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The bed was cold where Aerion was not.
That was the first thing Dunk felt in the dark—that unnatural heat radiating from the prince’s skin, burning through his linen nightshirt like coals under ash.
Aerion shifted with a hissed curse, his knuckles turning white as his fingers dug into the velvet coverlet. His belly was a hard swell beneath the cloth, dragging at his spine and keeping him from sleep. The pregnancy had not tamed him; it had stripped away what little patience he possessed, leaving him raw, bitter, and quick to strike out.
"The babe will not rest," Aerion rasped, his voice rough with fatigue. "The wretched creature turns again."
"I know, my prince," Dunk rumbled softly.
Dunk’s voice sat deep in his bones, heavy with exhaustion. His eyes were gritty from days of watching Aerion wince and nights spent waking at every faint groan. Yet his hands remained steady.
He stayed on his knees behind Aerion, his frame dwarfing the silver-haired prince. His broad hands were careful as they worked the tension from Aerion’s shoulders. He knew the shape of his dragon better than he knew his own face. Dunk pressed his thumbs into the base of Aerion’s neck, wringing a shudder of relief from him.
Aerion’s head fell back against Dunk’s chest, his hot breath brushing Dunk’s collarbone.
"I am sick of it," Aerion muttered, his voice fraying into plain exhaustion. "I would have an end to it, Duncan. I would have him out."
"Soon," Dunk said. He did not try to be clever. He only kept his thumbs moving, smoothing away the ache. "The maester said it will not be long now."
Aerion let out a quiet breath, but he did not pull away. He sank back against Dunk, letting the knight bear his weight.
Dunk shifted, his heart softening at the surrender. He slid one hand around Aerion's side, slipping it beneath the shift to cup Aerion’s breast. It was warm and swollen with the changes of the babe, and Dunk held him there with reverent care. He brushed his thumb over a nipple, feeling it harden under his touch.
Aerion let out a long sigh, his head tilting back into the crook of Dunk's shoulder to expose his pale throat. Dunk leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of Aerion’s neck, right over the thrum of his pulse. Aerion’s fingers reached up, tangling in Dunk’s forearm to pull him closer.
Slowly, Dunk slid his hand lower, resting his palm flat against the feverish skin of Aerion’s belly.
The heat off Aerion’s stomach was fierce. The moment Dunk’s hand settled, a sudden kick struck his palm from within.
Dunk froze. He did not pull back; he only held fast, tracing a thumb over the spot.
"He kicks hard," Dunk whispered, his cheek resting against Aerion's temple.
"He is unruly," Aerion rasped, his own hand sliding over Dunk’s, trapping the palm against his skin. "A vicious thing."
"He takes after his dam," Dunk said softly.
Beneath Dunk's palm, the babe rolled—a low shift that made Aerion hiss and press his back into Dunk’s chest. Dunk kept his grip firm, leaning in to offer simple words of comfort into Aerion’s ear, cradling his stomach until the child inside settled.
As stillness returned to the canopy, Dunk stared into the dark room, his mind wandering back through the years.
He thought of their daughters. He remembered how tiny their fingers had been when he had first held them—how their hands had curled around his thumbs. He remembered how terrifying it was, holding a babe so fragile a harsh breath might break it.
Each time had felt like a grace he could not believe he was meant to receive. Anticipation strummed in him once more, and with it came a thought he had carried for months, finally ready to spill past his lips.
In all the time he had been at Aerion’s side, Dunk had never asked for a single thing, though he knew he could have. If Dunk had asked for a new wool cloak because his old one was frayed, Aerion would have scoffed, called him a beggar, mocked his low birth—and then had three fine cloaks made lined with fur, just to show that he could.
If Dunk had asked for a horse when his mount went lame, Aerion would have insulted his riding, then gifted him a sand steed from Dorne. If Dunk had asked for a new longsword, Aerion would have scoffed at his common grip and brought out a blade wrapped in silver wire.
Aerion would have grumbled, sneered, and acted aggrieved—and then given Dunk twice what he asked for, just to keep him beholden.
But Dunk had never asked. His boots were well worn. He had no interest in silk clothes. He needed no steel save the blade he knew, and no horse so long as Thunder drew breath. He had taken nothing from Aerion except his sharp love, his foul temper, and the quiet nights they shared when the rest of the keep was asleep.
Until tonight.
"Aerion," Dunk spoke, his voice low and gravelly.
"Hmm?" Aerion’s eyes were half-closed, his frame relaxing as Dunk kept a steady hand over his stomach.
"The boy."
Aerion gave a tired huff. "What of him?"
Dunk paused. The air in the bed felt hushed.
"I would name him Arlan."
The silence snapped tight.
Aerion did not move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned his head, looking up at Dunk in the dim light.
"Arlan," Aerion repeated flatly, the common syllables sounding strange on his tongue. "A hedge knight’s name?"
"Not just a hedge knight," Dunk said softly, meeting Aerion’s gaze. "Our son's name."
Aerion’s brow furrowed, his lip curling with an instinctive disdain. "He has the blood of the dragon, Duncan. He requires a name fit for his lineage. Such as Maegor or Baelon, perhaps. Something forged in fire. Not... Arlan. Not an old man who died in the mud with holes in his boots."
The words were cruel, but Dunk did not pull his hand away. He kept his palm steady over the swell of Aerion’s belly.
"He kept me alive," Dunk said simply, his voice thick. "He fed me when I was a starved street rat in Flea Bottom. He gave me a tunic when I had rags. He taught me how to hold a shield. If not for Ser Arlan, I’d have died in a gutter before I was ten years old. I’d never have lived to stand here with you."
Aerion opened his mouth to speak—Dunk saw the flare of pride in his jaw, the urge to argue and prevail.
"I’ve never asked you for anything, Aerion," Dunk whispered. "Not once since we mated."
"Because you were too proud," Aerion bit out, his breath catching as he winced when another cramp hit his back. He tried to twist his shoulder out of Dunk’s grip. "Because you are a fool who thinks he does not deserve better," he sneered.
"Maybe," Dunk murmured, refusing to let him twist away. He held Aerion firm against his chest, pressing his forehead against the side of Aerion’s temple. His hand cradled Aerion’s stomach, absorbing the heat radiating from him. "Maybe I was. But I am asking now. I never asked for a single thing for myself, Aerion. I am asking you for this."
Dunk watched the muscle ticking in Aerion’s cheek. Aerion’s breath was fast and shallow, his jaw set tight. Dunk knew that look—it was the defensive thrashing Aerion did whenever he felt cornered, whenever his pride was stripped bare.
Dunk did not budge. He kept his grip steady over their kicking babe, over this fearsome dragon who held his heart.
Slowly, the tension in Aerion’s body broke. Dunk felt the line of Aerion’s spine go soft, the prince letting out a ragged sigh of exhaustion as he yielded to Dunk's hold.
Beneath Dunk's palm, the babe gave another solid thump.
Aerion’s pale fingers reached down, digging into Dunk’s knuckles.
"The realm will whisper," Aerion muttered, his voice dropping into a quiet rasp of surrender. "They expect a dragon's name."
"Let them whisper," Dunk breathed, relief washing over him so strongly it made his throat tight. He pressed a soft kiss into Aerion's damp hair. "Their words matter nothing to me.”
Aerion turned his head, hiding his face in the crook of Dunk’s neck. Dunk felt him exhale, his body finally going still.
"Arlan," Aerion murmured, and it sounded a touch less sour than before.
"Arlan," Dunk repeated, the name warm in his chest.