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When Aerion was younger he used to follow his mother Princess Dyanna whenever she visited the poorhouses and tended to the smallfolk. Since her death, Aerion has barely ever gone to walk amongst the smallfolk nor does he partake in charity in the ways his mother had.

“Why are you so against it Dunk?” Aerion fumes, “I’m not asking you to follow me to do charity or anything the likes! I just want to walk around and see the streets, take in the sights and sounds that sort of thing. Is that so wrong?”

“It’s not wrong…” Dunk mutters, “It’s just highly dangerous, is all. I’ve never been back there again since I left.”

“All the more reason for us to go then. You can show me where you lived or something!” Aerion says as he nudges an arm against his knight’s side, “Come on Dunk. Have some fun for once.”

Dunk lets out a sigh. It is good that the Prince wishes to learn about him and his past but Flea Bottom is not exactly a place that Dunk wishes to go with Aerion, especially given that the latter is a prince.

“The moment someone spots your pale hair or your eyes, you’d be done for, my prince.”

“But I’d have you there won’t I?” Aerion asks, turning those gleaming lilac eyes up to him.

“Gods,” Dunk exhales again, “See I might be a part of the Kingsguard but I won’t be out there lawlessly killing them smallfolk now…”

“I didn’t ask you to! I’m just asking you to defend me as is necessary so that we can have a walk about. I mean if you’re not up for the task I can always just go on my own or ask some other Kingsguard,” Aerion threatens, “It’s no matter to me.”

Dunk hates when Aerion does that. The Prince knows how much he hates being cast aside in favour of others and he employs Dunk’s weakness against him so well. He figures it’s part of Aerion’s defence mechanism with the way the prince so readily dismisses it all whenever they argue.

“Alright,” Dunk relents, “Alright, we’ll go. But promise me you’ll keep your hood up at all times and stick close.”

“Oh you can bet that I will be staying by your side at all times,” Aerion promised.

Now, they moved through the crowded streets, Aerion with his hood up, keeping stride with Ser Duncan as they passed by the market where people were hawking their wares and services. Animals and unmentionables, produce and piss, everything mixed in together in the lanes. The smells are enough to burn his eyebrows off his face and Aerion tried hard not to choke as they hurriedly took a winding back street.

As they entered, a group of children ran past them careening right into Aerion who stumbled back against Dunk.

“Watch where you’re going!” Dunk called after them as he righted the prince, “Are you alright? he asks turning his attention to Aerion.

The prince in question patted himself down, dagger still strapped into place. He’s glad he hadn’t thought to bring a purse of coins along or he’s sure he would have been robbed.

“The rascals didn’t take anything,” Aerion confirms.

But from behind them there came a loud, crude whistle.

“Look at the pretty thing that decided to walk in on us, lads!”

Dunk and Aerion turned just then to find a small cluster of drunken, unwashed men lounging at the back of what seemed to be an alehouse.

“Seven fucking Hells…that’s one of the dragon princes, innit?”

“Bet he’s never seen an honest day’s work in his life, ‘as he?”

A round of laughter bubbles through them and Aerion realises then that his hood had slipped off. He can feel Dunk’s hand on his shoulder now, steering him carefully behind his large frame.

“We’ve no trouble with you now,” Dunk says as he places himself between Aerion and these drunks.

One of them with a cracked tooth, grinned as he spat on the ground, “Course not. You hand him over and we’ll be outta here. Pretty thing like that would fetch a lot of coin y’know. If he’s willing to work on his knees where he belongs.”

The crude joke gets a laugh out of Cracked-Tooth’s friends.

“Wonder how much coin it takes eh?” the heavy set one asks, “To get a prince to suck your cock. How much you want for him big lad?”

“Big lad’s his guard. See the way it holds itself in front of the pretty thing?” their leader points out, “Bet this one spreads his legs for half the court, good for nothing whore prince!”

Aerion’s hands tightened about Dunk’s arm, jaw tight, “Let’s go,” he whispers to Dunk as he refuses to acknowledge them.

But Dunk doesn’t budge.

If anything, he’s taken a step towards them, “You best watch your tongues when addressing a prince,” Dunk snarls, “Show some respect or I’ll teach it to you.”

The three of them laughed, each one seeming to crack their joints, emboldened by drink as they stepped towards Dunk.

“You want us to respect that pretty whore?” the leader asked, “Who’re you huh?”

“Ser Duncan the Tall,” Dunk answers, “Of the Kingsguard,” he adds as he shows the official badge he’d brought with him.

“Oho a big white cloak eh?” Cracked-Tooth sneers as he tries to take a swipe at the badge which Dunk holds out of his reach.

“Must be bewitched by the little slut,” the heavy set man chuckles, “How’s it feel? I bet your prince sucks cock better than a dockside whore, eh?”

“Oy, maybe ‘im’s the one what does the sucking! Pretty thing’s got the big one wrapped about his finger…or his prick!” Cracked-Tooth cackles.

That is all it takes.

Dunk moves before he can stop himself. His fist catches the man square in the jaw where he’s sure he heard a sickening crack. He hopes the man looses another tooth. In a fluid movement, he tosses the man into the wall, narrowly avoiding the leader’s attack with a broken bottle, jagged edge whizzing by.

Dunk rounds on him, elbow slamming into his gut to wind him before he delivers another fist to the leader’s face, sending him to join his friend.

Now the third, cracked his knuckles and roared. He was nearly as big as Dunk and they seemed equally matched, trading blow for blow. Aerion feared for his knight for Dunk is already bleeding and bruised and the attacker didn’t seem to be tiring any time soon.

Instinctively, Aerion rushes to grab the clay pitcher which was perched upon a crate near the table the rascals had gathered about and he smashes it over the head of Dunk’s attacker.

The man crumples to his knees in the dirt, his large body landing with a dull thud. Dunk looks at him eyes wide with shock and ferocity.

“Are you alright?” Aerion asks feeling real worry flicker through him as Dunk puts a hand to his bleeding nose.

“Could be better,” Dunk mumbles wiping the crimson stain unto his tunic now as he surveys the groaning mess of the other two men. He feels a sudden overwhelming urge to end them where they lie in the ground.

“What’s happening here?” a woman calls as she exits from the back of the alehouse now gasping at the carnage on her property, “What in the…” her eyes flicked to Aerion now and she pales visibly.

“We should go,” Aerion says as he takes hold of Dunk’s arm now, voice clipped, “Leave them. They’re not worth staining your hands with more blood.”

Dunk of course, cannot agree with it, “They insulted you. I cannot allow that to slide.”

“Remember what you said about not harming the smallfolk?” Aerion points out, “They’re drunk. Leave them to rot. We’ll go back to the Keep and get you looked at. I can’t have you bleeding out and shirking your duties.”

Dunk let himself be led away by the prince. His entire body remained tensed for a fight. Those bastards should have met their end by his hand for such horrible words. It occurred to him then that he would be willing to kill for Aerion, to protect his prince. And Dunk feels his heart ache at the weight of his feelings for the prince.

Is it bad that he feels he’s more in love with Aerion as compared to how much the prince is in love with him?

It’s no wonder they haven’t stepped out of the Red Keep in ages.

Poverty must certainly stress the smallfolk out so much that they want to numb themselves with ale at all hours of the day. This would all have been avoided if Aerion hadn’t insisted that they go and have a look about town. So yes…he does feel responsible for Dunk’s injuries as much as Aerion didn’t like to admit it.

They ride back to the Red Keep together, both apparently lost in their thoughts.

Aerion had his hood up the whole time they were riding back, keeping it low over his face. He didn’t want any more trouble for Dunk.

When they were back in the safety of the Red Keep, he ordered the maesters to bring some medical supplies up to his chambers. There, he worked in silence tending to Ser Duncan’s wounds. He’d also asked for their dinner to be taken up to them, his knight deserved something good to eat after the beating he’s suffered.

Aerion gathered up the materials he needs, clean cloths, a basin of water and the maester’s salves.

Dunk, obedient as ever sits upon the edge of the prince’s bed, shirtless as he let the Targaryen prince tend him. All through their ride on the way back, Aerion hadn’t spoken to him. For his part, Dunk had not offered to say anything to Prince Aerion either. The idea had been a bad one as he had originally predicted. And in all honesty, the words ‘I told you so’ hung in the back of his mind.

But Dunk couldn’t bring himself to say it.

So the silence stretched on between them.

Aerion’s hands are gentle as they cleaned the his knight’s split knuckles and daubed salve onto them. When he leans in towards Dunk now to test his bruised ribs with gentle fingers, Dunk realises that the prince’s mouth is pressed into a thin, severe line. Aerion barely wanted to look him in the eye.

“You’re angry with me,” Dunk mutters, feeling an ache in his heart even when he knows he’s not in the wrong.

Aerion sighs at that, grabbing the jar of salve as he brings his fingers to Dunk’s bruised ribs once more. He’s more angry at himself than anything, “You’re a big idiot to start punching those fools. I mean what were you thinking? You were outnumbered. Three to one Dunk,” Aerion says his concern thinly veiled, “Honestly, you shouldn’t have risen to their taunting. It was only words, they’re meaningless.”

A dark look flickers across Dunk’s face, “No they’re not.”

“They certainly are,” Aerion counters, “Those men were drunk out of their minds and probably haven’t had good cunt in weeks because they’re so damned poor. So they spout nonsense as an outlet to relieve their stress.”

“Nonsense?” Dunk questions brows furrowed together as he regards his prince with a stern look, “They were speaking badly about you, Aerion.”

“I’m well aware,” Aerion snaps.

“Knighthood or not, if I’m laying with you, I will not have anyone speak about you like that,” Dunk says, voice firm, “I did right giving them my fist.”

Aerion clicks his tongue softly, fingers working the last of the salve unto Dunk’s bruised ribs, “And what do you think they’re going to do once they’re feeling better?” he counters grabbing another fresh set of bandages as he motions for Dunk to lean forward, “They’re going to start spreading rumours saying Ser Duncan and Prince Aerion are in bed together, or worse.”

“Besides, the tourney in celebration for my brother’s nameday is coming up and now here you are, all injured like this,” Aerion continues, one hand brushing gently over Dunk’s bandaged ribs, “Chances are you’ll be unseated in your first match. So it’s best you forfeit it altogether.”

Dunk hisses, the salve perfectly minty against his bruised ribs. It aches like his heart, though perhaps in a lesser magnitude.

“This is no excuse, I’ll still fight as your man!” Dunk argues as he grabs the prince’s hand before Aerion can withdraw, “And…about us…” he averts his eyes, “Your uncle knows the truth. And if he does, as King…then I’m sure the people must’ve known too, aye?”

“Oh my uncle knows everything,” Aerion laughs scathingly, his hand warm in Dunk’s, “As for the people they likely guessed at it before. Now…well…it seems rather apparent doesn’t it?”

“Are you ashamed of us?” Dunk asks voice soft, hurt almost.

Aerion rolls his eyes, the motion exaggerated as he pulled his hand away from Dunk’s, “You know I’m not. If I were I’d have stopped letting you see me a long time ago.”

“Then…what is it?” Dunk asks as he sits upon the edge of the bed, watching the prince pack away the supplies.

“You’re a Kingsguard,” Aerion answers pointedly, lilac eyes flashing with frustration and something softer beneath, “I am a prince. Go and figure that one out, Dunk.”

The words hang heavy between them as Aerion busied himself.

It takes a moment, but Dunk gets the sense then that Aerion blames himself for the way things had turned out.

“Aerion.”

“What?” the prince asks, a soft tremor in his voice.

Dunk frowns, as he tries again, “Aerion…”

“What?!!” the prince snaps at him, lilac eyes glaring all fiercely at him.

“Come here,” Dunk says as he holds a hand out to the prince.

Aerion rolls his eyes again, arms crossed over his chest as he goes back to Dunk’s side. He watches, eyes downcast as Dunk’s large hand made to cover his own.

“Stop this,” the prince ground out, “Just say it already. You blame me for your injuries, go on.”

“I told you so,” Dunk says softly, watching Aerion’s gaze rise to meet his in open frustration, “That’s something I would say if I didn’t already think you were beating yourself up over my injuries. That’s why you’re so nice to me…isn’t it?”

Aerion’s cheeks turn a violent shade of red and Dunk’s lips twist up in a small, pleased smile.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Dunk assures, “But at least listen to what I have to say to you, hm?”

The prince tilts his head to the side now, fixing him with a pointed lilac gaze as if to say: go on.

“I know what I am,” Dunk says as he draws Aerion down to sit beside him, “And I know full well what you are. I can name a thousand and one differences between us, some of which…I think you feel are grounds for us not to be together. But…see…when they spoke of you that way, I could not simply stand by and take it.”

Aerion uncrossed his arms, settling for clasping his hands now as he let Dunk speak.

“My vows as part of the Kingsguard are to protect you. But with or without that white cloak, I would have protected you against those men for the foul words they spoke. Simple as that.”

Aerion’s shoulders relaxed just a little as he reached for Dunk’s hand, intertwining their fingers. He finds himself brushing his thumb over the back of his knight’s hand.

“You great stubborn oaf,” he murmurs, voice losing its edge, “You bleed for me over meaningless words. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Let me keep doing it, I suppose?” Dunk offers, bumping his shoulder against Aerion’s, blue eyes gleaming as a smile flitted upon his lips.

Aerion huffs a soft laugh and leans his head against Dunk’s shoulder, a gentle warmth blooming within his chest as he revels in the presence of his knight.

“We’ll take our dinner and then…you’re sleeping in my bed tonight. No arguments,” Aerion states, “I need you fully recovered for the tourney.”

Dunk nods, “As you wish, my prince.”

A prince’s nameday is always a cause for joy for everyone in King’s Landing.

This morning, Aerion stands in the maester’s tent off to the side of the makeshift field that they’ve created specially for this occasion. Dunk is seated on a bench as the maester finishes tending to him. The bruises on his knight’s face have darkened to ugly purple blossoms and Dunk still winces, just barely when the maester tells him to dress himself.

“Well?” Aerion prompts the old man, “Can he fight?”

The maester shakes his head, “I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” he says with a troubled look, “What Ser Duncan needs is rest.”

“But I can see just fine!” Dunk hastily replies as he stalks over to Aerion, “My ribs barely hurt any more.”

Aerion raises a brow, “Really?” he asks as he takes a finger to Dunk’s ribs, pressing against it ever so slightly and watching his knight wince in response.

“Well it’s not that bad!” Dunk argues through gritted teeth, “You can press it somewhat now…that has to be good…right?”

The maester cocks a brow at him in utter disbelief.

“You’re in no condition to be out there,” Aerion answers, “Even the Maester here agrees. I’ll take you off the roster.”

“What?! No!” Dunk snaps as he catches the Prince’s arm before Aerion can leave, “No…please…Your Grace, you can’t!”

At that, the maester hurriedly clears his throat and mumbles something about needing to get fresh water.

Once he excuses himself, Dunk is left alone with his prince.

“Ser Duncan have you suddenly lost your mind?” Aerion questions, feeling Dunk’s warm grip upon his arm, “I am trying to prevent you from getting further injuries. Yet you seem rather content to charge head first into danger! What is the matter with you?”

“Is it my fault then that I got hurt?!” Dunk counters, as he gestures to his side, “You cannot find a replacement for me now, surely?! It’s too late for that.”

“Oh so that’s what you’re thinking about??!” Aerion asks appalled, “You think I’m going to replace you?”

“Is that…not the case?” Dunk asks his tone softer now, fingers flexing against the prince’s arm.

“Gods…you silly lunk, I said I’m going to remove you from the roster not replace you!” Aerion chides as he shifts to step closer to his knight, “You look horrible,” he teases one hand moving to cup Dunk’s bruised face.

“If you remove me then….who will fight in your name? You will need a champion to fight for you,” Dunk frowns, leaning into Aerion’s hand, “Your brother Prince Daeron has himself Ser Elras and Prince Valarr has Ser Wyllam. Even young Prince Aegon has Ser Malcolm to fight for him. It will look ill on you if you have no one, Your Grace.”

Aerion tuts as he lets his thumb caress Dunk’s bruised cheek, “There’s no need for you to worry about that. We’ll simply not participate this year,” he says with a shrug, “There will always be other tourneys. Daeron will be older next year and you can fight then if you still wish.”

Dunk finds himself grinning as he takes Aerion’s hand in his, squeezing it softly at the prospect of a future for them, “That’s heartening to hear but…I still want to fight this year.”

Aerion scowls at that, the expression so utterly petulant for a prince that Dunk huffs a laugh, the pain in his ribs aching enough for him to hiss.

“Seven Hells, you are stubborn,” Aerion accuses.

“Much like you, Your Grace,” Dunk answers with a grin that felt as warm as the sun.

Aerion’s scowl deepened for a heartbeat. He can tell there’s no changing his knight’s mind. So with a sigh that is both fond and resentful he relents, “Fine, you have my blessing to fight as my champion. But you’ll swear to be careful, understand?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Don’t do anything dangerous again. There’s no need for you to be the hero here, because Gods know you’ve already done that once before,” Aerion chides fondly, taking a step back from Dunk now, “And since you’re insisting on fighting, I have something for you…”

Dunk watches as Prince Aerion draws a long silken ribbon from his tunic.

It is crimson fire edged with gold.

The Prince’s favour!

Dunk felt his insides turn to mush as Aerion motioned for his arm. He gives it willingly as he watches those careful fingers tying the silk to his upper arm.

“Fits you better than bandages, that’s for sure,” Aerion mutters encouragingly, cheeks heating as he secures his favour about his knight’s thick upper arm. It’s silly but somehow, seeing his colours upon Ser Duncan’s arm did something to him. It makes the Targaryen prince feel all warm and protected.

Dunk reached a hand to touch the ribbon before he met the Prince’s eyes, “I shall carry this with honour, Your Grace. And when I win, it will be for you.”

Aerion shakes his head, “There’s no need to win anything, you stubborn oaf,” he says fondly, “You’ve already bled for me once. Just…come back to me in one piece, alright? That’s all I ask.”

“I will do my best,” Dunk answers with a firm nod, “Might I ask for a kiss for good luck too?”

“You’re really pushing it now, Dunk,” Aerion chides. But nevertheless, he leans in, one hand perched upon his knight’s shoulder as he rises upon his toes and presses a kiss to Dunk’s cheek.

“There, good luck and the Warrior be with you, Ser Duncan,” Aerion says his cheeks aflame.

Upon leaving the maester’s tents, Aerion takes himself up to the royal stand set beneath a canopy of crimson and black fabrics.

In the stands beneath, all manner of smallfolk and noblemen cheered the knights.

Banners flutter in the winds and every now and then, the herald signals the start of a new match with a rousing blast of trumpets.

The crowds cheered and roared as metal clanked and lances splintered upon shields. Horses thundered across the tilt-readied fields racing their knights towards each other.

Despite his lingering injuries, Ser Duncan performs well enough. He unseated two lesser knights in clean manoeuvres with his lance. The third he took to fighting on foot and when the man raised an arm to yield, Dunk stepped back and offered his opponent a hand to pull him up.

Each time he canters past the royal stands, Ser Duncan is sure to lift his head and offer a nod to Prince Aerion. It is a gesture of respect. And one which as much as it flusters Aerion also makes him feel proud to have Ser Duncan fighting in his name.

“Seems your bed warmer is getting to be rather bold, hm?” Daeron asks leaning over in the seat of honour to speak with his brother, “How are you finding him by the way? Not tiring of him any time soon?’

Aerion narrows his eyes at his brother, “Why, do you wish to poach him from my services” he hisses under his breath, “Because I will not allow it.”

Daeron smirks, “Not even going to let me test him out on my birthday, brother dear?”

“Not even then,” Aerion answers coldly.

Daeron chuckles, “Oh!! You like him!” he exclaims louder now.

“Who?” Aegon pipes up on Aerion’s right now, “Who does Aerion like?”

“No one, whelp! Stop making noise!” Aerion snaps at his younger brother.

“Now I’m genuinely curious. Is it Ser Duncan?” Aegon presses, “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with him.”

“He is my personal guard. It’s his job to spend time with me. No more questions now or I’ll snip your tongue out,” Aerion threatens before swiftly turning back to Daeron, “And you, Daeron. You will hold your tongue lest I have it wrenched out for speaking nonsense and giving others ideas,” Aerion scowls as he keeps his eyes trained upon the field now.

“Oh I doubt that’s nonsense,” Daeron says, “Cousin Valarr and I have discussed it. The only thing we’re lacking is proper proof of your affections for him. You are…very discreet with Ser Duncan more so than any one else.”

“Because nothing is happening,” Aerion answers pointedly.

“No? Then why is your favour tied to Ser Duncan’s arm?” Daeron continues as he nudges Aerion’s arm, “Any fool with eyes can see that bit of cloth on your big knight’s arm.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just custom.”

“No it isn’t,” Daeron says in a sing song voice.

“What and you didn’t give your knight your favour?” Aerion snarks.

“Not at all. I saved my favour,” Daeron says as he brings out his own silk ribbon and waves it about in front of Aerion, “Not a worthy soul here now.”

Aerion clicks his tongue, “Get that out of my face, at once! I don’t care to know what you’ve done with your favour!”

“OH!” Daeron exclaims all excited now, “You do like him! Your cheeks are going all red! I have to tell father!”

Aerion reaches over to pinch his brother’s arm, “Do that and I will make sure you do not live to see your next nameday, brother dear.”

Daeron hisses batting at Aerion’s hand, “Alright, alright! Seven Hells I only said it in jest! Sooner or later he’ll find out anyway.”

“I’d rather it be later,” Aerion mutters as he watches the herald take to the field again now.

Another blast of trumpets followed as the herald announced the special petition round. It is an age old tradition that occurs during the tourneys held on the namedays of the ruling family. Any contender with a worthy cause can stand to challenge a person of their choosing for the chance of earning a royal petition from the King.

Today, Aerion’s eyes widen when they announced the petitioner.

“What in the Seven Hells is he doing here?!” Aerion asks as he drew himself up in his seat watching as the former Kingsguard Ser Roland Crakehall came to a stop before the royal stand. The only thing different about the man now is that he doesn’t sport the armour or cloak of a Kingsguard.

About a month or so ago, Ser Roland had been stripped of his cloak and position after Aerion had told his uncle about the devious ploy the knight had devised to win him back from Ser Duncan. It had started with an unsuspecting note and ended with his drink spiked.

The man’s usually jovial face is set sternly now as he bows in his saddle eyes turned up to the royal stand.

“I come before you today, my king, to petition for the right to regain my cloak and place in the Kingsguard,” he says voice carrying strong around the field, “I call upon one of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall to be my opponent and stand against me by right of combat. I ask His Majesty to permit me one final chance to regain my honour.”

Aerion’s fingers tightened upon the arms of his chair. This is not something he’d expected at all. He turns ever so slightly to look down the line to Daeron’s left where his uncle sits.

‘Don’t allow it. Gods, please don’t allow it.’

He watches the way his uncle’s lips pressed into a thin line and then he nods, “I grant you your match Roland of Crakehall. Tourneys are for proving one’s worth. May you show us how worthy you are today.”

The crowds broke into murmurs and cheers some excited by the prospect of two true enemies competing. Everyone knows of the bad blood between the two men in this challenge. They knew the terms on which Roland’s stint as a Kingsguard had ended, Aerion had made sure of it. Now he feels his blood run cold. The crowds are like hounds baying for blood and he wanted to put an end to all of them.

From one end of the field, Dunk rides out again, seated steady upon his mount.

Aerion leans forward in his seat now. Even from this distance he can see the stiffness in his knight’s shoulders.

“He doesn’t look good,” Aegon says now as he rises from his seat moving to stand against the rail of the royal box.

Aerion bites the inside of his cheek as he watches Dunk take up a lance, holding it steady. It’s clear as day that he’s favouring his bruised side, angling it behind his shield, or…trying to anyway. The other rounds have clearly tired him out. At the other end, Aerion notes the way the former Kingsguard’s eyes are trained upon Ser Duncan.

Determination as Aerion knew can get one rather far and he hopes against everything now that Dunk would be triumphant.

The two men take up their positions at opposite ends of the lists and the field turns quiet.

Then the blare of a trumpet breaks through the air.

The two horses surge forward as the men ride on, lances lowered.

The crash is thunderous in the air as lances strike their mark.

One round.

They ready for the next pass, hooves of horses thundering in the dirt.

Aerion feels his heart stop when he sees the way Roland’s lance lowered slightly at the very last moment now, aimed lower.

The lance struck Dunk’s already injured side and sent his knight tumbling from his mount with another thunderous crash.

The crowd gasped and in the dirt, Dunk groaned as he rolled onto his uninjured side trying to right himself.

Without thinking Aerion shot to his feet, “Dunk!”

From where he stands, Aerion cranes his neck to get a look at his knight. It didn’t seem like he is going to be getting up any time soon.

Across the field, Roland reined in his horse. He raised his visor and a smug, triumphant sneer curled onto his lips.

The crowd began to murmur as Dunk stayed where he was, downed on the field.

“The winner—”

“I challenge Roland of Crakehall!” Aerion announces as he strides to the edge of the royal stand, voice echoing steadily across the field.

The murmurs silenced as all eyes turned to the Targaryen prince in the royal stand.

“I challenge him for the right to remain in King’s Landing and for his honour. Something which he has clearly forgotten this day,” Aerion continues, lilac eyes ablaze as squires raced to the field to help Ser Duncan to his feet. His knight’s cloak is muddied and his armour badly dented from the fall. Seven knows how his wounds would look like.

Aerion tried to stamp out the worry he felt as he continued, “If you wish to prove yourself worthy of your cloak again Roland, then you will face me on the field or…you can yield your petition now,” he threatens watching the way the former Kingsguard’s eyes narrowed, smile faltering.

The crowd seemed to be holding their breath now and behind him Aerion can feel the eyes of his family fixed upon him. A prince didn’t usually dirty their hands to issue such a challenge. But Aerion cannot help himself, not when Dunk is currently being helped from the field, one hand pressed against the side with his injured ribs.

“I accept your challenge Prince Aerion!” Roland calls now as he canters over to the royal box, “Let us meet on the field then.”

“So be it,” Aerion answers firmly as he takes his leave of the royal stand.

No one can stop him now.

Not even his father.

One of the pavilions beside the lists is cleared for the Prince’s usage and now Aerion stands within, squires moving to help him with his armour which had been rushed from the Red Keep to the field. The ornate dragon scale armour is dark as night. Each little scale is made of thin sheets of burnished ironwork and painted with a gold outline. He chose a simple visored helm to accompany it.

Nearby, Dunk is seated on a wooden bench as two maesters tended to his wounds. They stitched up the wound upon his torso where the lance had grazed his side. The good news, is that it isn’t fatal. The bad news, Dunk would take an even longer time to heal. Every touch seemed to make his knight hiss in pain and it made Aerion itch to be out on the field, blade swinging at the man who had thought to harm his knight.

“You shouldn’t be doing this for me, Your Grace,” Dunk says, voice tight with pain and worry, “Not for me anyway.”

“This isn’t just for you,” Aerion snarls as a squire worked his greaves on, tightening the leather straps, “I’ve had it with Roland’s interfering. He thinks that he can simply slither back into our Keep and our favour by humiliating my knight? I will not allow it!”

Quietly, the squires worked faster upon the prince, sensing Aerion’s growing foul mood. They no doubt wished to be away from him as they fastened his pauldrons and breastplate in place.

Just then, a soft clearing of a throat cuts through the tent and King Baelor enters. The maesters and squires who were now done with their work stepped back, gave a bow and hurriedly took their leave.

Dunk at once tries to drop to a knee, he meant to beg for forgiveness, “My king I—”

Only, King Baelor tuts softly and stops the knight mid-sentence, “Please, remain where you are, Ser Duncan. There is no need for formalities now. You have taken enough beatings for a day. Now you must rest.”

Then he turns to his nephew, “Aerion.”

“Uncle,” the prince murmurs, nodding to him as he kept his eyes averted. He can guess at the reason why the man is here.

“If you have come here to stop me on behalf of my father,” Aerion continues before King Baelor can speak, “You will find that I am not inclined to listen to either of your words at the moment. I know…father must be furious with me. But you cannot stop me. I simply will not allow it.”

Baelor hums as he studies his nephew for a long moment, “You would fight for Ser Duncan then?” he asks his tone light but carrying with it a pointed meaning.

Aerion’s cheeks heated at the implication of his uncle’s words. This is indeed more than just a questioning of one’s honour and knighthood. It is more than a necessary act of protection.

He lifts his chin higher now as he meets the King’s eyes, “I am fighting because I will not have my knight and therefore myself, humiliated by a Lannister loyalist who is desperately trying to slither his way back to earn a cloak that he no longer deserves,” Aerion counters, tone sharp, “Roland has made a grave mistake once before. He has shown his true colours. Today, he petitioned the right to combat. He acted all chivalrous and then aimed for Dunk’s — that is…Ser Duncan’s — ribs. Tell me you did not see that too, uncle?”

“He made good use of his petition to attack an enemy under the guise of chivalry,” King Baelor notes, his lips turned in a frown, “He is dangerous. That much is evident. But you already know that. So, very well. The petition round is yours to claim. Go with my blessing and promise me for your father’s sake that you will be careful,” he adds placing one hand upon his nephew’s shoulder, “Maekar would want you to be safe. Once you enter that arena there will be no turning back and Roland is…ruthless.”

“Roland the Ruthless,” Aerion snarks at the newfound title, “I suppose I must aim to be twice as ruthless then.”

“No. You must act with honour, Brightflame,” Baelor says as he clasps his nephew’s neck, “Whatever the outcome, the people are watching. They will remember how their Prince acted, remember that.”

Once the King had left, Dunk made to get to his feet but Aerion promptly stopped him where he sat, crossing over to him instead.

“Gods, you’re a horrible piece of work,” Aerion mutters looking at the fresh cuts and bruises adorning his knight. “When I go out there, it will be for revenge.”

“My prince…Aerion…” Dunk says as he looks up at the man with pained eyes, voice low, “You should forfeit the match. I do not mind it. Roland can return for all I care. I do not want him to hurt you.”

“Oh the bastard has already hurt me in more ways than one,” Aerion says as he stands between Dunk’s legs, tucking blond, shoulder-length hair behind his knight’s ears, “You’ve already done your duty and stood for me today in the lists. You fought well and bled for me. Again, I might add. Now it’s time for me to stand for you and return the favour. Without the bleeding of course,” he adds with a chuckle as he leans down to press a brief kiss to Dunk’s forehead.

“You stay here and rest,” Aerion whispers, nose brushing against Dunk’s affectionately, “You’ve done so well. Now just wait for me to return victorious. I’ll show that bastard, he messed with the wrong prince.”

With that, Aerion turned on his heel, tucked his helm under his arm and strode out of the pavilion, headed for the lists.

A murmur ripples through the crowd now as Prince Aerion Targaryen takes to the field at the other end across from the challenger Roland.

The Prince looks every inch like a young dragon, all regal and ferocious perched upon his mount. At the other end, Roland’s look is one of amusement mixed in with a firm determination as he slams his visor shut.

Aerion does the same, and his field of vision narrows to a slim slit. He can hear his own breathing. Each breath is calm and measured. He’s fought in tourneys before though that was solely for sport. This time, he fights for something different. At his side, the squire hands him his lance, the black and crimson paint catching in the sun.

The herald calls out the match and then the trumpets sound.

At once, the men charge at each other.

Aerion’s first lance shatters perfectly against Roland’s shield with a thunderous crack. It is a measured strike, gallant enough that it would leave his opponent seated and unguarded. Roland has, after all, never seen him truly partake in a match before now. So he would have no idea of what is to come.

Aerion intended to play with him just a bit.

As expected, Roland threw his head back and laughed as they both rode past each other and readied their horses for the next pass.

He seemed thoroughly pleased with himself for staying mounted.

‘Good,’ Aerion thinks coldly. He wants the man in good spirits right before he crushes them entirely.

He follows in the same pattern once more, giving the people a good sporting match as he broke his second lance in a clean crack, lance tucked in close as he braced himself, thighs working to cling to his mount.

The third and the fourth lances followed in quick succession each one shattering when it met with Roland’s shield armour. Now the crowds cheered and murmured, surprise and excitement growing uproariously loud. They were clearly excited at witnessing a real contest.

And Roland? Well, naturally, the boastful man grew ever bolder with each pass that he remained in his saddle. He started to get that confidence that he was actually worth something to still be seated firmly in his saddle after four broken lances.

So, as Aerion had predicted, Roland started taunting him in between passes.

“Is that all the little dragon has?” Roland calls as they prepared for their fifth bout, “Come on, Prince Aerion? I thought you challenged me because you wanted to fight for your precious white cloaked lunk?”

Words don’t mean a thing.

Aerion didn’t deign the man a response as he rides past Roland in silence.

He takes up his fifth lance from the squire now. He’s had enough fun playing with his prey.

It’s time to finish things once and for all.

Couching his lance, Aerion glares his opponent down.

Spurs dig into the sides of his mount and he is off, thundering at a great speed.

This time there is no quarter given and the lance strikes Roland squarely in his chest. Aerion grunted with the jarring bash of resistance he met as wood exploded. This time Roland was unseated, lifted right out of his saddle by the brute force of Aerion’s latest strike. Like Ser Duncan before him, Roland crashed unceremoniously into the dirt, armour clanging as the air was knocked out of his lungs.

The field and the stands watched on in silence.

Aerion flings the useless broken lance aside now as he dismounts in a single, fluid motion, jumping from horseback before his mount had truly stopped.

He draws his blade with a sharp ‘shringgg’ and advanced upon the fallen Roland of Crakehall like a dragon sighting wounded sheep.

As he nears, Aerion pushes his visor up.

“On your feet, cur,” Aerion snarls, as he holds the man at sword point, “Now, let us finish this.”

Roland staggered upright at once, coughing and wheezing as he flipped his visor up as well. His face is twisted and red with rage as he draws his own blade, “You arrogant little—”

Aerion strikes him, the clang of their swords swallowing the other man’s words whole. He fights today with ruthless precision, strength measured with every blow. He chooses not expend too much energy in favour of a more calculated approach. Despite Roland being taller than him, Aerion still manages to drive him back across the sand, blade flashing with each strike as he forces Roland to defend himself over and over.

Attack after attack, he pummels into the man who had thought to hurt his knight. His Dunk.

When Roland tried to go for a heavy handed overhead blow, Aerion ducks and slips into his guard. He uses the opening he gained to slam the pommel of his sword into Roland’s ribs. The same place where the former knight had struck Dunk in their match before.

Roland staggered backwards, grunting in pain.

From the royal boxes there is only tension.

King Baelor watched in silence, lips pressed in a thin line.

Prince Maekar himself stands at the far end of the royal box, arms folded but eyes watching his son’s fight like a hawk.

Even the prince’s brothers and cousin, the princes Valarr, Daemon and Aegon are seated upon the edge of their seats as they watched Aerion fight.

Dunk too stood with the worried maester’s at his side, watching his prince with open fear. He had never been a religious sort. But now he offered up a prayer to the Seven that they might keep Aerion safe and return him in one piece.

Aerion knew he had the advantage of his small frame. He would be lighter and faster on his feet and therefore more vicious. Roland in contrast seemed to already be tiring. So Aerion pressed his advantage, feinted left, spun and then struck his opponent low.

A cut sliced open upon the back of Roland’s thigh.

The man roared and swung about wildly trying to get at Aerion.

But Aerion having anticipated it ducked, spun again and slammed himself into Roland’s chest, knocking the man back.

“You thought to hurt what is mine!” Aerion hisses between strikes, voice low enough that only his opponent might hear, “You thought to take my knight from me in a trial by combat. Now you will bleed for that.”

Another quick slice upon the flesh of Roland’s other thigh and the man dropped to his knees in the dirt, chest heaving as he caught himself with his blade.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as the Targaryen prince circled Roland like a dragon closing in upon downed prey, cold, predatory.

They were waiting for the kill.

Aerion employed one more trick, striking Roland’s blade and taking the man’s support away from him. He crumpled to the dirt, doubled over on his hands and knees now.

“Mercy…” came the soft whisper from the man on all fours before him.

“What was that?” Aerion asks as he taps Roland’s arm with the flat of his blade, watching the knight startle, kneeling back on his legs and hissing in pain while doing so.

“M-mercy, my Prince…” Roland stuttered, “For the good times we’ve had…”

Aerion held his blade aloft at that, the tip of his sword inches from Roland’s throat.

Behind him the people gasped.

Execution or mercy.

It is up to him now.

“I do not recall our time together with much fondness now,” he states, loud enough for Roland alone to hear.

Aerion tightened his grip upon the hilt of his sword. The blade trembled ever so slightly as he held it to Roland’s throat.

A silent rage welled up inside him and for a moment Aerion wanted to cause harm.

“I could slit your throat here and now Roland,” Aerion tells him, “Send your head back to your family and tell them how you disgraced yourself.”

Roland lifted his head to taunt, “Do it then,” he says blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, “Do it and they’ll call your a monster. Maybe the Lannisters’ will come knocking on your doorstep too.”

“You have always thought rather highly of yourself,” Aerion scoffs, “You are but a worm to them, Roland. I’ve beaten you fairly here today, unlike you. So as promised, you will leave King’s Landing. And you’d best not try to cause any further trouble…or I will make good on my promise to send your head back to your family.”

With that, Aerion sheathed his blade and before Roland could rise, the prince struck him hard with the sheathed sword against the side of the man’s head.

Roland’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped sideways onto the dirt, unconscious.

Then the murmurs started.

“Listen!” Aerion called, raising his voice loud and commanding now that every noble lord, knight and smallfolk might hear him, “Listen to me!”

“Roland of Crakehall has renounced his claim to the Kingsguard cloak and armour,” Aerion announces, “As the loser of the match, he has agreed to take his leave of King’s Landing at once.”

All at once a cheer exploded across the stands as the people stamped their feet and yelled Aerion’s name.

The feeling of it seemed so surreal to him as Aerion stood there basking in the praise of the cheering masses.

‘One day they will all cheer your name, my little Brightflame.’

For a moment, Aerion felt a stinging in his eyes as he recalled his mother’s words. Slowly he looks out across the sea of faces, taking in the cheering masses. Then his gaze moved to the royal box where his father stood, face dark with disapproval but nevertheless he was clapping. His brothers were cheering him on too and his Uncle nodded to him acknowledging a match well fought.

And finally, Aerion looked to the small pavilions at the side of the lists.

There stood the man that Aerion had taken up arms for.

Dunk leaned heavily upon one of the tent posts, not even properly dressed. Bandages already stained crimson as they spanned his chest. He looked at Aerion with something openly tender and proud. It made Aerion’s heart skip as his lips curved up into a small smile. He gave Dunk the barest of nods before walking off the field.

They would reconvene later that night after all.

That night when Prince Aerion had shed his armour and was wrapped up in his nightgown, Dunk came to him, as was the norm these days.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Aerion gestures to his bed as he rummaged for the supplies that the master had left with him, “I’ll tend to your wounds in a bit.”

“There’s no need for that,” Dunk assures, “I made sure to get them done myself, see?”

Aerion cocks a brow as Ser Duncan lifted his tunic to reveal a haphazard mess of bandages. ‘He’s hopeless…’

“You look like someone was trying to rob you of your bandages!” Aerion teases as he goes to join Dunk in bed, “Tunic off, I’ll redo your bandages. Can’t have you going to bed like that,” he tuts.

“You fuss quite a bit, Your Grace,” Dunk teases back, “Cluckin’ about like a mother hen.”

“Can’t help it if you’re behaving like an unruly chick,” Aerion chides as he helps the big man with his tunic now tossing it aside as he set to work re-working the bandages into something much neater. Securing them snugly about Dunk’s ribs, Aerion meets those big blue eyes. Dunk had an intense look about him now. A look that made Aerion’s insides twist.

“What?” Aerion asks, “Why’re you giving me that look? Don’t tell me you’re itching for a ride?”

Dunk’s cheeks flushed at the implication, “No, my prince, I was not thinking about that.”

“Then what exactly are you thinking about?”

Dunk spreads a hand out over the sheets, shyly moving it to cover Aerion’s hand, “I was wondering about something else…”

“Go on?” Aerion prompts

“Brightflame,” Dunk says softly, the name he’d heard earlier today.

“Yes?” Aerion asks feeling Dunk’s thumb stroking the back of his hand, “What of it?”

Dunk’s brows draw together in a gentle confusion, “You’ve never told me about that name before. Why did your uncle call you that today? He said to ‘Act with honour, Brightflame.’ I’ve never heard anyone call you that before.”

A small smile curved upon his lips, both fond and sad at the same time, “It was my mother who started it,” Aerion tells his knight quietly, “Princess Dyanna of House Dayne. She used to call me her little bright flame because I used to run through Summerhall at night with a candle pretending that…I was the sun or…a breath of dragon fire burning through the halls of my enemies…”

Dunk laughs softly at that. He can almost imagine it, the tiny prince running about in the darkened halls.

“Her little bright flame. That’s what she’d say when she came to catch me and take the candle away. Father took to calling me that too though it was never ‘little bright flame’ for him. He didn’t want to coddle us boys. So when he used to train us, it was always ‘Sword up, Brightflame’ or ‘Act with honour, Brightflame’. Eventually it stuck…” Aerion continues, voice softer now, “For awhile anyway. But he stopped saying it years ago when mother passed.”

“Daeron thinks its because he misses her too much. So now it’s just Uncle Baelor who uses it from time to time to calm me, to make me remember myself and what my mother would have wanted me to be,” he finishes now, fingers threaded with Dunk’s.

“Your mother sounds like a lovely woman,” Dunk says his voice all low and warm, “It seems to me like she loved you very much.”

“I suppose she did,” Aerion answers as he makes to pull back the covers now, “You know she used to sing to me before I slept at night. All the old Valyrian lullabies. Sometimes she would tell me stories too of all the old and powerful dragons and how they would fly under the stars at night. She always said that when I grew up she’d like for me to be a gentle flame.”

“Clearly that didn’t happen,” Aerion snorts as he settles under the covers now motioning for Dunk to join him.

“I think you fought well today,” Dunk tells his prince, “You gave Roland a thrashing, you did. But you also did so honourably. If you ask me, I’d say you mother would have been proud of you, Brightflame.”

Aerion felt a soft kiss pressed against his head now. In response, his cheeks coloured immediately.

“I didn’t give you permission to call me that,” he quips as he shifts, blowing out the candles on his side of the bedside table and settling down with his back to Dunk.

He heard as Dunk blew out the other candle, felt the bed dip and shift and the next thing he knew Dunk’s larger frame was curled up behind him. His knight’s large arm drapes about him now and Aerion stiffened as he felt his man press a kiss to the back of his neck.

“I didn’t give you permission to fight for me today either,” Dunk husks in the dark, “Still you did. You…chose me today in front of everyone there. You chose to fight for me upon the lists.”

“It was nothing,” Aerion answers quietly his hand shifting to cover Dunk’s now, “I was simply correcting Roland for hurting what’s mine.”

“Still…you could simply have ordered the man banished. Yet you put on your armour and took to the field,” Dunk insists, “You cannot tell me that it…does not mean something?”

Aerion’s throat tightens as he stares out into the shadowy darkness of the night, Dunk’s warmth at his back.

After awhile he spoke into the silence, “I was tired of watching that man break at your resolve. I didn’t want him to take you away from me,” he says, a confession of sorts, “You are my Kingsguard. My knight. Mine.” Aerion says his hand tightening about Dunk’s for emphasis, “Roland needed a reminder of that seeing as he challenged you directly and thought to injure you like this.”

Dunk stilled at Aerion’s words.

“And…well…I suppose I don’t like the idea of you bleeding for me all the time and I’m here all useless. I…wanted to bleed for you in return…if I got injured that is.”

His prince wanted to bleed for him? Dunk felt his heart tremble. He didn’t dare to assume that someone like him might have a standing with the Prince. When he did speak, his voice is strained, “What do you think that makes us then, Your Grace? Surely we aren’t just a prince and his knight now…are we…?”

Aerion makes a small huff and presses back against Dunk’s chest, warm like a dragon, “It makes us whatever the Gods wish it to be,” the prince answers, “You are my Kingsguard protector, my knight. I am your Prince. But…you are also…more…”

Dunk feel’s Aerion’s thumb stroking against the back of his hand.

“You aren’t just some personal guard at my beck and call prettied up by a white cape,” Aerion says, “We don’t need any fancy names for it, Dunk. You just need to know that I want you here with me like this. Every night if you’re willing to indulge me. And if anyone else dares to challenge your right to be with me or tries to take you from me again…I will burn them for it.”

It is as good a confession as any that Dunk had ever received which was none. And he is already unbearably fond of Prince Aerion, his small, human shaped dragon.

“I don’t think I’d need any fancy words either,” Dunk answers, “But I will say that I am…awfully fond of you Aerion Brightflame.”

Aerion laughs at that, turning about in his knight’s arms now as his lips found Dunk’s in the dark.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers against Dunk’s lips, “The whole night. I’ll not have you sneaking back to your own chambers before dawn again.”

They kissed again now, something soft and sweet, tongues dancing together intoxicated on the warm feelings blossoming between them.

In the hearth, the fire crackled on warm and bright, like the prince himself.

The little dragon and his gentle giant lay tangled together, basking in each other’s presence and the feelings they were not quite ready to name.