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“How is that done?” Aerion asks, sitting on a rock across from him.
“Huh?” Duncan looks up at him in surprise, pausing in his stitching where a sharp branch had torn through his cloak while they were riding through thick brush. “This?”
Aerion lets out his usual are you serious? expression, the one Duncan had already grown used to and barely paid any mind to anymore.
“Well… it’s easy.” At first he isn’t quite sure what to say. Egg’s curiosity about mundane tasks was welcome and expected; Aerion’s was far more unusual. Usually he talked about himself, mocked Duncan, or simply fixed his eyes on him in silence. That last one stirred an unbearable tension in him that had only grown over time. “You just make stitches—pass the thread in and out in order until…”
“I understand the process.” His tone is ironic, but no longer contemptuous. Only a few weeks ago he would have added giant halfwit after a sentence like that. “What I want is for you to teach me.”
Duncan stares at him.
The situation between them continued to feel unpredictable as it slowly evolved into something Duncan still did not know how to name. They were not enemies, yet neither were they friends. There was no camaraderie, no obvious affection like the one he shared with Egg, but there was a fragile sort of complicity—small, but present—formed by the time they had been forced to spend together.
A little over six months earlier, Duncanhad returned with Egg to Summerhall. They had spent half a year traveling together, but Duncan had decided to go back after Egg confessed that Maekar had never given him permission to leave. That had stirred Duncan’s anger, yet the look of sadness on Egg’s face and his apology had made it painfully clear that he could be an utter softhearted fool when it came to that boy if even the faintest hint of tears appeared in his eyes.
Maekar had received them with tremendous fury and had forbidden them entirely from leaving again for a time. Duncan had stayed by Egg’s side, and during those months he had learned that Maekar had ultimately abandoned his original plan of sending Aerion to Lys.
The look Aerion gave him whenever they crossed paths was one of pure disdain. Duncan always averted his eyes and left any place where the Targaryen happened to be. They had not exchanged a single word since.
Until Maekar summoned him to his chambers and spoke about how much Egg had grown by his side; how he saw in him the traits of a strong, humble young man, capable of leading with justice. Baelor’s name had come up in the conversation, and Duncan had fought the urge to clutch his heart as it tightened painfully.
Then Maekar asked him a favor: to deliver a message to a lesser lord, one who resided quite far from Summerhall. Duncan wondered why he had been chosen, but when Maekar told him that he wanted Aerion to accompany him, he understood.
“I don’t think I… am the right choice for this task, my lord,” he had said, careful to keep disbelief from seeping into his voice.
“I believe you are the only one suited for it, Ser Duncan. I want him to see the world from a different perspective, to understand hardship and sacrifice, far from the comfort that surrounds him.”
“He hates me.”
“My boy does not hate you more than he hates himself. You will survive.”
And so, Duncan had found himself caught in a situation as sudden as it was unfortunate. Egg had thrown a fit, and Aerion himself had flatly refused. Even to this day, he did not know what threat Maekar had used to make him accept; he suspected it might have been the idea of sending him permanently to Lys.
The beginning of the journey had been a nightmare.
Aerion dismissed every word, recommendation, or request that came from Duncan; he was mocking, cruel, and selfish. Duncan had spent nights barely sleeping, fearing he might wake with a knife buried in his stomach, near the scar Aerion himself had given him at the Trial of Seven.
Aerion had not forgotten that trial, nor how Duncan had dragged him and forced him to verbalize his surrender.
“You need to cooperate with this,” he had said one night, tired and exasperated after weeks. He missed Egg so much it hurt.
“Have you ever seen a dragon and a donkey cooperate?” Aerion had raised an eyebrow, murmuring with a haughty softness. Duncan had looked away, clenching his jaw and shaking his head slightly before turning his back and lying down, wrapping himself in his cloak.
The crackling fire between them had provided warmth, but feeling Aerion’s gaze fixed on his back did even more.
Despite his arrogance, Duncan tried to stay by his side without losing patience; he cooked meals for both of them while the Targaryen watched him silently, watched his back whenever the fair-haired boy drew the attention of unsavory troublemakers, and tried to teach him tricks he had learned from Ser Arlan so that his time outdoors—in stables or in places the prince despised—would be as comfortable as possible.
Maekar had asked him to make him learn, but Duncan knew how some lessons could be true learning or merely unnecessary torture.
His patience and persistence seemed to soften the Targaryen’s difficult character after a month.
His cruelty lost its edge, his despotic way of treating the humble people they met along the way transformed into a distant but polite behavior, guided by Duncan’s disappointed gaze whenever he tried to humiliate without reason, and his minimal effort gradually turned into small gestures of cooperation until he learned to do things on his own.
One day, Duncan remembered Daeron’s words and invited him to fish with him. Aerion watched him with a surprise he quickly masked, but he declined the offer as if Duncan had said something foolish.
The tone of the journey shifted, and the tension between them persisted, but it was no longer so hostile.
Duncan began to see him differently; he even admitted that a certain warmth filled him the rare times he caught a genuine smile from the smaller boy. It made him wish he could draw that side of Aerion out more often, but he didn’t know how.
“You’ve grown quite a bit,” Aerion said one particularly starry night, causing Duncan to tear his gaze from the sky and look at him over the crackling fire, furrowing his brow until he realized Aerion was watching the length of his hair, where the ends rested on the front of his shoulders.
“Yes,” he said, grasping a lock of hair between his fingers, measuring its length as he looked at it. He had let his hair grow freely; he would need to trim it, as he had more than once done with Aerion’s. “I should cut it soon.”
“Don’t,” Aerion said with a firmness that made Duncan look at him and flush at how piercing the gaze seemed. “I like it this way.”
Duncan opened his eyes slightly, unsure of what to say as they held each other’s gaze in a sudden silence.
“Ah… uh… yes, very well,” he finally said, feeling genuinely stupid for agreeing so easily, but Aerion did not take the opportunity to mock him; rather, he seemed strangely pleased.
Duncan tried not to dwell on the nervous flutter in his stomach at the fact that Aerion had praised him for the first time in… well, ever.
After that day, the physical distance between them began to shrink.
Aerion sought his closeness at the slightest opportunity, but Duncan would pull away as if it burned every time he noticed it; he didn’t understand what was happening, as if some latent heat had awakened in his stomach, chest, and even his… He was always grateful there was a nearby lake where he could cool off when it became too much.
One afternoon, after weeks of enduring this new and strange tension between them, he excused himself urgently, claiming he needed to bathe in the lake. They never went together, nor ever changed in front of each other, and Duncan preferred it that way; he thought seeing him naked wouldn’t help the uncertainty that had been shaking him for some time—it would only make it considerably worse.
What the hell is wrong with me? he constantly asked himself.
He left his clothes to the side and stepped into the water completely naked. When it reached above his abdomen, he closed his eyes and sighed with relief, focusing on the cold water and gently moving his neck from side to side, releasing the tension that gripped him constantly.
He slowly wet his arms, his nape, chest, and armpits before submerging himself entirely. The cold water always seemed to have a healing effect on him, and when he surfaced, he exhaled sharply, but with a fleeting sense of bliss.
His wet hair blurred his vision, and as he brought both hands to push it back, he heard a noise behind him. He turned his head instantly, trying to glance over his shoulder, but his eyes, blurred by the water, could not make out the source. He passed his hand across his face to clear any obstruction from his sight.
He frowned when he found nothing and let it go, concluding it must have been some animal, lingering there for a while longer.
When he returned to Aerion, he was noticeably more relaxed. He gave Chestnut a gentle stroke along the side of the muzzle as the horse neighed, seeking his attention.
“The water’s wonderful. You should try it now.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Aerion said, subtly surveying his form with his eyes before meeting his gaze. He was sitting, but his posture seemed stiff and uncomfortable, his arms deliberately crossed over the front of his pants. His pupils were so dilated that Duncan nearly asked if he was all right. “Perhaps later.”
The absence of mockery or irony in Aerion’s response was rare, but Duncan decided not to press the matter.
“Don’t wait until night,” he simply remarked, turning his back and walking toward their provisions, resting against the elm tree that sheltered them, completely oblivious to how the dragon’s blood burned fiercely in Aerion after having spied on him in the lake.
And just a couple of days after that moment, Aerion was asking him to teach him how to sew—something he had seen Duncan do countless times and had never paid the slightest attention to.
Duncan didn’t understand where the interest had come from, but he had no reason to refuse.
Aerion stood and sat beside him, briefly filling the air with a distinctive scent that Duncan had initially wondered whether it came from his clothes or from him; after weeks together where dirt and sweat were part of their routines, he could now be certain it came from his body—it was part of him.
Duncan liked it more than he was willing to admit.
He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, aware that this time he couldn’t use any excuse to distance himself from Aerion’s proximity.
“It’s best to do it as soon as possible. The smaller it is, the easier it will be to mend,” he said, trying to focus on the movements of his own hands while feeling Aerion place a hand behind him, drawing his face closer, past Duncan’s arm. Too close.
“Like an enemy,” Aerion said, shifting his gaze from the hole in the cloak to Duncan. “The smaller it is, the easier it is to handle, right?”
Duncan held his breath, avoiding his gaze, noting the clear reference to their old fight.
“Not always,” he said honestly.
Aerion might have remembered that day as humiliating and shameful, but to Duncan, he had been a worthy opponent; the precision of his blows and his speed had been a formidable challenge. Only Ser Arlan had been able to bring him back to life afterward.
Aerion bit his tongue slightly and smiled at the thought.
“You insert the needle from this side,” Duncan tried to steer the conversation back to the lesson, avoiding the personal territory. “Then you pass it through the other side, closing it. These aren’t invisible patches; I’m not very subtle, but it will do until I get another one.”
“I can get you another,” Aerion said, and Duncan couldn’t help but look at him, frowning at the offer. The smaller man’s scent seemed to intensify as he let his eyes drop slightly to Duncan’s lips before raising them again. “Of exquisite quality, with the Targaryen emblem; so everyone knows whom… which house you serve.”
“I do not serve the Targaryens,” Duncan clarified, a languid warmth coursing through his body. The irritation at the insinuation that he was a possession of the dragons was softened by Aerion’s proximity. This was exactly the kind of thing that made him know he shouldn’t allow Aerion so close. “I’m here for Egg.”
“Only for him?”
“Yes,” Duncan murmured without hesitation. Why would he do what he does otherwise? That boy was already like a little brother to him; the thought of abandoning him didn’t even exist in his mind.
“Shame,” Aerion’s frustration shone in his eyes—Duncan called it that because he didn’t dare label it jealousy. “I could make you my knight; you wouldn’t lack for luxury or cloaks. You’d be a huge donkey, but a very elegant one.”
Of course, the mockery couldn’t be missing, to lighten the request he was secretly making. Duncan could hardly believe this was happening; his mind simply couldn’t grasp why Aerion would want him—of all people—as his knight.
“Why would you want that?”
Aerion tilted his head and bit his lip, watching him with an intensity that suddenly knotted Duncan’s throat.
“You can’t be such an idiot, Duncan.”
Duncan furrowed his brow again, intending to defend himself, though he wasn’t even sure against what, but Aerion didn’t allow it; he closed the slight gap between them by shifting his posture and leaning on his knees, then grabbed the back of Duncan’s neck with one hand and tangled the other in the length of his hair, pulling him firmly to press their lips together in a sudden kiss.
Duncan let go of the needle and his cloak without realizing it, bringing his hands to the prince’s arms instinctively—but he didn’t push him away. Surprise froze him.
Aerion was kissing him; it wasn’t a hallucination or a dream born of extreme fatigue and feelings he didn’t understand, nor made any effort to.
It was really happening, and Duncan didn’t know what to do; he was only vaguely aware that, if it were anyone else, he probably would have shoved them away immediately.
The impatient force with which Aerion had grabbed him and kissed him seemed to ease when he noticed there was no resistance from Duncan; the fingers digging into his neck and hair loosened, and his lips and tongue explored Duncan’s more gently, seeking permission to enter.
Duncan closed his eyes and opened his mouth, granting him that permission. His hands, clenched on Aerion’s arms, loosened and slid along the smaller man’s sides, encompassing his back and causing him to swing his knees around each side of Duncan’s thighs, pressing their bodies together, which seemed to fit perfectly.
The last time someone had kissed him was years ago; a bold, laughing girl had cornered him, kissing and touching him without restraint. Duncan had fled at the first opportunity—uncomfortable and out of place, feelings very different from those now flooding his body.
His experience with sex was nonexistent; he had witnessed and heard such horrible situations in Flea Bottom that he had unconsciously avoided exploring it himself.
He was so disconnected from that intimate side of life that he wasn’t even fully aware that men could also attract him.
He noticed himself hard as a muffled moan escaped into Aerion’s mouth when the shorter man moved over him, aiming to rub his ass against his erection; the motion also made him feel the hardness of the prince pressing against his stomach.
“Fuck, thank the gods, I was going crazy,” Aerion murmured in his ear as their mouths parted. The hand that had been resting on the back of Duncan’s neck slid down toward his shirt, trying to rip it open with rough urgency. “We’re going to fuck here, now.”
The tone of his voice carried both desperation and certainty, deciding for both of them what was about to happen—and that detail jolted Duncan out of the whirlwind of lust they had fallen into in mere seconds.
To the flush of arousal on his skin was added a flush of shame. How could he explain that he hadn’t…? Aerion would look at him as if he were a specimen, even more so than usual.
Aerion pushes him back after managing to open his shirt, falling onto him and sucking the skin of his neck, while tightening his grip on Duncan’s hair. He is rough, passionate, and direct; going for his prey without hesitation, marking every movement with intent and urgency.
But Duncan, inexperienced, could no longer keep up with his pace.
“Wait,” he says, pushing against his chest to catch his attention. His mind cannot keep up with his body; he feels overwhelmed knowing he cannot give what is expected of him.
“What?” Aerion searches his eyes as he notices Duncan trying to get up, prompting him to ease off gently. Aerion seems to allow it only because he is momentarily unsettled.
“I… I don’t—” Duncan cannot bring himself to speak the truth. He closes his shirt as he stands, his scalp aching from the recent rough handling. “I don’t think we should do this. My task is to teach you and protect you, not… this.”
“Are you serious?” Aerion watches him from the floor, his expression of confusion slowly shifting to one of wounded annoyance. That gesture makes Duncan even more nervous.
He needs to step away; rejecting him with an erection still pressing against his pants is not the best way to stop the situation.
“I… I just… got carried away. I suppose you’re used to getting this from others, but I’m not here for that. Your father…”
“Fuck you,” Aerion stands, murmuring the words softly, yet with a tone so sharp it feels like a slap. “My father cares little about what I do or with whom; he should be glad to have me away.”
“That’s not the impression I have,” Duncan replies, still recalling the desperate shout of a father during the trial, calling for his boy while watching Duncan stand before him, believing he would kill him.
“Wasn’t that enough to get your attention?” Aerion smiles, but it’s not the kind of smile Duncan likes; it’s forced, cruel. “At how I’ve behaved these past weeks.”
“What?” Duncan looks at him, bewildered by the question.
“I’d think you’re playing the fool, but I guess you really don’t get anything,” Aerion walks toward him, and Duncan tenses as he remains standing, looking down at the shorter prince. Aerion tilts his head slightly and lifts his gaze to meet Duncan’s. His aura is fully hostile, like the Aerion of old. “You’ve been lucky to come across Aegon, because a poor fool like you should never have left Flea Bottom.”
It hurt Duncan to hear that, not just for what it implied, but for the fact that Aerion knew exactly where he came from—and was using it to hurt him. It seemed impossible how they had gone from kissing to this.
“You’re not wrong in saying that I am accustomed to taking sex from others,” Aerion said, “but you are wrong to think you’re the exception. A nobody like you should be more than willing to serve a dragon’s desire.”
Duncan clearly saw what he intended; knowing more of the prince’s sides during the journey had taught him that the Aerion before him now was only a wounded, defensive version—not the only one that existed. Still, knowing it didn’t stop him from not wanting to hear another word.
“Pack your things. It’s time to leave,” he said, passing by him.
“At your command, Ser,” came the ironic reply behind his back, falling on his shoulders like a slab of stone.
They spend the rest of the day in an awkward, tense silence.
Duncan keeps turning over in his mind his thought, “Wasn’t that enough to catch your attention?” as he casts sidelong glances at him. Sometimes he speaks, or asks something, hoping to break the ice, feeling guilty for letting himself be carried away and then rejecting him, but Aerion deliberately ignores him.
What should trouble me is why my body seems to crave his touch once more, he tells himself.
As the hours pass and the rain threatens to spoil the approaching night even further, Duncan suggests stopping at the nearest inn. Of course, he receives no answer, yet Aerion follows his suggestion all the same.
Their paths diverge when they each choose separate rooms.
Duncan fixes his gaze on his back until he sees him vanish around a corner, then lets out the breath he had been holding in his chest.
Fatigue and the new, strong emotions he had felt throughout the day should have sent him collapsing onto the soft bed, yet instead, he finds himself tossing and turning.
Sleep eludes him; Aerion’s words, his pained expression, what he seems to wish to tell him—and that Duncan struggles so much to understand—keep replaying in his mind. And when that is not enough, the memory of his kisses, his touch, and his scent overwhelms him.
He is on the verge of rising to go to his room, yet he stops himself.
What are you doing? What is happening to you? he asks himself as the heat in his stomach intensifies. The absence of Aegon by his side after so much time together should bring him relief, yet it only traps him further in a snare he had not known existed until today.
The sound of a couple of knocks on his door, above the patter of the rain, makes him watch it silently for a few seconds. He knows perfectly well who it is before opening.
Aerion gazes at him without a word, then steps forward.
Duncan retreats just enough for Aerion to close the door, and then they hold each other’s gaze in silence, the unbearable tension on the verge of bursting. It is clear that the intense feeling that had disturbed Duncan’s sleep had done the same to Aerion.
The Targaryen looks once more at his lips as he draws a subtle breath, seeming both nervous and tense as he prepares to speak—but this time it is Duncan who moves first, leaning in to kiss him.
Aerion moans in surprise, yet barely hesitates to wrap himself around Duncan and press close. The prince is the one who guides him backward until they fall onto the bed, touching and kissing without pause, and Duncan feels that his scent could drive him mad.
Unlike before, he hardly thinks; he only feels.
They shed their clothes without hurry, yet without pause, and Duncan studies and explores Aerion’s pale, defined body as though discovering a treasure.
“I have never… done this,” he admits boldly as they move further.
But Aerion does not regard him as a specimen; instead, he smiles slowly, seemingly captivated by the confession before nodding and kissing him again.
When he allows Duncan to enter him, Duncan feels as if he has touched a piece of heaven; the sensation is so intense and pleasurable that he could weep. He moves upon him without ceasing, thrusting, while Aerion digs his nails into his strong, bare back and moans in his ear.
He comes with Aerion’s name escaping his lips, and the prince follows soon after. When Duncan buries his face in the pale hollow of Aerion’s neck, Aerion lets out a small, ecstatic laugh.
The sound makes Duncan’s chest tighten, and he smiles in return.
Months later, they return to Summerhall.
Egg runs to him, embracing him tightly.
“Are you the same? You’ve grown taller,” Duncan says, smiling, thrilled to see him.
“Yes, at least I’ve passed your navel,” Egg laughs, watching him with open, honest affection in his eyes. “I have thought of you every day, and of the torment you must have endured.”
Duncan prays he does not blush as the memories of the past months rush unbidden into his mind. Since that first night he and Aerion had lain together, they had not stopped, not even once.
Aerion would lick his lips like a cat if he were witnessing the conversation, laughing inwardly at his younger brother’s innocent ignorance.
“It was bearable,” Duncan says, not delving further, unwilling to lie.
He cannot even imagine the moment when he will have to tell him that the situation between Aerion and himself has changed… drastically.
Duncan is completely in love with the dragon.
But he knows that until Egg sees the good qualities that had long remained hidden and buried within his brother, he will not be able to understand.
Now Duncan is the one who knows Aerion best, and he will ensure that the others see what he sees.
Maekar had been right in claiming that he was the right man for him.