Work Text:
‘See that your thoughts don’t stray to foolish things,’ Maekar said, ‘or I’ll have your head on a spike in a heartbeat.’
Dunk did not get the chance to answer before the heavy door was shut behind him. The tall man found himself rigid, swallowed by the darkness of the room that suddenly felt too small around him. It was surely not as fancy as others would have been across the seven kingdoms; however, it was still one of the most adorned he had ever been in. It wasn’t the fine woven carpets, the silver daggers hanging on the walls, nor the intricate carved wine glasses that made it rich, for it was the prince that lay in the heavy canopy bed.
The air felt just as heavy as his heart.
Aerion was quiet as the night and still as a stone. Under the thin cover, his lower half was wrapped in clean cloths that reeked of tingling, cooling herbs. Stark, angry purple blotches bloomed all across his fair skin. They looked as painful as they were swollen.
For a second, Dunk looked away, somewhat ashamed of himself. It was his hand that did all of it. He knew too well it was his duty as a knight to protect the meek, the poor, the ones in need, but Ser Arlan never warned him that there would come a day when he would hurt a prince.
A Targaryen, all the greater.
‘I saw fit to offer my condoleances, your Highness,’ Dunk said. His voice came louder, stiffer than he meant to.
The prince did not stir. Of course he didn’t. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t going to be an easy task, but in knighthood, things rarely were. Leaning on the wooden crutch, grunting under his breath, Dunk took a step forward. He was bone-tired, spent to the marrow, but at least there was a great sense of pride in doing what honor demanded.
There was something so unsettling yet captivating about Prince Aerion. His cruelty and his vicious, cunning nature stood at odds with everything Dunk lived for, however he still found himself drawn to it, whether his mind willed it or not. Approaching the Targaryen as any other lord was not going to carry him far, so the knight set himself to follow the feeling in his gut.
The bed shifted as Dunk lowered himself onto its edge. Staring into nothing, his tone dropped, gentler than before.
‘Prince Baelor was a noble man. Nobler than either of us will ever be, in truth. He did not shy from the burden of his honor, nor from the vows he had sworn, even though the crown would have easily permitted him to. The Seven Kingdoms should have protected him; instead, he died fighting in good faith, as all great men did before him, and so many more will after. The gods shall make sure his sacrifice won’t be in vain.’
Dunk was not a man of fancy words. His mind was not sharpened by study, but at least life taught him what books could not: to stay true to his heart. His spirit was already lighter. Not by much, but over time, it would make a difference. He stirred, moving to rise from the bed, when a quiet voice halted him short.
‘How much sorrow can one take, Ser Duncan?’ Aerion rasped.
The knight flinched slightly, more in surprise than anything. He didn’t expect an answer, and not one of that sort anyway. The prince’s eyes were still closed, his breath just as even.
‘I think that would depend on who you are asking, your Highness.’
‘I’m asking you.’
Dunk hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. ‘Some had suffered more. Some had endured less.’
‘Is my suffering pleasing to the eye, Ser Duncan? Does it satisfy my sworn foes? The common folk, even?’
There was a hint of mockery in his tone that Dunk couldn’t fully make sense of. Only then did he take a proper look at the prince: the split lip, the cuts on his cheeks that were going to scar ungracefully, the way his eyes were so swollen he couldn’t open them. Something unknown stirred inside his chest.
‘I don't think it’s my place to answer that, your Highness.’
‘I don’t think you are in a position to deny me, hedge knight. You already tread on dangerous ground,’ he muttered.
It was so obvious how much it hurt to speak. However, Aerion seemed to have no wish for rest at that moment. But Dunk did. His wooden crutch found its place against the tall post of the bed, while he lowered his own trashed body next to the prince.
It felt somehow peaceful.
‘You bent, but did not break. Slow to yield. It speaks well of you, despite your past deeds.’
‘I’ve often been told that I am too stubborn to die.’
‘That is no flaw.’
‘Many would disagree.’
‘Many are fools,’ Dunk cut him sharply. That remark bothered him more than it should have. ‘Your mind is clouded, Highness.’
Aerion snorted. ‘My mind is not the problem. It’s well. Wretched, but well. It’s only my sun that has darkened.’
‘You speak of ill omens.’
‘I am ill, perhaps.’ He turned his head, opening his eyes softly. A hit of violet peeked through white, thick lashes. ‘You have hurt me, Ser Duncan.’
‘I have.’
‘I can’t forgive that.’
He just stared at the dark, wooden ceiling, his hands crossed over his broad chest. ‘No flame burns forever.’
‘You seem to forget that fire flows in Targaryen veins.’
‘I certainly do not, my prince, but gods know you are above ruining yourself with vengeance.’
‘Oh, but how badly you misjudge me.’
‘It will pass. Everything does. This too will pass,’ Dunk said distantly.
‘I don't want it to.’
‘It will rot your soul.’
‘It’s already rotten. It has always been, since the day I crawled my way into this world.’
‘No child is born cursed.’
‘You fool. Don’t you know what they say? That gods flip a coin every time a Targaryen is born,’ he said bitterly. ‘Let me ask you this, Ser Duncan. Where do you go when sorrow finds you?’
‘Where all hedge knights do,’ he shrugged. ‘In a shabby tavern. Wandering on narrow paths. Beneath an old oak and the starry night.’
‘Fits,’ he murmured. ‘I dream of dragons, to be said plainly. Marvelous creatures, with rough dark scales, claws big as castles, and wings as wide as the sea itself. Soaring through the sky, loyal yet still wild and untamed. I wish I could fly among the rays of sunlight and never return back here.’ The sentences faded from his lips, as thin as the morning mist.
Dunk bit the inside of his cheek so hard it drew blood. At last, he saw Aerion for what he truly was: not the chosen prince, not the blood of the dragon, not even the ‘Brightflame’. Nothing but a tragedy. And such a young one. Just as young as he was. A dragon raider, doomed to prevail without his dragon, both in life and in death.
He wanted to reach and caress the deep cut on his cheek, but held himself back.
‘Do you regret hurting the girl at the puppet show?’
‘No,’ Aerion trailed off. ‘Do you regret hurting me?’
‘No.’
‘Then the price is paid.’
Whatever he meant, it was not plain, but it felt like the prince wasn’t resentful of him. Or at least, not as much as before. Mustering all his strength, the tall man swung himself into a sitting position. He had done his duty, and he had done it well indeed. Deep inside, Dunk hoped Ser Arlan was proud of him, from wherever his spirit was wandering through eternity.
‘No-’
Before seeing it, he felt the cold hand gripping his wrist. It was way smaller than his, but just as strong and calloused from years of blade-wielding and harsh training.
‘Don’t leave, Aerion whispered. ‘Not yet.’
The strange warmth inside his chest returned once more. He couldn’t bring himself to deny the prince, so he sank into the mattress once again. Aerion’s hand remained atop his thick wrist, even though the hold was a tad lighter.
‘Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness,’ Dunk said coldly, yet there was no real bite behind it.
‘Your only weakness is within the bounds of education.’
The hedge knight scoffed. ‘I’m illiterate, not crippled.’
‘Never implied it,’ Aerion answered, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Dunk threw him a sharp, harmless glance. It was odd, but he liked the Targaryen like that, lighthearted and somehow teasing. He let his thumb wander across the pale, bruised skin.
‘What comes now, Duncan?’
‘I don’t think anyone can truly answer you. The world moves on, and so must we.’
‘There is no real purpose in doing so.’
‘Patience is a virtue. It promises there is more to come.’
‘More doesn’t mean better,’ Aerion said, as his fingertips brushed the back of Dunk’s hand.
‘It doesn’t mean worse, either.’
‘We shall see whose words prove true. I feel so tired, Duncan.’
‘Rest then. I will keep watch.’
When it had begun, or how, neither could have said, but their hands lay quietly intertwined upon the brocade sheet. The same fierce hands that had hurt each other so brutally now nestled together, as though fate itself had bound them as one.
It felt right.
Neither man seemed eager to be the first to let go.
‘Can I dream for a while longer?’ Aerion drawled. It seemed like the little strength he had left stretched only so far.
‘Then dream, my Prince,’ Duncan whispered, his voice just as drowsy. ‘Let the suffering rest upon me. I will bear it all, as long as it speaks to the heart. For you, I believe I will.’