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Dunk considered himself lucky.
Well, not right away. Even though ever since he was a child, he’d seen the glass as half full, seeking out the tiniest drops of joy through endless days of hunger and cold—back then, it was hard for him to call himself lucky.
He was truly unlucky to have been born in what was surely the most neglected slum in all the Seven Kingdoms—Flea Bottom. He was unlucky to have been raised in an orphanage, lacking not only a parent’s love but also basic human warmth. He was unlucky to be born with the strongest heart—yet at the same time a kind, compassionate, and trusting one—which had led him not only to be deceived time and again but also to be beaten quite badly.
He was convinced this was how his life would continue. A child’s mind could not even imagine that things might be any different. But one fine day, he got lucky: he found himself in the right place at the right time—and for the first time in his life, his kind heart worked in his favor.
“Don’t touch him!” he thundered indignantly when he saw that the self-proclaimed guards of Flea Bottom—who were, in reality, just a bunch of teenage thugs—had surrounded a child with loud, cruel laughter. They had cornered him in one of the countless identical narrow streets.
Dunk couldn’t even tell if it was a boy or a girl. The child was curled up in a ball at their feet, wrapped in a red cloak that had already turned black in places from the dirty ground and the thugs’ footprints. They were trying to rip the cloak off the child, kicking him hard as they went. Rafe had told him dozens of times—in situations like this, you just have to walk by and be glad it’s not you lying on the ground right now. But Dunk simply couldn’t bring himself to do that.
“Enough!” he shouted, pushing his way into the middle of the fray. “Stop this at once!”
I’d like to say they listened to him. I’d like to say they stopped—even for a moment—or that Dunk used his unchildlike strength to stop them. But the reality was different: they simply shoved him onto the poor child. And now it wasn’t the child who was taking the worst of the kicks, but Dunk himself. He instinctively shielded the child with his body, feeling a particularly hard blow land on his back. But he clenched his teeth and endured it, feeling unwelcome tears welling up in his eyes.
And then he saw that a boy was lying beneath him. A very strange and wounded boy. He was about seven years old, but he was thin—though not starved, like the other children from Flea Bottom. His face was dirty, blood was running from his nose, and a rather serious cut glistened on his cheek. Unnaturally white hair peeked out from under his hood, and his eyes… Despite all the pain, Dunk couldn’t tear his gaze away from those strange violet eyes. It was the most beautiful color he’d ever seen in his entire life.
“It’s all right,” he croaked. “I’ll protect you…”
The boy just stared at him in fear, his whole body trembling. He suddenly grabbed Dunk by his dirty shirt and burst into bitter tears. Dunk didn’t even have time to react before the kicks suddenly stopped. The cruel laughter cut off, replaced by a strange, unsettling silence.
Dunk looked up and saw the guard rushing toward them. The real Kingsguard—in expensive armor and white cloaks. Riding among them on a black steed that was surely worth more than all of Flea Bottom put together was a man with hair as unnaturally white as the boy’s. But most importantly—a red three-headed dragon was painted on his black armor.
A Targaryen. But which one?
“Aerion!” a terrified cry burst from him while he was still in the saddle. “My boy!”
The teenagers realized what was happening much faster than Dunk himself. They didn’t wait for the inevitable punishment and, screaming in terror, tried to run away. However, the Kingsguard were faster and on horseback—the riders pushed the bandits back, cornering them just as the bandits had done to the boy only a few seconds earlier.
But Dunk didn’t see exactly what was happening. All his attention was fixed on the adult Targaryen running toward them—by the time it finally dawned on Dunk, the man’s son was clinging to him, still sobbing. He hugged the boy back, more out of instinct than conscious thought, trying to figure out if he had any chance of getting out of this situation alive and unharmed. Everyone around him had said: being around dragons never ends well.
“Aerion!” The older Targaryen was suddenly beside them, trying to take Aerion from Dunk’s arms.
His first reaction was strange—he didn’t want to let the boy go; he wanted to clean his wounds and protect him. But even though Dunk was far from the smartest, even he understood that this was utter absurdity; he’d known the boy for only a few minutes. So he was ready to hand the boy over to his father.
But Aerion had other ideas.
He clung to Dunk with such force that if the adult Targaryen had pulled any harder, the shirt would have simply torn. The young Targaryen buried his face in Dunk’s shoulder, and Dunk felt blood seeping through the cheap fabric.
“Aerion, come here,” his father kept saying, trying to take his son away.
But the more he tried, the more Aerion resisted and the tighter he clung to Dunk. Dunk should have helped the older Targaryen, but he just froze in fear, barely holding Aerion by the legs.
“A maester,” Dunk finally managed to say. “He needs a maester.”
The elder Targaryen froze, looking at him suspiciously. But upon seeing Dunk’s blood-soaked shirt, he shouted something to the guards. One of them immediately leaped into the saddle and galloped toward the castle.
It was only later that Dunk learned that Aerion had ended up in Flea Bottom because Maekar had decided to show him just how lucky he was. He hoped that seeing the other side of King’s Landing would help the young prince rein in his violent temper a little. But less than half an hour had passed when the little troublemaker managed to slip away from his father and the guards. Just a few streets away, his expensive clothes and upturned nose caught the attention of thugs who were looking for a victim. Within a few minutes, Aerion had earned a scar that would stay on his beautiful face for the rest of his life.
“Father,” Aerion suddenly spoke up, without lifting his face from Dunk’s shoulder. “When we get back, tell the servants to run a bath.”
“Of course, son. We’ll wash you up…”
“Not me, him,” Aerion snapped, poking Dunk in the chest with his little finger. “He stinks like a wet dog. And I don’t want someone who stinks living next to me.”
Dunk was taken aback. His gaze met that of the elder Targaryen, and he expected the man to immediately talk Aerion out of this crazy idea—after all, it was simply unrealistic and absurd. But to his great surprise, the elder Targaryen didn’t say “no.” Instead, he looked very intently at Dunk, and a strange expression appeared on his face. Dunk got the impression that a real dragon was looking at him.
And this dragon had plans for him.
***
Decades later, Duncan truly understood—he’d been incredibly lucky back then. An orphan from Flea Bottom who, in a single day, went from sleeping on the floor of an orphanage alongside other unfortunate souls to having his own bed—and more than that, his own room in the Red Keep itself. And all because little Aerion absolutely refused to let him go.
Yes, Dunk realized almost immediately—the Targaryens had quickly found a way to use him. Maekar—to pacify his own son. Baelor—for public relations: the generous Targaryens who had taken a poor orphan under their wing and given him opportunities. Others simply understood that the loyal Dunk would gladly give his own life for each of them. But Aerion… With Aerion, it was a completely different story.
One day, Dunk from Flea Bottom became Duncan the Tall, the Targaryens’ dog.
Some pitied him, others envied him, but Duncan himself was simply happy. He had his own room, hot meals, and expensive, high-quality clothes. Simple things that only those who had never had them could truly appreciate.
What’s more, Duncan himself didn’t understand how it happened—but within a few months, he had gone from being an orphan to practically a full-fledged member of the family. Yes, he had a family. Not by blood, not by status—but somehow, ever since he’d settled in the Red Keep, not a single evening had passed when he’d eaten dinner alone.
The Targaryens were using him, but to Duncan, it felt as though he was the one using them. They’d let him into their lives. They’d given him an education and training fit for princes. They’d let him improve the lives of countless orphans from Flea Bottom—including Rafe—and made him a knight. They gave him everything he could ever dream of and more.
But one day, the Targaryens decided that wasn’t enough.
It began almost immediately after King Aerys’s death. Baelor and Maekar were still in mourning, but the kingdom was already preparing for the funeral and the coronation. Duncan was one of the few allowed into the royal family’s private quarters, and it was he who directed the Silent Sisters as they packed up the late king’s belongings in his chambers. He watched them with a strange feeling inside—he hadn’t been as close to Aerys as he had been to his brothers, but knowing how his family was grieving, he felt sad himself.
“Someday, my chambers will be cleared out just like this,” a quiet voice suddenly said beside him.
Duncan turned and saw Valarr, dressed in traditional mourning clothes. He stood upright, watching the packing with an inscrutable expression. The Silent Sisters glanced at the prince for only a moment and continued their work.
“Your Highness.” Dunk nodded. “Death is always a tragedy.”
“Death is part of life,” Valarr disagreed, turning his gaze to Duncan. “Aerys was a wonderful king, but… His views were rather conservative.”
Duncan watched Valarr closely, trying to discern the subtext of his words. The Targaryens loved to speak in riddles and hints—and for the first few years, it drove Duncan crazy. But now it seemed to him that he had learned to understand them. All he had to do was listen.
“My father is not like that,” Valarr continued. “And neither am I. We understand that sometimes unconventional solutions are needed for the good of the entire kingdom.” Then he quickly asked, “How is Aerion? Is he grieving?”
Duncan looked pointedly at Valarr. Valarr was looking at Duncan with that same impassive expression, though his eyes were sparkling with amusement. They both knew the answer perfectly well. But some things had to be said out loud.
“Extremely,” Duncan replied. “His grief knows no bounds. So much so that he has refused to leave his chambers.”
In truth, the reason was different, but Duncan would never have said that out loud. Not even after Valarr’s “unconventional” hints. Valarr merely nodded, gave Duncan another careful look, and left—deciding that he had delivered his message.
That strange conversation with Valarr no longer seemed so strange after meeting with Maekar. He was just leaving Baelor’s chambers when Duncan arrived to report on the next step in preparing for the funeral.
This was far from the first time Duncan had seen Maekar coming out of Baelor’s chambers, though Maekar had no idea. Most often it happened at night, and if Maekar had seen Duncan then, he would surely have asked what had brought him there. Officially, Duncan’s room was not in this wing at all.
“Oh, Duncan,” Maekar sighed sadly. “I was just about to talk to you.”
Dark circles had settled under his eyes, and his face had grown gaunt. He was genuinely grieving for Aerys, and the knight’s heart ached with sympathy.
“Your Highness.” Duncan nodded. “What happened?”
“I was talking to Baelor, and…” Maekar began, but suddenly fell silent. Then he exhaled loudly and added quietly, “About Aerion.”
Well, of course.
Duncan kept listening, but Maekar took his time. A strange expression crossed his face, and a long “um” escaped his lips. It was strikingly unlike Maekar, but Duncan understood—he hadn’t yet recovered from his brother’s death.
Maekar took another deep breath, then said quietly, “I think you understand what I mean.”
Duncan had his suspicions. But he knew that until it was said outright, it was better to remain silent, for silence and sighs, in the case of the Targaryens, could mean far too many things. So he merely glanced at Maekar, hoping for at least something concrete. Maekar noticed his confusion and shook his head.
“We’ll talk later.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Duncan agreed. “And is His Highness in his chambers? I wanted to let him know that the Silent Sisters have finished with the room.”
“Already?” Maekar asked in surprise, glancing quickly toward the door behind him. “I’ll tell him myself.”
Duncan nodded and was about to take his leave when Maekar asked, “Have you seen the younger ones?”
“They were supposed to spend the day in the library,” Duncan replied.
“Please check on them,” Maekar asked. “Today… Today I can’t give them much attention.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Duncan agreed. Maekar turned back toward the door, leaving the knight alone. Dunk stared at the painted wood, realizing that what was happening in there was yet another secret he was keeping from the whole world. After all, it was mutual—he had his own secrets from them, too.
The sun was already setting, and Duncan needed to be somewhere else, but Maekar’s request had to be fulfilled. Fortunately, Egg and Aemon were indeed in the library, surrounded by mountains of books.
“Oh, Ser Duncan!” Egg greeted him cheerfully, while Aemon gave a faint smile without looking up from his book. “It’s good to have you here.”
“How are you, boys?” the knight asked.
“Fine,” they replied in unison.
Fortunately, the children weren’t as deeply affected by the death of a stranger as the adults were.
“Ser Duncan,” Egg suddenly whispered, glancing furtively around, “we found something…”
“What is it?” Duncan asked.
“Did you know,” Aemon said in a strange tone, “that among the First Men, marriages could be not only between a man and a woman, but also between same-sex couples?”
“Really?” Duncan said, not believing him, barely holding back a smile.
He really didn’t know.
“Yes, they believed in the power that arises from the union of two souls—regardless of gender,” Aemon continued, glancing quickly at him. “And for some reason, they changed their beliefs only here. There’s a theory that this is why magic died out.”
Duncan didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t particularly interested in history.
“Wait a minute,” Egg suddenly exclaimed, spreading his arms in confusion, “then how did they make love? I mean, I know that women have… between their legs…”
That was it. Duncan was convinced that Egg and Aemon were perfectly fine, and he realized he wasn’t ready to answer such questions from two near-teenagers.
“Ser Duncan,” Egg turned pale, “but if it’s two men… There’s no opening there! How do they…”
Duncan regretted coming here at all.
“There’s always an opening, Aegon,” Aemon disagreed. “It says here that penetration occurred… Somewhere…”
“So where?!” Egg demanded, as if his life depended on this information. He even grabbed his head. “Where?!”
Much to Duncan’s relief, Tybolt Lannister walked into the library. Duncan leaned toward the boys and whispered quietly, “Ask Tybolt about this. He knows.”
The two little dragons stared at Tybolt with eyes hungry for knowledge. And before Tybolt realized just how badly Duncan had set him up, the knight had already fled the royal library.
Besides, he was already running late.
The direct route, which would have saved Duncan a lot of time, was currently off-limits—he didn’t want to run into Maekar. So the knight had to take a long detour that led to a secret passage. Afterward, already breathing heavily, he climbed the spiral staircase and gently pressed the wall in front of him. It swung open—and Duncan found himself in the chambers that had once belonged to Rhaenys Targaryen, but now belonged to a very different dragon.
“Where the hell have you been?!” Aerion snapped at him.
Duncan looked at him—and once again, his breath caught in his throat. He had known Aerion since childhood, yet every time he was amazed by just how beautiful he was.
The dragon was lying on the wide bed, curled up in a nest of blankets. His hair, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window, was just as short as it had been on the day they’d met; a barely visible scar marked his cheek, but his body was now that of a grown man—toned and slender. And most importantly, it was covered from head to toe with traces of last night. Aerion was right to call Duncan an animal sometimes.
The Targaryens had tried today to give Duncan and Aerion their blessing—without even suspecting that they hadn’t needed it for a long time. They’d been together practically from the very beginning, without even fully understanding what kind of feelings had developed between them. That’s why Aerion never gave Duncan a moment’s peace, and Duncan, despite all the little prince’s antics, couldn’t bring himself to get angry. It wasn’t until early adulthood that they realized the full depth of it—and learned what it meant to give in to their own physical desires.
“Sorry,” Duncan said, immediately beginning to take off his armor, eager to be by his dragon’s side. “Maekar asked me at the last minute to check on Egg and Aemon.”
Aerion’s expression softened ever so slightly. He wasn’t good at showing it, but he worried about his younger brothers.
“So, have those little rascals set the castle on fire yet?” he snorted.
“No, they don’t have as much imagination as you do,” Duncan said, finally shedding his armor and clothes.
He paused for a moment, letting Aerion run his hungry gaze over him. Then he carefully climbed onto the bed and pulled the dragon into a slow but passionate kiss. Unfortunately, that was the most they were capable of today. If he touched Aerion any lower, he wouldn’t stop until dawn, bringing them both to the peak of bliss over and over again.
And with the funeral planned for tomorrow, the prince had to at least be able to walk properly.
“It happened just as you said,” Duncan said, pulling away from Aerion with some effort. “They gave their ‘blessing.’”
The prince snorted but nodded. They had waited a long time for this moment, fully aware of the great danger involved. However, if they played their cards right, it was also an advantage.
“What fools.” Aerion pulled Duncan closer, tucking the blanket around them. The knight couldn’t help himself and placed his hand on the prince’s thigh, gently squeezing the soft skin. “It’s as if they think their opinion matters. As if they could take you away from me…”
“They can’t,” Duncan hastened to assure him, closing his eyes. He was so tired today. “Nothing can, my dragon.”
Aerion pressed himself against him—and Duncan wasn’t at all surprised when the prince’s hand slid lower, gripping his already half-erect cock. At the touch, it immediately swelled with blood, and Duncan suddenly felt that he wasn’t so tired after all. He opened his eyes and met the dragon’s sly gaze.
“The funeral is tomorrow,” he reminded him, even though his own body was already responding to Aerion’s skilled touch. “We shouldn’t…”
Duncan had always been the voice of reason in their relationship. But he never had the strength to resist Aerion. Especially when the other man reached down—and warm lips joined his hand.
Aerion was hardly going to attend the funeral tomorrow. And Dunk, an orphan from Flea Bottom, lay on the king’s bed while one of the Targaryens pleasured him. He really was a lucky bastard.