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When he was eight, a servant loyal to the Blackfyres threw burning oil meant for the king. Aerion was simply in the wrong place. Half his face never healed the same way again. The skin pulled tight and pale, one eye ringed with scars like melted wax.
After that he stopped going outside.
He stayed in summerhall’s shaded halls, behind silk curtains and heavy doors, writing letters he never sent and staring at the gardens he would not walk through.
He could feel stares, he could hear whispers.
“You are still a prince, an omega prince of House Targaryen,” Maekar told him once, arms crossed, voice rough with worry he refused to name. “The blood of the dragon. Scars do not change that.”
But when the great tourney at Ashford was announced, the king insisted the whole family attend. Aerion sent letters to his grandsire that were unanswered, and so to Ashford they went.
Ashford was noise and banners and dust and sunlight he had not felt in years. He stayed close to the royal pavilion at first, hidden beneath a deep hood that shadowed the ruined side of his face.
He wandered the grounds at night still wearing the hood, until music drifted from the Baratheon tent.
It was dark inside and that was when a very large person noticed him standing there alone.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” he said gently beside him, “But… would you like to dance?”
No one had asked him that in years. And he nods, ignoring the bright grin on the oaf's face.
Duncan is careful with him, large hands warm but gentle where they rest at Aerion’s waist and in his hand. He moves like a man who learned by watching others and hoping for the best.
He can already imagine the moment the hedge knight sees the horrible truth.
He can already the flinch, the pity, and the awkward apology before he lets go.
So when the song slows, Aerion lifts a hand to stop him.
“That is enough.”
Aerion turns to go, but he did not expect the fool to follow out of the tent. "Wait, I didn't catch your name."
And that is when the edge of the hood slips back.
Just enough.
The torchlight catches the ruined half of his face — pale, tightened skin pulled in thin lines across his cheek and temple, the burn that twisted the edge of his mouth. Aerion’s jaw tightens.
“Go on,” he says coldly. “Stare if you must.”
His eyes move across aerion’s face, not in disgust but in a kind of careful wonder, like he is studying something he does not want to forget.
"Can you stop it you stupid—"
“Beautiful.”
Aerion stops and slowly, he turns his head back.
“…what?”
Duncan is still staring at him like someone who has found something unexpectedly lovely and cannot quite believe his luck.
“You're beautiful,” dunk repeats, softer this time, like he is saying it to himself.
Aerion stares at him. "You are either blind,” he says flatly, “Or a liar.”
Duncan frowns immediately. “I simply say what I see..."
Aerion searches his face for cruelty, for the joke he does not understand.
There is none. Only earnestness so open it almost hurts to look at.
“Your eyes are lavender,” he adds quietly, a little awed. “Never seen eyes like that before.”
Dunk smiles, slow and gentle.
“Prettiest eyes in the tent, no, the realm.”
Dunk’s fingers hover near his cheek for a moment before settling lightly against the scarred skin, careful, almost reverent.
His hand slips down, finding aerion’s again, large fingers closing around his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Duncan tilts his head toward the floor with a shy sort of hope.
“…so can I keep dancing with you?”
Aerion looks at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly, “Yes.”