Chapter Text
Lightning split the sky.
For an instant the world turned white.
When Dunk opened his good eye, the dragon was still there, seated across the dead fire, a dagger resting loosely in his hand.
Aerion Targaryen did not look at him.
He didn’t need to.
Dunk already knew the prince had decided whether he would live until morning.
The soaked firewood lay between them, its embers long since fading. Aerion’s red cloak spread across the mud like a dark puddle. He wasn’t cleaning the dagger. Nor sharpening it.
He was simply… holding it.
As if it were a silent reminder that he could.
Dunk swallowed. He shifted slightly out of instinct. The effort sent a sharp stab of pain through his body.
The prince’s gaze remained fixed on the spot where the rain fell hardest, as if he meant to pierce straight through it. Water ran down his silver hair and slipped along the line of his sharp jaw. His lips stayed pressed together.
Beside him, Egg wasn’t asleep. He was curled up in Dunk’s cloak, his hands buried in the damp wool, so still he seemed to be holding his breath. His indigo eyes were wide open, his gaze flicking between the dagger, Aerion’s face… and Dunk’s, as if trying to measure how long it would take before everything finally exploded.
The sky lit up again for a brief instant.
Dunk pushed himself upright with great care. His body was wrecked. His right leg felt like a rigid block, throbbing with every heartbeat. The left burned where the cloth stuck to dried blood. He could barely breathe without feeling as if his insides were on fire and his ribs were splitting open from within…
And the hand… damn that hand… he could still feel the memory of something piercing straight through his palm.
He wasn’t imagining it. When he moved his fingers, the agony was almost unbearable.
Aerion refused to look at him.
“Stay still,” he said at last.
His voice was low. Calm. And even so, it sounded like an order.
Dunk clenched his teeth.
“I didn’t know you were a maester as well, Your Grace.”
Aerion turned his head slightly—just enough for a flash of lightning to carve the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the cold gleam of violet eyes.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he slowly spun the dagger between his fingers, as though he wanted Dunk to remember exactly how much damage that blade could do. The wounds in Dunk’s hand and left leg began to throb more fiercely.
“Does it hurt?” Aerion asked, with feigned gentleness.
Dunk let out a dry laugh, without humor.
“What do you think?”
Aerion tilted his head, as if the answer genuinely interested him.
“I thought you didn’t feel pain at all.”
Dunk held his gaze. His lips trembled. He stayed silent for a moment.
“And I thought dragons didn’t bleed.”
Something crossed Aerion’s face. It didn’t look like anger.
It was worse.
The prince ran his thumb along the dagger’s edge, lightly enough that the blade caught the light of another lightning strike.
“You were finished.”
Bile rose in Dunk’s throat. He saw himself again, sprawled in the mud. Voices echoed around him, distant and distorted. Only one stood out: Egg’s, pleading with him to get up. A silhouette walked away from him, victorious.
“And yet,” Aerion continued, a strange glint in his eyes, “you got up.”
The silence that followed was worse than any insult.
Dunk drew a slow breath, trying to quiet his mind. The damp air scraped his throat.
“You shouldn’t strain that fresh wound,” he said, nodding toward the prince’s right thigh. His own voice sounded rougher than he expected.
Aerion didn’t react.
“You shouldn’t still be alive with yours.”
They stared at each other.
Another flash of lightning tore across the sky.
Dunk felt his jaw trembling, though it didn’t seem to be from the cold.
He had been thinking about it ever since they left Ashford Meadow, but he wouldn’t admit it.
Not to him.
He said nothing.
Several seconds passed. It felt like an eternity.
Then the prince finally broke the silence.
“I’m wasting my time.”
With that, he looked away toward Egg.
“I trust that today you’ll actually manage to ride.”
The boy opened his mouth as if he meant to answer, but didn’t. His fists clenched. He looked down at the ground.
Aerion rose to his feet in a movement that would have been flawless… if he hadn’t limped for a brief second.
A heartbeat.
Long enough for Dunk to see it.
And for the prince to notice that he had.
Anger crossed Aerion’s face, as quick as the lightning that cut across the sky again.
His voice grew harsher.
“Before dawn we’ll be out of this stretch. If you fall behind again, you’ll stay behind. Alone.”
Egg jerked his head up.
“You can’t—!”
One look from his older brother was enough to silence him.
He tried to swallow his anger, but failed. His lips trembled.
Dunk placed a hand on his shoulder.
Egg flinched, but didn’t pull away.
“We’re not leaving him behind.”
Aerion looked at him as if that no were blasphemy.
“No?”
“No.”
Another flash of lightning struck.
For an instant, the world turned white.
The light caught on Aerion’s collarbone, barely exposed by the open neck of his tunic. There was dried blood along the edge of his black glove. Dunk noticed the faint tremor in the hand holding the dagger… and the way the prince tightened his fingers around it, as if that alone might hide it.
Aerion leaned forward.
Toward him.
Too close.
“Ser Duncan,” he said softly. “Do you think yourself brave… or merely a fool?”
Dunk held his gaze.
“Is there a difference?”
For the briefest moment, something like laughter tugged at Aerion’s lips, but it died before it could escape.
The sky gave no respite. The storm seemed fiercer than ever.
“Don’t make me find out,” he murmured.
Then he turned and walked away toward the horses at a slow pace, as upright as ever, as if the mud and rain could not touch him.
As if he hadn’t nearly driven the edge of his dagger into Dunk’s throat only seconds before.
And then Dunk remembered him in Lord Ashford’s hall, eating nuts without a care while condemning him to certain death.
As if Dunk’s life had been worth nothing.
Egg let out a sharp breath.
“Ser…” he whispered.
Dunk did not answer.
He looked at his trembling hands, covered in fresh scars, with dried blood beneath his nails.
And the thought struck him with a clarity that made him nauseous.
That day…
He could have run him through.
He hadn’t.
Dunk didn’t know which was worse.