Archive of Our Own

“You are cruel, Aerion Targaryen,” Dunk muttered the words quietly, though they landed with infuriating precision all the same. His fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt as he spoke, rough hands worrying the material like he regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth. Aerion opened his mouth, intending to dismiss it with something sharp enough to cut the tension apart.

The words never came.

Cruel was hardly an insult to him. He had spent years cultivating it, polishing it into something elegant and deliberate. Humiliation was useful; it kept weaker people in their place. Normally, he took pride in it, yet standing here beneath Dunk’s disappointed stare, the accusation settled unpleasantly beneath his ribs.

He felt vulnerable? The realisation disgusted him.

“No,” Aerion replied coolly, forcing composure back into his voice. “I’m logical. A skill you desperately need to learn. Fortunately for you, I can teach it.”

Venom threaded through every syllable, though he could no longer tell whether it was directed at Dunk or himself. Pitying a grown man or caring whether his feelings were bruised, the entire thing was absurd. Before Dunk could answer, the microwave shrieked loudly through the kitchen. The sharp beeping shattered the strange heaviness between them, though neither immediately looked away. Dunk still stood there watching him with those impossibly earnest eyes, open in a way Aerion found increasingly unbearable.

Movement flickered at the edge of Aerion’s vision.

Egg.

The boy had climbed onto the tips of his toes, reaching into the microwave to grab the bowl himself. What happened next unfolded almost too quickly to follow. Aerion only registered Dunk moving, a sudden blur of motion before the bowl tipped violently sideways. Boiling water cascaded over the edge of the kitchen island.

“Fuck!” Dunk jerked backwards sharply as steaming water splashed across the front of his shirt. The bowl shattered noisily onto the floor while Egg stumbled away, already apologising before the shock had properly settled.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to.” Tears welled instantly in Egg’s eyes and Dunk’s face tightened.

“I told you I’d handle it, stupid boy.” There was real anger in his voice now, not directed at Egg exactly but sharpened by fear. Aerion had never seen it before. Dunk usually met conflict with confusion or weary tolerance, stumbling through insults without ever fully retaliating but the possibility of Egg hurting himself had transformed him instantly.

How aggravating.

Aerion wanted Dunk away from his brother immediately.

The realisation struck with enough force to sour his mood further. It was irrational, possessive in a way he refused to examine too closely and entirely beneath him. Egg was perfectly capable of surviving a minor kitchen accident and Dunk had handled it before Aerion even cared. No real harm had been done. So why, exactly, had the sight of Dunk throwing himself between the boiling water and Egg unsettled him so badly?

Aerion hated not understanding his own reactions.

“Duncan,” he said sharply. The name cut cleanly through the noise still lingering in the kitchen. Egg had begun sniffling miserably near the counter, face blotchy with guilt, while noodles stuck sadly on the floor beside him.

Dunk looked up at once.

“Come with me.” Then Aerion’s attention snapped toward his brother. “You stay here and behave,” he said coldly. “Father will hear about this.”

Egg’s face immediately paled with appropriate horror.

Good.

For once, Dunk did not argue, which alone surprised Aerion enough to unsettle him further. Usually, the man hovered protectively around Egg whenever the family became involved, absorbing criticism with that frustratingly patient expression of his. He should have objected, should have spoke some clumsy attempt at defending the boy. Instead, he simply followed. Water dripped steadily from the front of Dunk’s soaked shirt as they crossed the hallway. The house felt strangely quiet around them, the evening silence stretching between expensive walls lined with old portraits and soft amber lighting. Behind him, Dunk moved heavily but obediently, one broad hand still pressed loosely against the burn beneath his shirt. Aerion refused to acknowledge the awareness curling unpleasantly beneath his ribs at the sound of those footsteps following him upstairs.

By the time they reached his bedroom, the damp fabric clung firmly to Dunk’s torso, outlining the solid shape beneath in far more detail than Aerion wanted to notice. He shut the bedroom door behind them with a soft click.

“You scared him,” Dunk said quietly; the accusation lacked any real bite. If anything, he sounded more concerned for Egg than himself, despite visibly wincing as the wet fabric shifted against his skin.

Aerion ignored the comment entirely.

“Shirt off.” Aerion had already crossed into the adjoining bathroom before the man could respond. He grabbed a clean flannel from beneath the sink and turned the tap fully cold. Water rushed violently over his fingers, sharp and icy enough to ground him slightly. He stood there longer than necessary, staring down at the stream while gathering his composure. This was ridiculous. Dunk was merely an oversized idiot who followed Egg around on his father's orders. Aerion did not care whether the fool had burned himself playing protector in the kitchen, certainly not enough for his pulse to behave this strangely.

The water soaked through the cloth completely before Aerion finally turned back toward the bedroom and stopped in his tracks.

Dunk had removed his shirt. The giant stood with his back partially turned beneath the silver light spilling through the tall windows overlooking the street. Evening shadows stretched lazily across the room, catching along the sharp lines of muscle across his shoulders and spine. That part, at least, was unsurprising. Dunk was an athlete, of course, he was built heavily. Broad-backed and solid beneath years of training, strength sat naturally on him rather than being cultivated for display.

What caught Aerion off guard were the smaller details instead. The faint scattering of freckles dusted across his shoulders, pale scars cutting thinly along one side of his ribs, old enough to have faded silver beneath the light and a deeper mark near his shoulder blade that looked suspiciously like poorly healed stitches. lower still, just above the waistband of his jeans, two small dimples rested at the base of his spine.

Aerion’s gaze lingered there a fraction too long.

As though sensing the attention, Dunk turned around and the movement pulled Aerion’s focus sharply upward again. The burn stretched angrily across Dunk’s stomach and lower chest now, flushed red where the boiling water had soaked through his shirt. Uneven patches of heat bloomed against pale skin, still damp beneath the light. His hair fell over his forehead, leaving him looking far rougher than usual and far too comfortable standing half-undressed in Aerion’s bedroom. The idiot did not even seem self-conscious about it. If anything, Dunk only looked confused by the intensity of Aerion’s stare.

Aerion practically threw the wet flannel at him.

“Hold that there.” The command landed crisply between them, sharp with impatience rather than concern. He refused to acknowledge the uncomfortable tension curling beneath his skin, refused even to examine it too closely. Whatever strange fixation had attached itself to dunk the Lunk was clearly temporary, an irritation, an unexplainable thought, nothing more.

Dunk caught the flannel awkwardly, staring down at it as though Aerion had handed him some rare and sacred object instead of a damp cloth from the bathroom cabinet... Gods, the man was dense. Aerion turned away before he had to witness any further idiocy firsthand, gathering the scattered papers from his desk with clipped efficiency. His room had already suffered enough disruption for one evening. The giant’s presence filled the space far too easily, dragging noise and disorder in with him. He disliked people entering his room at the best of times. Everything inside it existed precisely where it belonged. Shelves lined with pristine textbooks and annotated journals, dark wooden furniture unmarred by clutter, a bed made so sharply it looked untouched and even the faint scent lingering in the air: cedar, expensive cologne and old pages. It all felt curated, better yet controlled and now Dunk stood in the middle of it, half-naked and dripping water onto the floorboards.

Aerion’s jaw tightened.

He should have sent him away already; the burn was mild at worst and any idiot with functioning instincts could have handled it downstairs. Yet Dunk lingered there, broad and uncertain, clutching the compress against his stomach while staring around the room with poorly concealed curiosity. Aerion hated that too. Not because Dunk judged the space, he clearly lacked the awareness for that but because he looked at everything with genuine interest. As though Aerion himself remained something worth understanding.

It was deeply annoying.

A shift of movement caught Aerion’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Dunk peeling the compress away from the reddened skin across his stomach to inspect the damage.

“Just leave it there,” Aerion said immediately, the irritation in his voice cracked like a whip.

Dunk looked up. “I was only checking.”

“And now you’ve checked,” Aerion cut in smoothly. “Congratulations. The burn still exists.”

The giant blinked once, apparently deciding not to argue... a wise choice. Aerion returned to straightening the papers on his desk, though his concentration lasted only seconds before Dunk spoke again.

“Wouldn’t a cold shower work better?”

Aerion paused.

“What?”

“For burns,” Dunk clarified, gesturing vaguely toward his stomach with the compress dangling from one hand. “Running water is meant to help more than just holding this thing on it.”

The sheer audacity of correcting him in his own room nearly made Aerion laugh. Instead, he turned slowly.

“Then by all means,” he drawled, folding his arms across his chest, “strip naked and use the shower. I’m thrilled you managed to retain one useful piece of information despite failing basic anatomy.”

Dunk frowned faintly, as though trying to decide whether that counted as an insult.

It absolutely did.

Aerion resumed collecting papers, only then realising Dunk had moved closer while they spoke. The giant had a terrible habit of doing that, wandering into people’s space with complete unconsciousness, as though his absurd height and build weren’t enough to dominate a room already. Now he stood only a step away and way too close. Aerion could smell pine and detergent clinging to him beneath the lingering heat of the burn. It was clean and simple, entirely at odds with the polished sterility of Aerion’s room. Dunk seemed to realise the proximity a second later. He shifted back awkwardly at once, nearly clipping the corner of the desk with his hip.

“Sorry,” he muttered automatically. Aerion scoffed softly; the apology irked him almost as much as the closeness had.

“Try not to crush anything on your way to the bathroom,” he said coolly. “Some of us own possessions that cost more than your entire wardrobe.”

Dunk huffed out a quiet laugh despite himself, rubbing the back of his neck with obvious embarrassment. Aerion narrowed his eyes at the sound; the fool should not have looked pleased by the insult.

“Cold water only,” Aerion added as Dunk turned toward the adjoining bathroom. “And if I discover you used my soap, I’ll have you removed from the property.”

“That serious?”

“You strike me as the sort to use half the bottle.” Dunk actually grinned then, small and crooked and entirely too comfortable for someone standing shirtless in Aerion Targaryen’s bedroom.

“I’d only use a little.”

Aerion stared at him flatly.

“Don't touch my soap."