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“And my father, of course, will have invited all of my cousins,” Aerion is saying, inspecting his closet like the coat he’s trying to find will jump out on its own. “Valarr will be there. I’ve told you about Valarr?”
Dunk nods and then clears his throat, remembering Aerion can’t see him. “Er, yes. He’s– er, your uncle’s eldest?”
“Uncle Baelor,” Aerion scoffs, his posh accent curling over the name in a much more sophisticated manner. Every word out of Aerion’s mouth has always sounded like poetry, not like Dunk’s own bumbling brogue. “He doesn’t like me very much, I don’t think. Aegon runs to him every time I make him angry. A-ha, found you.”
Dunk watches Aerion reach into the depths of his closet, his shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of skin, smooth like marble and paler than the rest of him. It dries Dunk’s mouth a bit, even more when he remembers he can touch that skin if he wants to, he has permission.
Him. The bumpkin from Flea Bottom who wears hand-me-downs and still doesn’t quite feel as big as his body has grown to be. It feels like a dream sometimes, someone like Aerion choosing him.
“Duncan. Are you listening to me?”
Dunk blinks, focusing on Aerion who’s stopped rifling through his clothes. He looks unimpressed, arms folded and slim hip cocked to the side. Gods, he looks beautiful. Dunk needs a drink of water.
“Yes, of– yes. What is it?”
Aerion rolls his eyes but holds a dark blue jacket to his front. It’s one Dunk has never seen before, but that’s unsurprising. Aerion has more jackets meant for yachting than Dunk has any at all.
He hadn’t even known there were jackets for different things until he met Aerion.
“It’s nice,” he says, sincere. Everything looks good on Aerion.
Aerion turns to the mirror, humming as he turns this way and that way, finally tossing the garment on the bed where a pile of clothes is already sitting. It’s too much for one weekend, but Aerion wouldn’t want to hear it.
I wouldn’t expect an oaf like you to understand anything about fashion, he’d say. This jacket costs more than your tuition.
Dunk’s already packed his bag, dug up his best blazer he’d gotten for Freshers Ball and reused for every fancy event since. It’s starting to fray by the elbows, but he’s already resigned himself to standing out like a sore thumb among Aerion’s rich, white-haired family.
He usually does, being a foot taller than everyone else, and a ginger to boot, but even if he hasn’t met Aerion’s relatives before, he knows what the Targaryens are like.
Everyone knows.
They’re going to eat him alive.
“Your father knows I’m coming, right?” he asks again, fiddling with his fingers. He’s been putting off the whole meeting-the-family thing, would much rather pretend he’s not dating Maekar Targaryen’s favourite son, that Aerion has parents Dunk would actually like who, maybe, would like him right back.
Aerion makes an irritated noise, abandoning his search for more jackets, and coming to straddle Dunk on the bed. “You’ve asked me a million times and the answer is still yes. He wants to meet you, I’ve told him about you many times.”
Dunk’s hands come to cradle Aerion’s lower back automatically, pulling him flush against his front so he’s secure and close. Funny to imagine he’d never dated anyone before Aerion and spent months stressing over potentially embarrassing himself if Aerion ever wanted anything to do with him.
He runs on pure instinct around Aerion, some caveman in his hindbrain taking over whenever the scent of whatever cologne Aerion is wearing tickles at his nose. It’s embarrassing in its own right, probably, Dunk’s giant, clumsy hands pawing all over Aerion.
He seems to like it well enough, judging by the pleased quirk of his lips as he gazes down at Dunk. “I don’t know why you’re so worried, it’s not as if my father will kill you.”
He could and would, is what Dunk wisely keeps to himself. Probably knows exactly how to make a body disappear. The whispers around campus have pondered for years whether the Targaryens had gotten their start dealing in mobster business.
Dunk wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.
Still, he forces a chuckle that turns slightly genuine when Aerion smirks at him back, his elegant fingers tangling into Dunk’s long hair. “No, I know. I just… well, he’s not exactly going to approve, is he?”
Aerion scowls at him, yanking at Dunk’s hair. He winces, easing his head back until the pressure on his scalp is relieved. “Ouch, baby.”
“You deserve it,” Aerion snaps quickly, though he shifts on Dunk’s thighs like he feels bad. They’re still working on Aerion’s occasional… mishandling of Dunk’s physical flesh. It’s not his fault he grew up with maids he could torment and no one to check his behaviour.
“What did I say?” Dunk frowns.
“My father. It doesn’t matter if he approves or not. You are dating me, not him.”
“Yeah, but–“
“But what?” Aerion asks, irritated. He scratches his nails over Dunk’s scalp and ripples of pleasure zing down his spine. He accepts the apology for what it is. “No buts. You’ll meet Daddy dearest and you’ll suck it up because it’s important to me. Or do you not want to make me happy?”
It’s manipulation. Dunk’s thicker than a wall on his best days, but he’s not a complete idiot. Aerion’s a dirty player and Dunk’s not exempt from his games just because he’s managed to nab him.
There’s no taming Aerion, but Dunk doesn’t really mind. He does want to make Aerion happy, is the thing. Aerion using that for his gain doesn’t change the truth.
“Alright,” Dunk sighs, slumping into the pillows behind him. “I’ll do it. For you.”
Aerion sits astride his hips, looking like a cat who got the cream. He walks his hands up Dunk’s chest until he’s stretched over him, barely weighing anything.
“You love me?” he asks, tracing a finger over Dunk’s bottom lip.
Dunk’s eyes threaten to cross as he tries to follow the movement. “Of course I do.”
Aerion smiles, eyes half-closed and lazily satisfied. If he were a cat, he’d be purring, Dunk’s convinced of it. “Good. My suitcase needs to be packed. If you wrinkle my clothes, you’ll be paying for them.”
___
“Jesus Christ,” Dunk exhales, shouldering his bag and staring helplessly at the– Well, it’s a castle, ain’t it. Big as one, at the very least.
The Targaryen estate stretches out in front of him, greenery carrying as far as the eye can see in all directions. Smack in the middle is the mansion-castle-mansion, multiple stories high and more intricately decorated than any art installation Dunk’s ever seen.
Fucking Targaryens.
“This is where you grew up?” he asks weakly and wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs. “Remind me not to touch anything.”
Aerion’s brief silence means he doesn’t get the joke, too below his tax bracket. Not that it’s a joke, really. Even one of those flower arrangements by the windows probably costs Dunk’s monthly salary.
“Don’t be an idiot, you have to touch something,” Aerion says finally and treads forward. His heeled boots click on the white stone and Dunk lumbers behind him, feeling too big for his clothes and entirely too small for this place. “You say the stupidest things sometimes.”
“Aye, sometimes I do.”
___
The inside of Summerhall is just as intimidating as the outside, high ceilings and huge chandeliers everywhere they pass. Aerion leads him to their room, explaining the layout of the house as they go, his fingers pointing every which way.
“And if you ever forget where our rooms are, just follow these columns all the way through these two hallways and you can’t go wrong. They’re fashioned after Corinthian architecture, of course, completely different from the foyer’s–“
Dunk doesn’t have the heart to tell him all the columns look the same to him. Still, he doubts he’ll be left alone to wander the halls too often. Aerion’s quite clingy.
“Brother.”
Aerion stops so suddenly Dunk almost walks into him. He steadies himself on Aerion’s narrow shoulders, peering at the man who’s appeared through one of the doors along this endless maze of hallways.
“Daeron.”
Aerion’s brother then. The eldest one, the one who drinks and does absolutely nothing with his life, as Aerion likes to tell it. His name is in the headlines for public indecency as often as it is for drunken scenes caused at balls and galas, those ones rich people attend for no reason whatsoever.
He doesn’t look too messy now, hair combed into a neat ponytail and a black shirt unbuttoned at the top. There’s exhaustion in the droop of his eyelids and the red of his lash lines, though. His skin is pale and waxy like a puppet’s, shoulders tense.
Dunk doesn’t know why he expected him to have white hair. It’s dirtier, more the colour of wheat. Aerion’s always been proud of his own Targaryen traits – never mind that it’s the result of inbreeding.
“You and your… boyfriend made it then,” Daeron says, voice drawling like it’s tiring for him to speak. “Are you going to introduce us?”
Aerion tugs Dunk to his side, sharp nails digging into the meat of his bicep. “I’m surprised you made it.”
“I live here.”
Aerion’s words are acidic. “Out of your room. Or whatever ditch you passed out last night, perhaps. The bottle calling your name yet?”
Dunk shifts uncomfortably, eyes flickering between the brothers. If Dunk had a sibling, he’d imagine they would be close. He thinks about Rafe, briefly. He doesn’t quite know what to do with… this.
“Must you start with the hostilities so early, little brother?” Daeron smiles, faint and fleeting, a touch of something in his voice. His gaze slides to Dunk. “You picked a darling, didn’t you? I’ll see you at the feast. Father is excited to meet you.”
He limps past them, patting Dunk’s arm as he goes. Aerion’s nails dig in deeper, and Dunk winces. “Babe…”
Aerion huffs, releasing him. He doesn’t apologize, he never does, but he nuzzles his forehead against Dunk’s arm for a second like a disgruntled kitten and it’s enough for Dunk.
“I doubt excited is the right word for what your father is feeling,” he breathes out a laugh, anxiety starting to churn in his stomach again.
“Don’t listen to Daeron,” Aerion dismisses as they start walking. “He’s a drunk. Besides, he’s just mad I’m no longer a blushing virgin. The day he found out I only bed men he blacked out at a club and his drooling face ended up on the Sun the next day.”
Dunk frowns. “Oh.”
“I think he’s homophobic.”
“Oh, I, er–“
“Quit vocalizing, you oaf,” Aerion snaps. “It’s irritating me.”
Dunk dutifully closes his mouth.
___
Maekar Targaryen has been glaring at Dunk for the better part of an hour now, sat on his throne at the head of the banquet table.
He’d thought he’d maybe get to meet Aerion’s father in a more… intimate setting, where they’d get to sit down and have a conversation, but Aerion had kept Dunk busy helping him choose an outfit for the feast and now they’re seated in the huge dining room with– Gods, a hundred people, probably.
There aren’t even that many Targaryens alive currently, Dunk knows that much. They may no longer practice, ahem, closed relations, but the family is still pretty exclusive.
Father’s associates and their families, Aerion explains when Dunk asks. Plus the uncles who have no relation to us but have always been there. Don’t know what they do, though.
The table is filled with all kinds of food, but Dunk’s stomach is churning so bad all he can do is clutch his warming glass of wine between his sweaty palms and try to ignore the laser sharp prick of eyes on the back of his skull.
He leans towards his boyfriend, pitching his voice low. “Should we, um. Go say hello to your dad? I don’t want to be rude.”
Aerion flicks an uninterested hand, popping a grape between his lips. His sharp teeth crush the pebble with a squelch and Dunk’s stomach turns. “He wants you to sweat. He’ll corner you later, don’t worry.”
“Easier said than done,” Dunk says, huffing out an anxious laugh. Aerion’s scent, some fruity perfume this time, calms him down some, and he presses his mouth to his crown where the smell is strongest, platinum hair tickling at his nose. “I don’t know what’s appropriate or not.”
Aerion pats his thigh and Dunk immediately traps his hand there, squeezing like he can extract courage through Aerion’s soft skin. “Won’t you calm down? You act like meeting my father will kill you.”
“It might,” Dunk mumbles into Aerion’s hair.
Aerion yanks his hand out of Dunk’s grip. “You should’ve stayed in your bloody dormitory then if you hate this so much. I’d like to see those nerds you’re so fond of who have nothing but Monster cans and instant noodles in their pantry serve you a feast like this.”
“Aerion,” Dunk protests, confused, as he watches Aerion push his chair back. He tries to grasp onto his hand, keep him there. “What did I say?”
He often pisses Aerion off, partly due to Aerion’s own particular sensitivity, partly because Dunk can be pretty thick-headed sometimes. He comes from a completely different world than his boyfriend and his obliviousness annoys Aerion.
“Figure it out, oaf,” he says, shaking Dunk loose and walking off. He picks up someone’s wine glass on the way.
Dunk stares after him with a frown.
“Don’t take it personally,” someone says and Dunk startles. It’s Daeron, taking Aerion’s seat and immediately slumping over the table. His ponytail has already started to unravel, strands of curly hair falling over his cheekbones. “Aerion’s a right cunt to everyone.”
“He’s not a cunt,” Dunk refutes automatically. Daeron raises his eyebrows at him, pulling a piece of lamb off a knife with his teeth. “He’s– he’s just sensitive.”
“Don’t I know it. I’m the one who grew up with him, unfortunately.”
Dunk feels a sudden surge of protectiveness. He’s not blind to Aerion’s faults, but he’s also been there for the nightmares, the psychiatrist visits and the mornings when he’s refused to take his meds because he misses the dragons and Dunk has had to force them down his throat because he’d rather see him upset than in psychosis.
Aerion’s trying. They’ve come so far from the days the only attention he’d deign to show Dunk were insults and hurtful condescension. Dunk may be a bit of a lapdog when it comes to his boyfriend, but that’s just because he loves him.
And he hasn’t hurt another person ever since he turned his obsession onto Dunk. That must count for something.
“Aren’t you supposed to be his brother?” Dunk bites out gruffly. “You’re supposed to love each other.”
Daeron’s shoulders inch higher on his frame. He pushes the food around the plate, lips turned down.
Dunk sighs, shaking his clenched fingers out. “Sorry, mate, I just–“
“Don’t apologize,” Daeron interrupts softly. “You’re his partner. Of course you’d defend him.”
He smiles, though it comes out trembling and fizzles out quick. “I’m glad. That he has you. Gods know what our lives would be like if he were still walking around unclaimed.”
He rises so fast the entire table shakes, cutlery clinking and a candle whooshing out. He nods at Dunk, swiping a hand over his hair. “See you around, then. I hope he keeps you.”
Dunk downs the rest of his wine, the starts of a headache blooming in his temples. Every interaction with this family is more confusing than the last.
At least he’s got the approval of one relative. Maybe. Only twenty or so more to go.
___
Later, he tries to find Aerion among the people mingling about which is a job easier said than done when half the people here have pale hair and the clothes the same shade of red. Dunk stands out just as he feared he would, too tall and too broad and entirely out of place.
He thinks he’s spotted the right shade of silver hair slipping out of sight when a gruff voice stops him in his tracks.
“You. Giant.”
The hairs on the back of Dunk’s neck rise.
He slowly turns around to Maekar Targaryen glowering at him like he just killed his puppy. Or deflowered his son.
Dunk swallows. “Sir. Hello. Er, I mean, good evening. Or… ah, fuck.”
Maekar inspects him with cold eyes, somehow managing to make Dunk feel small even though he stands much taller.
Aerion takes after his father a lot, it seems, not only in his colouring that sets them apart from even the majority of their own family and makes them look strange and alien, but also in his ability to set someone on fire with their gaze alone.
There’s a hardness to Maekar that Aerion hasn’t grown into yet, though, a certain cynicism in the twist of his thin lips. Dunk imagines this man doesn’t smile too often.
“You’re the… man my son is currently entangled with?” Maekar drawls, voice dripping with such thick condescension that even thick-as-walls Dunk can hear it.
“Er, yeah, that’s me,” he replies breathlessly, arm twitching while he tries to decide whether to offer his hand or not. Do Targaryens kiss each other on the cheeks? It seems like the pretentious thing they’d do. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Maekar makes a vague sound of disgust. “You’re not the first beast Aerion has trapped in his claws, but you are the first one he’s brought for show. What makes you so special? Other than your… obvious qualities.”
Dunk coughs into his fist, desperately racking his brain for a polite response. Targaryens are politicians at heart, he knew all along it’d be like walking into a pit full of snakes ready to strike at any moment. He’s not like that, can’t speak in riddles to save his life.
“Sir, I guess, er, we’re in love,” he finally manages to stutter out, deciding to settle on the truth. “I don’t think I’m that special at all, but I’m committed to your son, hundred percent.”
Maekar stares at him, something wild in his eyes.
“And our future,” Dunk tacks on quickly. He thought that would be an issue, his obvious lack of wealth and prospects. “I know I can’t offer much to Aerion, but if he’ll have me, I’ll cherish him for the rest of his life, through thick and thin. Honest.”
Nailed it. Surely. Every father wants the best for their children, especially ones as volatile and challenged as Aerion.
Dunk’s ready to pat himself on the back when he notices Maekar’s already pale skin has gone translucent. Oh, shite. Maybe the part about forever was too much.
“I’ll be surprised if you last a week after today,” Maekar hisses through gritted teeth. “You think Aerion’s with you for… love? It’s as if he took every unfortunate aspect of a man and assembled you, a poor brute of a man, just to spite me.”
Dunk stumbles through his words. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Aerion’s my child. I held him to my chest when he was still pink and wailing. Too many times I have had to sit at his bedside after an episode, praying to the Gods to heal his mind. They never do. Instead he finds the closest man he can and pushes them until they lose patience and smack him around because my son is committed to making bad decisions!”
Dunk gapes, speechless.
Maekar continues, every word out his mouth like acid, “I forbade him from men, but of course he took that as a challenge. You think you will last? If I were you, I’d pray Aerion grows tired of you before you raise a hand against him in frustration. I can drown you in litigation until you have nothing, Sir Duncan Pennytree. I’m very good at my job.”
“Sir, I, er,” Dunk tries, anxiety thickening his accent. “I swear I did not mean to–“
“Are you bothering our guest, brother?” another voice joins the conversation, this one calm and steady like an oak tree. “Leave the poor man be.”
“This has nothing to do with you, Baelor.”
The man, Baelor, sets a scarred hand on Maekar’s shoulder and casts a good-natured look at Dunk. “You must forgive my brother. He hasn’t been sleeping well as of late.”
“I do wonder why,” Maekar grumbles, crossing his arms. Still, Dunk can’t help but notice how he sways towards his brother like compelled by a magnet. Baelor’s palm slides down his back.
“Baelor Targaryen,” he introduces himself, leaning forward to offer Dunk his hand. “You must be Aerion’s partner.”
“Yes, sir.” Dunk hurries to shake Baelor’s hand, praying to the Gods his hand is not sweaty. “Dunk, er, Duncan. Pennytree.”
Baelor hums, flicking his eyes up and down Dunk’s body. His irises are two different colours, Dunk notices. He’d never pin this man as a Targaryen based on looks. His skin is tan and his hair dark, greying at the edges.
Next to Maekar’s unsettling complexion, Baelor looks warm. There’s a twinkle in his eye, a smile twitching at his lips. And Maekar has quieted down in his presence, which is a relief.
Dunk is still reeling from the man’s accusations. He doesn’t know much about Aerion’s past relationships other than the tiny details Aerion drops like breadcrumbs.
Did he really get smacked around like Maekar said or was that an exaggeration made by a disapproving parent? Dunk hates the thought of Aerion hurt, even less so the thought of Aerion using domestic disputes as a form of self-harm.
It chafes at Dunk in a way he really doesn’t like. There’s a thorn in his brain, burrowing deep. Aerion has always been fascinated by Dunk’s size, how he covers him completely when he’s on top of him. He’s always hanging off Dunk’s bicep, sinking his teeth in the thick muscle.
If he only picked Dunk because of his size, because he thought Dunk’s big fists could do a lot of damage…
Dunk shudders.
He doesn’t want to hurt Aerion. He’s always conscious of his size, pulling back on his touches and bracing himself so he doesn’t crush Aerion. He makes sure to prepare Aerion thoroughly before he slides in, keeps his thrusts fairly gentle.
They don’t have the bed-shaking, bruising sex many people probably expect someone of Aerion’s temperament to have. Aerion does like scratching Dunk up, biting and sucking marks and smacking at his shoulders when he’s feeling particularly good, but he’s never demanded Dunk to be rough.
Insecurity washes over Dunk.
“I need to go,” he stutters and hurries past the two Targaryens studying him like a science project. He’ll need to apologize later for being rude.
___
He’s staring at a painting of a man with a particularly awful scowl when a boy appears out of nowhere, startling him.
“That’s my great-great-great-great-granduncle,” the boy says, hands clasped behind his back and bald head gleaming. “They called him Maegor the Cruel, behind his back, of course. He was quite unpleasant.”
Dunk eyes him. “I’d imagine so, with that name. You’re not one of Aerion’s brothers, are you? He never mentioned a bald kid.”
The boy wrinkles his nose. “Oh. You’re his boyfriend, then. I’m Aegon. I shaved my head yesterday.”
The brother Aerion often terrorized. Dunk’s heard all about it.
“…Why?”
“Just ‘cause,” Aegon hums. “Are you sure you like my brother? He’s cruel. I heard my father speaking to Uncle Baelor once, they said Aerion might be a sociopath. I know that means he can’t really love anyone.”
Dunk’s heart clenches. Aerion loves in his own way, that’s all that’s ever mattered to Dunk.
“You’re just a kid,” he rasps, clearing his throat. “You’ll grow to understand later. Labels don’t always tell the whole story. Aerion loves deeper than most, it just gets tangled up in the process. He loves you too, you know.”
Aegon’s eyes, holding more wisdom than most grown adults, watch him solemnly. “If you say so.”
___
He finds Aerion sulking in the gardens.
The sun is already setting, casting orange hues over the trimmed hedges. A beautiful fountain rises tall in the midst of greenery and beautiful flowers, a soothing plip-plop of water.
Aerion looks otherworldly perched on the edge, the last rays of the sun washing him in a golden glow. He also looks sullen, staring down at the pond and tossing blades of grass in the water.
“Aerion,” Dunk calls out, keeping his voice low as to not startle him. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Aerion doesn’t turn to look at him. “Well, you’ve found me.”
“I–“ Dunk hesitates. He doesn’t sit next to Aerion, instead drops to one knee on the ground before him. He’s still the same height as a sitting Aerion, so he bows his head, hunches his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
Aerion sniffs. “What would you be sorry for, oaf? You haven’t done anything.”
“I must’ve done, if you’re mad at me. I didn’t mean to do it, but that doesn’t matter. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” Dunk tries for a smile. “You can slap me if it would make you forgive me.”
Aerion doesn’t answer for a long time. They sit there in silence, listening to the splashing of the water and the whirring of dragonfly wings. Finally, Aerion shifts, turning towards Dunk.
“Come,” he demands, patting his thigh. Like a dog, Dunk crawls forward until his knees hit stone and he can wrap his arms around Aerion’s slight hips. Careful fingers slip into Dunk’s hair, catching onto the tangles the humidity has created.
Somehow, Aerion still smells good. It’s like he never sours, even when the sun beats heavy or his sweat drenches the sheets. He’s like a doll next to Dunk whose musk clings to the hair under his arms after they’ve coupled.
Aerion likes shoving his face there sometimes, purring like a kitten.
“I used to come here, as a kid,” he murmurs, playing with Dunk’s hair. “The fountain, it– I thought it could be me, sometimes. Daeron thought it was so funny, me sitting here for hours, marvelling at the scales on the dragon.”
Dunk turns his face to the fountain, watches the setting sun glint along the bronzed scales on the sculpture.
“Of course, that was before I tried setting myself on fire and woke up in the ER.” Aerion scoffs, fingers tightening in Dunk’s hair. He tolerates the pull on his scalp this time, stomach in knots like it is whenever Aerion talks about his illness. “They haven’t found me amusing since, I don’t think. I can’t even mention dragons without them trying to force me into a straitjacket.”
“I know they’re your favourite,” Dunk says quietly.
Aerion hums. “Yes. I liked them before I ever thought I was one. Father used to tell stories of kings and their dragons before bedtime. He made them sound so magnificent.”
Dunk smiles briefly. “He cornered me earlier, like you said. Gave me the shovel talk. He cares about you a lot.”
“He shows it to everyone except me, then,” Aerion says. “He never approves of anything I do. I get a tattoo, he hates it, I get a boyfriend, he hates it. Has he ever disapproved of Daeron’s girlfriends? Of course not.”
“I, er. I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“About Daeron’s girlfriends?”
Dunk barks out a surprised laugh. “About your dad. He… he said something.”
“He usually does,” Aerion sighs, wrapping his arms around Dunk’s head and burying his face is his hair. “What this time?”
“He, er,” Dunk swallows. “He said you like to date men who can hurt you.”
Aerion stills.
“And maybe he kind of implied that’s why you’re dating me,” Dunk finished in a whisper.
Another silence falls thick over them. Dunk swears even the dragonflies have stopped buzzing. He lets the news sink, happy to let Aerion take his time.
The truth is, he doesn’t even care if it’s true. Aerion has never loved like a normal person and Dunk’s known that for a long time. They’ve fostered a relationship on their own terms and Aerion’s still here, with him.
That’s enough. That has to be enough.
“I just want you to know that I’d never hurt you,” Dunk implores softly. “Not physically. And if I can help it, not emotionally.”
Aerion breathes deep, Dunk’s head moving with each swell of his chest. “I know you won’t.”
Dunk waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Okay. As long as you know.”
“Did you talk to Daeron?” Aerion changes the subject and Dunk sighs. Alright. “Does he hate you?”
“I don’t think he’s homophobic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried,” Aerion snaps, flicking Dunk in the ear. “Fuck off. I don’t care about him.”
Seems like you do, Dunk thinks. It seems like Aerion cares a lot.
“He wants the best for you,” Dunk says gently, petting his hand over Aerion’s flank. “Your dad as well, I think. Maybe they’re not showing it to you correctly, you’re right. But they’re worried for you.”
“For my lacking mental capacities, I know,” Aerion sulks and Dunk shakes his head.
“For your safety,” he corrects. “When I told my foster father I was bisexual, he told me to be careful around men. Never mind that I’m also a man and twice everyone’s size. He knows how men can be like, just as I know how we can be like. I think no matter which man you dated, your dad would be worried.”
“He thinks I’m a woman, is that it?”
“That you’re being treated like a woman, perhaps,” Dunk says. “I’m a big man, Aerion. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the damage I could do to you.”
He can almost hear the wheels in Aerion’s head whizzing as he processes. Finally, he smacks his teeth.
“Whatever,” Aerion dismisses. “You couldn’t put your hands on me if you tried. Now get off me, oaf, I need to go speak to my father.”
Dunk sighs, clambering to his feet. It doesn’t quite feel like they resolved the issue. Maybe it’s not up to Dunk to make Aerion understand.
___
Aerion drags Dunk to the dining room that’s emptied out, maids cleaning out the dirty dishes. Maekar and Baelor sit side by side, stacks of paper strewn across the white tablecloth and a piece of uneaten cake on both of their plates while they peruse through files.
“Father, uncle,” Aerion announces, his voice bouncing from the walls. Dunk hunches his shoulders like they won’t see him behind Aerion’s puny figure. “I need to say something.”
“Aerion,” Maekar says, squinting his tired eyes at him. “What’s this fuss about?”
“I know you don’t like that I’m gay,” Aerion says, turning to nod at Dunk like he should be proud of him for speaking up. “Me dating Duncan pisses you off.”
Oh dear Gods. That is not the conclusion he was supposed to come to.
“Who said I have a problem with your sexuality?” Maekar’s voice turns sharp. His narrowed eyes shift to Dunk trying to cower behind Aerion. “You.”
“No, dad,” Aerion snaps impatiently. “You. I’m not a child anymore, you don’t get a say in who I date and for what reason. If I want Duncan, I’ll have Duncan. You will not scare him off just because you’d rather I fuck a weak female.”
Dunk shivers at the deep possession in Aerion’s voice. It’s not healthy, really, Dunk knows it. Raymun doesn’t like the way Aerion speaks of Dunk like an object he owns, but deep, deep down, it excites Dunk.
He grew up an orphan, bouncing from foster home to foster home. Things like that leave a mark. Having someone speak of him with such finality, like he’s not going anywhere, like Aerion plans to keep him…
It lights a fire in Dunk.
They do need to work on Aerion’s language about women, though.
“Aerion,” Maekar rasps, and he doesn’t look angry like Dunk expected. He looks… worn down, older beyond his years. “It does not matter how old you get. As long as you’re alive, you’re my child. I’d like to keep it that way for a long time yet.”
Baelor keeps his gaze politely trained on his folded hands, but Dunk can tell he’s listening closely.
“You bring this man, bigger than a fucking ox, to my house after telling me he grew up in the streets and practices boxing. This is after I’ve had to dole out countless restraining orders for the other bastards you’ve pissed off who’ve taken a swing at you. Pray tell, do you desire an early grave for me? What can I do to keep you safe when you’re hellbent on doing the opposite of everything I say?”
Dunk barely has time to register the fact that Aerion apparently has blabbed all about his upbringing to his father before Aerion stomps his foot, suddenly appearing more the child Maekar sees in him than the grown man he actually is.
“You never tell me any of this!” he insists, voice wobbling. “All I do is disappoint you these days. You never tell me you love me!”
Maekar’s lips pinch together, his knuckles white. He looks like he wants to both leap to Aerion’s side and be anywhere other than this room, having this conversation. The behaviour of all his children makes more sense the longer Dunk observes Maekar.
“You disappointing me has no bearing on my ability to love you,” he growls. “You stupid child.”
Aerion sniffles, his palm slack in Dunk’s bigger hand. Declawed by paternal affection. If only it were always that easy.
“Duncan doesn’t hurt me,” he finally says, wiping at his face. “He rescues puppies and walks grandmas across the road. I’m the bad influence here.”
“No man will ever be good enough for my son,” Maekar disagrees, but his face has lost its strictness when he regards Dunk. “He told me you’re the one who stopped his spiral the last time he didn’t take his medication. Is that true?”
Dunk clears his throat, squeezing Aerion’s hand. “Yes, sir. I, uh, understand your reservations about me, but I swear to you, all I want is Aerion’s happiness and well-being. He’ll never be unsafe with me, I promise.”
“Hm.” Maekar turns to look at Baelor who shrugs, smiling fondly at his brother. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do. You’ve already proven to be more useful than the last dunce Aerion had, in any case. You can stay. For now.”
“He’ll stay until I say differently,” Aerion says, ever the contrarian, but he doesn’t sound put off. “He’s going to marry me, he told me so.”
“Aerion,” Dunk grits out. He just got into Maekar’s good graces.
“Get out of here, brat,” Maekar barks, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “We’ll see about any wedding.”
When the doors to the dining room close behind them, Dunk nabs Aerion by his middle and lifts him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Aerion squeals, almost kicking Dunk in the jaw.
“You devil,” Dunk chastises, smacking Aerion on the bum. “I’ve never met a man who causes me more grey hairs.”
“Go shag your nerdy Fossoway if you want uncomplicated, then.”
“Nah,” Dunk dismisses, gently setting Aerion to his feet. “I much prefer you.”
__
“I think you should talk to Daeron.”
Aerion snuffles, sheets rustling as he turns to face Dunk. His eyes gleam in the dark. “Why?”
Dunk reaches blindly to cup his boyfriend’s jaw, thumb brushing over the delicate skin under his eye. “We talked. I don’t think he’s well, baby. He misses you.”
“But I’m here.”
“As a brother,” Dunk leads gently. “You weren’t the nicest to him yesterday.”
Aerion tenses like a cat ready to swipe, but Dunk tightens his hold, almost like scruffing him, the tension immediately bleeding out of Aerion. “I know you don’t like hearing it, but you weren’t.”
“He’s always drinking,” Aerion says, quiet. “He has no time for me anymore.”
“He’d make time, I bet, if you asked.”
Aerion scoffs, but his breath rattles like he’s affected. “Maybe. I’ll find him tomorrow. Maybe he’d– Nevermind.“
“What, baby?” Dunk asks softly.
“Maybe he’d like to go fishing,” Aerion whispers, burrowing into the pillows so Dunk can’t see his face. “Like we used to.”
Oh, Aerion.
“I’m sure he would.”
___
Dunk is filling his plate with different pastries and tens of different types of jam – the Targaryens are really too much, what happened to a simple black pudding for breakfast? – when Daeron intercepts him.
“I know you talked to Aerion,” he says. His stubble is gone, face brighter than it was the day before. “I don’t know what you said, but… thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” Dunk says, feeling like an idiot with his sourdough.
A ghost of a smile graces Daeron’s face. “I said some awful things about my brother yesterday and I wasn’t wrong in saying them, but you were right. He is still my brother. Hasn’t felt like that in years, but this morning, I almost felt like he could still be there.”
He inspects Dunk’s face. “But you know that better than any of us, I’d wager. You seem like a decent lad, Duncan. You wouldn’t be with Aerion if you didn’t know the same boy we used to know. Maybe he only shows it to you these days, I don’t know.”
“He’ll show it to you too,” Dunk assures him. “Just treat him like a person, not patient zero. He’s still there, I promise.”
“I’d like to believe it. Well, I’ll leave you to raid our food supply, then. Just… I wasn’t lying yesterday. I’m happy he has you. If it’s not me, someone has to take care of him.”
Dunk swallows. “I’m happy to do it.”
“I would be as well,” Daeron says and smiles, clasping Dunk on the shoulder. “Alright. Bye now.”
Dunk watches him go and then turns to where Aerion is sitting, waiting for him to bring them both breakfast. Maekar has stopped by his chair, bent over to be closer to him. Aerion’s showing him something on his phone, pointing animatedly.
Any last zip ties constricting his heart snap in half, leaving behind only relief and fondness.
Aerion will be alright. They’ll be alright.
Now, would Aerion prefer raspberry or blackberry jam?