver watched him through the rearview mirror with that clinical stare that judges you down to the bone marrow, clearly trying to decide whether this was a costume, performance art, or a silent cry for help.
But Aerion ignored it. Great dragons do not explain themselves to Uber drivers.
When the skyscrapers began shrinking into the horizon and gave way to neat rows of brick townhouses, each with three front steps, iron railings, and glowing pumpkins flickering in suspicious shades of orange, while children in costumes that very obviously cost $19.99 on clearance flooded the streets happily, Aerion felt his heart race with anticipatory anxiety.
The car stopped.
Aerion paid the fare with solemnity, opened the door, and stepped out. One of his wings scraped against the vehicle with a dramatic scrrrrkkk that made the driver close his eyes for half a second, the expression of a man who deeply regretted not finishing college. But Aerion disentangled himself with theatrical dignity, as if it had been intentional.
He adjusted the chains on his pants. Cracked his neck. Lifting his chin was essential. A dragon does not bow to suburban architecture.
He climbed the three narrow steps as if entering a coronation hall, his audience consisting of a crooked-smiling pumpkin too lopsided to be threatening and two children on the sidewalk who stopped mid-step to stare at him in absolute silence before running away in fear.
Aerion ignored it. Few would understand the historical weight and singularity of that moment.
Before he could even ring the doorbell, the door swung open.
Arlan Pennytree appeared in the doorway like an explosion of friendliness dressed as a pirate. The eyepatch was crooked, the bandana was slipping, and he was holding a gigantic bowl of Laffy Taffy.
But the man’s smile faltered when he saw that chain-covered, scale-painted creature with enormous wings standing on his porch. He froze. Blinked. Blinked again. Nearly dropped the bowl.
“For the love of God, kid!” he exclaimed, looking Aerion up and down. “You look like a fancy demon!”
Aerion absorbed the phrase. Fancy demon.
That was acceptable. Very acceptable.
Definitely better than Maekar’s reaction, who had seriously considered locking the front door “to prevent you from getting arrested for traumatizing small children and causing one of my brain arteries to rupture when I get a call from the police station at 3 a.m.” or whatever it was Maekar had said that Aerion chose to ignore.
Arlan, on the other hand, broke into a wide grin once the initial shock wore off.
“Dunk!” he shouted into the house before heading back toward the kitchen. “Your satanic boyfriend is here!”
Heavy footsteps echoed down the staircase.
Aerion’s heart shot straight up into his throat. He was already slightly dizzy, his mind crafting forbidden cinematic imagery, prepared to witness the emergence of a colossal, muscular black dragon, maybe even with wings that rivaled his own in grandeur.
He adjusted his posture.
Took a deep breath.
Prepared himself for the greatest erotic impact of his life.
And then Dunk appeared.
But not with giant wings.
He was wearing an oversized gray hoodie, that undefined shade somewhere between “sad cloud” and “forgotten in the washing machine.” The faded sweatpants looked like they had survived three urban wars and lived to tell the tale. The sneakers? A veteran. A survivor. A symbol of footwear resilience.
His face was painted light gray, but not in scales. It looked more like he had dipped his hand in paint and decided to improvise.
Behind him, heroically attached with a shiny hair clip catching the living room light, was a gray felt tail, slightly crooked, with a black tip that looked like it had been colored in with a permanent marker.
And on his head…
A visibly hand-cut cardboard headband holding up two gigantic gray foam ears, white on the inside, slightly dented at the edges. They wobbled with every micro-movement Dunk made, as if they were trying to communicate with another dimension.
The universe made a dry cracking sound inside Aerion’s head.
His little horns almost seemed to wilt.
His mouth opened slowly. Too slowly. As if his brain were loading the image in 144p resolution before freezing completely.
Dunk finished coming down the stairs, proud, radiating happiness. He flashed a huge grin.
“Ta-da! So? What do you think, baby?”
Aerion blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Five.
Ten...
Internally, it felt like a hundred versions of him were screaming at the same time. His brain went into emergency mode. A Windows 98 computer trying to open three tabs of a modern game simultaneously. Blue screen.
Sepulchral silence.
All you could hear was Arlan in the kitchen cutting chocolate into microscopic pieces to hand out to the kids and, somewhere in the distance, a dog barking as if reacting to a rupture in the natural order of the universe.
Aerion’s mouth finally moved.
“Dunk… what fuck… the hell… is that?”
Dunk slowly spun in a full 360° turn like he was on a runway. The tail whipped around, and Aerion felt the sudden urge to murder his boyfriend.
“It’s Donkey!” Dunk declared excitedly, pointing at the ears like it was the most obvious and most incredible thing in the universe. “From Shrek! Look how awesome!”
Awesome.
The word echoed in Aerion’s head like a cosmic mockery. A direct punch to the dragon’s lineage and honor.
Aerion grabbed his head, forgetting about the carefully glued horns. Fuck the horns, Dunk had completely lost his mind.
“And the tail’s secure too, see?” the big guy added, wiggling his hips. The tail flopped like a soft whip.
It was different. It was absurd. It was rustic. It was innocent. It was homemade. It was… a donkey.
“You’re… dressed… as Donkey. From. Shrek?”
Aerion was still trying to process the information his eyes were delivering to his occipital lobe.
“Yeah! You’re the Dragon from Shrek, I’m Donkey! Perfect couple costume! Everyone’s gonna freak out over our matching outfits!”
A vein pulsed in the Targaryen’s forehead. This had to be some kind of sick joke.
“Dunk…” he took a deep breath, his voice dangerously controlled, “I am not dressed as the Dragon from Shrek.”
Dunk frowned. A look of genuine contemplation crossed his gray, splotchy, tempera-painted face. He placed a hand on his chin with the solemnity of a Greek philosopher… if that philosopher had hot glue stuck to his ear.
“How not, babe? The big red wings, the shiny scales, the cute little horns… it’s exactly like the dragon from the movie!”
Aerion felt the blood of his ancestors vibrate.
He straightened his wings. His posture. His dignity.
“THIS,” he pointed dramatically to his own chest, “is a dragon of Old Valyria. My ancestor. You are mocking my bloodline!”
The living room suddenly felt far too small for that level of indignation.
“How dare you compare my forebears, forged in fire and blood, to an animated dragon who has babies with an irritating donkey?!”
Dunk could, theoretically, have launched into an entire debate about how it was biologically impossible for someone to be a literal descendant of dragons. He could have cited genetics. Mentioned chromosomes. He could have even pointed out the minor detail that Aerion had never actually specified what he wanted or simply that it was Halloween and there was no need to fight over something that trivial.
But he looked at Aerion, at the wings flared in historical indignation and the horns trembling with ancestral fury and decided that maybe this was not the ideal moment.
He took a deep breath. Adopted the most peaceful posture a man with crooked foam ears can possibly adopt.
“Sweetheart…” he began, in a gentle, almost therapeutic tone, “I thought this costume was the dragon from Shrek… You love animated movies. You always cry when we watch How to Train Your Dragon! They’re cartoons from the same studio, even… how was I supposed to guess it wasn’t Shrek?”
Aerion opened his mouth, even more outraged. How could that six-foot-plus idiot possibly think such a thing?
“First,” the Targaryen raised a trembling finger, “How to Train Your Dragon is not a ‘cartoon.’ It is an audiovisual work of complex emotional construction.”
Dunk nodded as if listening to a dissertation.
“Second, I do not cry. I am moved by the narrative.”
“You sob and need someone to hold you afterward!”
“I AM DEEPLY MOVED!”
And it was true. Aerion cried watching How to Train Your Dragon. He cried over the score. He cried over the bond between human and creature. He cried over the tragic beauty of flight as a metaphor for freedom. He even cried during the end credits.
“That franchise treats dragons with solemnity, respect, grandeur!” Aerion was pacing the living room now as if arguing a case before the Supreme Court. “Meanwhile Shrek turned the most majestic creature in history into the girlfriend of a talkative donkey with early-2000s radio host energy in a movie that makes metaphors about onions!”
Dunk raised his hand timidly.
“Layers are important…”
“DO NOT TALK TO ME ABOUT LAYERS!”
Aerion turned to Dunk with the look of someone who had just lost faith in humanity.
There had been so many options for Duncan’s costume. A dragon, as expected. A knight. A Valyrian mage. Even a dragon egg.
But not a ridiculous donkey.
Aerion ran a dramatic hand through his platinum-blond hair.
“I don’t know what this constant need of yours to reinforce that you’re a donkey is,” he said, in that venomous, elegant, almost artistic tone of mockery. “Everyone already knows that. You don’t need a costume to make it more obvious.”
“Hey!”
“Also,” Aerion continued, arms crossed in passive-aggressive hauteur, “Duncan and Donkey are spelled far too similarly to be a coincidence.”
Dunk went quiet for two seconds.
Two dangerous seconds.
And then he laughed.
Not just any laugh. It was open. Bright. Scandalously happy. The kind of laugh that knows no resentment, doesn’t understand irony, and refuses to perform semiotic analysis on its own outfit. The laugh of someone who wakes up and chooses happiness even while dressed as a donkey with visible tape holding things together.
It was the kind of laugh that made Aerion want to punch him.
And kiss him.
And punch him again.
“That’s awesome!” Dunk declared, genuinely thrilled. “My name sounds like a famous character!”
Before Aerion could say anything further about that absurdity, Dunk leaned down and stole a quick, loud, perfectly aimed kiss taking advantage of the indignant pout Aerion wore whenever he felt offended, that involuntary aristocratic duck-face.
“Relax, Aerion,” he said, smiling like he had just won an award. “Donkey’s one of the greatest characters in fiction! I’m sure everyone’s gonna love it. We’re gonna be a total hit!”
Aerion turned red. Redder than the meticulously painted scales covering his body. Redder than Targaryen dignity set on fire.
But he tried to maintain composure. Spine straight. Chin lifted. Superior violet gaze.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Dunk flashed a devastating grin.
“And you love me, baby!”
“I hate you, Dunk.”
“Liar!”
He gave him another quick kiss. This time right on the tip of his nose, carefully calculated not to smudge the hours of dramatic makeup Aerion had applied like he was preparing for a championship.
“Ready?” Dunk asked eagerly. “The party’s probably going crazy by now. Lyonel’s most likely already standing on a table dancing.”
Aerion let out a resigned sigh. A long, ancestral sigh, before taking Dunk’s hand.
“Let’s go before I kill you with my chains and use those ugly ears as a war trophy.”
And off they went, hand in hand. Dunk walking like he was strutting an international rural couture runway, tail swaying, and Aerion with his head held high, steps firm, wings spread far too wide for the sidewalk, utterly unconcerned that other pedestrians might also wish to pass, because in Aerion’s mind, he owned the street.
Even beside a giant, goofy boyfriend dressed as a cartoon donkey.
Because in the end, dragons conquered kingdoms. But donkeys conquered dragons.