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"I thought he'd have me gelded…"
"Who?"
The young boy’s hands trembled violently as he polished a silver candlestick. He looked towards the maidservant, who didn’t even bother to look up from sweeping the hearth.
"Prince Aerion,” he stammered. “I messed up. Dropped a goblet in the hall. Barely made a sound, but… I’ve heard the stories. Heard about his cruelty and… Targaryen horseshit."
The maidservant sighed, leaning her weight against her broom. "How long have you been here in Summerhall, lad?"
"Not for long."
"After Ashford?"
"After Ashford."
"Ah. Things are different now, lad."
The boy frowned, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "How so?"
"The prince is… less unhinged now, so to speak. Quieter. Kept on a shorter leash."
"Why?"
"Because,” a voice purred from the shadows of the doorway, “the leash is held by a very large, very irritating dog,"
Both servants froze.
Aerion stood there, his hair gleaming in the dim light, looking like the Seven Hells personified. A smile played on his lips, but his eyes were entirely dead.
The air in the room turned hot and sharp.
Aerion stepped forward, stopping directly in front of the trembling boy. He reached out a ringed hand to trace the rim of the polished candlestick.
"Gossip is a rot," Aerion whispered dangerously. "It spreads through a household like a fever. And do you know what we do with rotting things, boy? We cut them out. A tongue is a small price to pay for a lesson in silence, wouldn't you agree?"
The boy couldn't draw breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, paralyzed, waiting for the blade he was certain would follow.
Aerion’s hand lifted, his fingers curling inward. “Huh, suddenly lost your tongue—?”
"My Prince. Leave him be."
Dunk filled the doorway, ducking his head just to clear the wooden lintel. He wore no armor, just simple linen that stretched tight across his broad chest, but he seemed infinitely more dangerous than the prince reaching for his dagger.
Aerion’s jaw tightened. He slowly turned away from the terrified boy to face the giant.
"Get out," Dunk gently told the servants.
They didn't need a second command, scrambling over one another to vanish down the corridor.
The door clicked shut, leaving the Brightflame and the hedge knight alone in the thick, charged silence.
Aerion slowly sauntered towards Dunk, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. Dunk held his ground, keeping his gaze locked on that blazing amethyst glare.
"You think just because I yielded in the trial, I must yield to every whim of yours?" Aerion spat, closing the distance between them. He had to tilt his head back to glare into Dunk's eyes.
(A detail that always seemed to stoke the fire of his rage.)
Dunk crossed his arms over his chest, like a brick wall. "It wasn't my whim, Prince Aerion. It was the King's word. Ancient Andal customs."
"Customs!" Aerion laughed, sharp and bitter. "My grandfather digs up a dusty, forgotten law to chain a dragon to a hedge knight. A law of the First Men, or the Andals, or whatever savages wrote it—what does it matter? It was an excuse to humiliate me. To turn the Brightflame into a prisoner of the man who threw him in the mud."
"It was an alternative to Lys," Dunk replied evenly, a grounding anchor against Aerion's rising storm. "You broke the King's peace. You maimed the puppet girl, you lied, and a great man died for it. King Daeron decreed that since you yielded to me, your discipline belongs to me.”
He let his arms fall to his sides.
“You are my ward. And my responsibility."
Aerion’s eyes flashed, furious and bright. He stepped even closer—crossing the line—until the space between them was gone.
Dunk could feel the heat radiating off the prince, could smell the sharp tang of expensive Dornish wine and the metallic scent of tension.
"Your ward," Aerion mocked. "Tell me, Ser, do you report every misplaced word I speak to my father? Does he call you a good boy when you tell him that you stopped me from cutting out a servant's tongue? Are you enjoying your newfound power over your betters?"
"I don't report to Prince Maekar unless you force my hand," Dunk said, refusing to rise to the bait. "I'm here to keep you from doing something the Crown will have to execute you for. To teach you what true knighthood is, the King said. Though…”
Should I say it? he thought.
“…I'm starting to think a stubborn mule would learn faster."
I probably shouldn’t have, Dunk concluded. Thick as a castle wall.
Aerion stared up at him, a myriad of conflicting emotions warring in his face—pride, fury, and something intensely raw, vulnerable, and deeply buried under years of madness.
The tension between them hummed in the air. Heavy. Dangerous.
Electric.
Suddenly, a cruel smirk twisted Aerion's lips. It was a desperate attempt to regain control.
“So,” Aerion purred. “Does that mean that my life is yours too then?"
Dunk looked down at the prince. He saw the chaotic fire there, the erratic cruelty.
And beneath it all, he saw the defensive posture of a man who was utterly terrified of his own reflection.
Dunk reached out, his large hand hovering for a second before he rested it heavily on Aerion's shoulder. The prince flinched at the contact, a sharp intake of breath passing his lips.
But he didn't pull away.
"No, my Prince," Dunk said quietly. "Your life is still yours. I'm just the one standing between you and the fire you keep trying to walk into."
Weeks bled into one another, marked by turned locks and swallowed breaths. Eventually, unexpectedly, their dynamic shifted from a warden and his captive to a dragon and his prey.
Summerhall was a palace of light and lingering servants, leaving them a razor-thin margin for error. The logistics of their entanglement required a dangerous, exhausting precision.
Dunk was hardly inconspicuous when he walked the corridors at the midnight hour. Yet, his royal mandate provided the perfect shield—the hedge knight must keep the Brightflame in check.
It became their routine. Dunk dismissing the Prince's guards late into the evening, citing his duty to oversee Aerion’s restless humors. The door would click shut, and the vicious tension between them would finally snap. The hostile glares they exchanged in the daylight melted into bruising collisions in the dark.
During the day, Aerion remained the haughty terror of the court. But in the shadowed privacy of the royal chambers, stripped of his fine silks and his father’s crushing expectations, he only belonged to Dunk.
Then came the morning of madness.
Dunk stirred, throwing an arm across the mattress.
Linen. Feathers. Air.
He blinked his eyes open, groaning against the early sunlight bleeding through the drapes. The space beside him was completely cold.
He sat up instantly, a spike of pure dread piercing his chest.
The bedchamber was empty.
Where is he?
Had Prince Maekar summoned him early? Had Aerion’s fragile sanity finally snapped, taking a blade to a servant before Dunk could stop him?
Dunk scrambled from the bed. He was halfway to his discarded breeches when he heard it.
Eeee! Eeeeeee!
Dunk froze. He looked toward the vaulted ceiling, then toward the hearth. It sounded like an angry hornet, trapped behind a pane of glass. High, piercing, and utterly furious.
On the floor, tangled in a crumpled pile of Dunk’s discarded tunic, something was thrashing.
Dunk braced himself, expecting a rat or some exotic venomous spider Aerion had brought to the castle. He reached out with two fingers and pinched the coarse fabric, pulling it back to uncover the source of the noise.
He stopped breathing.
Standing amidst the folds of the tunic, swamped by the threads, was a man.
A perfectly formed, furiously screaming creature barely the length of Dunk’s middle finger. Pale skin, a mane of silver hair, and violet eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand dying suns.
Dunk fell to his knees. "My beautiful prince… what has happened to you?"
Aerion stopped pacing and threw his head back, glaring up at Dunk’s colossal face. Even at a few inches tall, the Brightflame managed to look down his nose at him.
"Do I look like I know, you great lumbering oaf?!" his voice was a miniature shriek. It tickled the hairs inside Dunk’s ears. "I went to sleep a Targaryen prince and woke up the size of a godsdamned weed! Do not just gawk at me like a village idiot staring at a mummer’s farce! Do something!"
Dunk didn't do anything but stare. The horror of the situation was swallowed by a strange wave of tenderness.
Aerion was perfect. Every sharp angle of his jaw, every strand of hair, shrunk down into something Dunk could tuck into his breast pocket.
"You’re… you’re so small," Dunk whispered, extending his index finger.
Aerion smacked it away. Or tried to. His tiny hands slapped against Dunk’s knuckle with the force of a falling snowflake.
"Unhand me, Duncan! Do not patronize me!" he shrieked, stumbling back and tripping over a thick thread of Dunk’s tunic. He landed hard on his regal bottom. "This is sorcery! Bloodraven has finally done it, he’s cursed me from afar! I demand you find a maester immediately!"
"I can't bring a maester in here," Dunk reasoned as softly as he could so as to not deafen the little prince. He gently lowered his palm, resting it flat against the floorboards. "They’ll think you’re a toy. Or a bug. Come here. Step up."
Aerion stared at the expanse of it—a landscape of callouses, scars, and lifelines that were the size of deep canyons to him. "I am not climbing onto your filthy hand like a trained flea."
"Aerion," Dunk chastised. "The floor is freezing. And if I accidentally shift my foot, I’ll squash you flat. Please."
Aerion’s tiny chest heaved. He crossed his arms, scowling with a ferocity that was entirely neutralized by his stature, before marching forward. He clambered over the ledge of Dunk’s palm, his feet sinking slightly into the fleshy center.
Dunk carefully lifted his hand to his eye level, his heart doing a strange flutter.
"Careful!" Aerion gasped, grabbing onto the ridge of Dunk's thumb for balance as the ground fell away beneath him. "If you drop me, I will have your head on a spike, I swear it by the Seven!"
"I won't drop you," Dunk murmured, utterly captivated. He couldn't help the dopey smile spreading across his face. Aerion was usually so sharp, so terrifyingly dangerous. Now, he was entirely at Dunk’s mercy, shivering slightly in the morning air. "You're… incredible. Like a little jewel."
Aerion flushed, a speck of crimson rushing to his miniature cheeks. "I am not a jewel! I am a dragon, you insolent hedge knight! Put me down on the table and find a way to fix this!"
"You're a very angry little dragon," Dunk mused, bringing his other hand up to gently—impossibly gently—stroke his finger against Aerion’s hair.
It felt like a whisper against a boulder.
Aerion leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second before slapping at Dunk’s finger again. "Stop admiring me! I am suffering a catastrophic magical affliction and you are looking at me like I am a candied plum! Focus, Duncan!"
"Right. Focusing," Dunk said, though his eyes remained glued to the furious, tiny marvel pacing his palm.
He carefully deposited the irate prince onto the table, right next to an inkwell that now looked the size of a barrel.
"We need a plan," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "I will have to tell the Kingsguard you are indisposed. A terrible fever. Or… or perhaps the sweeping flux."
"The sweeping flux?!" Aerion marched right up to the edge, shaking a minuscule fist at Dunk’s nose. "You dare tell the realm that the blood of the dragon is soiled with common bowel rot?! I will have your tongue for that, Duncan!"
"It keeps people away," Dunk reasoned, trying very hard not to smile. The prince was entirely nude, fiercely gesturing, and barely taller than a spool of thread.
He reached over and carefully snipped a square of crimson silk from a discarded handkerchief, draping it over Aerion with the tip of his dagger. Aerion snatched the fabric, wrapping it around his waist like a tiny Essosi toga with as much dignity as he could muster.
"I am not staying in this cavernous deathtrap while you gallivant about the castle," he announced. "Do you know what lurks beneath these floorboards? Spiders, Duncan. Hairy, monstrous beasts the size of warhorses. If you leave me here, I will be devoured, and my gruesome death will be entirely on your thick head."
Dunk paled. The thought of a common house spider sinking its fangs into his beautiful, fragile prince made his stomach twist.
"Alright," he conceded softly. "You come with me. But you must be silent. If anyone sees you… if anyone realizes what has happened…”
"They will put me in a jar to amuse the court," Aerion finished, revealing the terrified boy underneath.
Dunk’s expression softened. He offered his hand again. This time, Aerion stepped onto it without complaint.
Dunk gently deposited the tiny prince into the deep pocket sewn over his left breast.
Inside, it was warm and dark, smelling strongly of old leather and horsehair. Aerion grumbled as he found his footing, but when Dunk’s hand cupped from the outside—a protective shield sealing him in—the prince fell silent.
Pressed against the fabric, he could feel the steady, thundering thump-thump of Dunk’s heart. It was grounding. Safe.
"Comfortable?" Dunk whispered.
"It smells like a stable," Aerion lied, his voice muffled by the leather. "Walk carefully, you clumsy oaf. And no sudden trotting."
Dunk took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and unbolted the door.
The corridor was flooded with morning light and the bustle of castle life. He had barely taken five strides, his hand still clamped awkwardly over his own breast, when a booming voice echoed down the hall.
"Ser Duncan!"
Dunk froze. Maekar was striding toward him, an imposing mountain of black armor and stern authority.
"My Prince," Dunk stammered, bowing stiffly so as not to jostle his pocket.
Maekar’s eyes swept over the hedge knight. "Where is my son? He missed his morning breaking of the fast. He is usually pacing the halls and terrorizing the serving girls by now."
"He is in bed, Prince Maekar," Dunk lied, his face flushing red. "He… he ate some bad pigeon pie last night, I fear. It is very violently exiting him. Best to keep a wide berth."
Inside the pocket, Aerion seethed. A second later, Dunk felt a sharp, furious pinch connect directly with his left areola.
Dunk bit down on a yelp. He turned the cry of pain into a strained, hacking cough.
Maekar frowned. "Are you unwell, Ser Duncan? You are clutching your chest and sweating."
"A phantom pain, my Prince," Dunk wheezed out. "An old injury from… from a joust."
Maekar looked unconvinced but sniffed dismissively. "See that he is confined until this rot passes. I have no patience for his theatrics today."
As Maekar swept past, Dunk let out a breath and whispered, "Please do not do that again.”
"Tell my father I have bowel rot again and I will aim lower," came the muffled, venomous reply.
Dunk hurried his pace, desperate to reach the library, but the Seven were seemingly determined to test him.
He nearly tripped over a small, bald figure.
"Ser!" Egg looked up at him with wide eyes. "Are we going to the practice yard? I brought your padded sword!"
"Not today, Egg," Dunk said hurriedly, side-stepping his squire. "I have… scholarly duties. For the prince."
Egg squinted. "Why are you holding your tunic like that? Are you hiding a mouse, Ser? I can kill it for you!"
"There is no mouse, Egg!" Dunk said, panicking.
Just then, the doors to the courtyard swung open.
"Ah," Daeron slurred, stumbling through. "The giant and the egg. A lovely morning, is it not?"
"Good morrow, Prince Daeron," Dunk said respectfully, trying to edge away.
Daeron took a step closer, his gaze drifting lazily until it locked onto Dunk’s chest. He blinked.
"The little dragons," he whispered, pointing a wavering finger directly over Dunk's heart. "I dreamed of them last night. A dragon no larger than a wasp, buzzing in a giant's shadow. Do you hear him buzzing, Ser Duncan?"
Dunk felt a cold sweat break across his brow. "I hear nothing, my Prince. Just the wind."
"No, no," Daeron murmured, leaning in so close Dunk could smell the sour wine on his breath. "He dances right there. Tiny fire. Tiny fury."
Inside the pocket, Aerion went absolutely rigid, holding his breath.
"You should get some sleep, my Prince," Dunk urged softly, gently putting a hand on Daeron's shoulder and steering him toward his chambers. "The wine makes the mind play tricks."
Daeron laughed dismissively and stumbled away. "Tricks… yes. Keep him safe, giant. A small dragon is easily crushed."
Dunk swallowed hard, his heart slamming against the tiny prince tucked against it. Once Daeron was out of sight, Dunk sprinted down the corridor and bursted through the library doors, leaving behind a bewildered Egg.
The room was blessedly empty, filled only with the scent of old parchment, dust, and leather bindings. Dunk sagged against the door, slipping a hand into his pocket and gently pulling the prince out.
He set Aerion carefully on the edge of a reading desk.
Aerion was panting, his hair a mess, the crimson silk slipping off one shoulder. He looked utterly disheveled and wildly beautiful. He glared up at Dunk.
"You," he breathed, his tiny voice shaking slightly. "You are the worst liar in the Seven Kingdoms."
Dunk let out a chuckle of relief. He reached out and used the very pad of his thumb to smooth down a stray lock of Aerion’s hair.
"I kept you safe, didn't I?"
Aerion scoffed, though he noticeably leaned into the warmth. "Barely. Now, find me a book on curses, Duncan. And do it quickly, before I decide your pocket is too cramped and I demand to be carried on your shoulder like a pirate's parrot."
Hours passed. The library was now bathed in the amber light of the setting sun, illuminating swirling motes of dust that looked like floating boulders to Aerion. An ancient tome detailing obscure Valyrian blood magic was spread open across the desk.
But because Dunk’s literacy extended about as far as recognizing his own name, the task of translating the script fell entirely to the prince.
Aerion was literally walking the lines of text.
His feet padded softly against the parchment, stepping over sprawling consonants and looping vowels as he read aloud. The makeshift toga was hastily knotted over one shoulder, leaving a scandalous amount of his perfectly sculpted, miniature form exposed to the golden light.
"It says here," Aerion announced, "that the blood of the dragon is susceptible to… to temporal shifts when exposed to shadowbinder hexes. Duncan, turn the page."
Dunk didn't move.
He wasn't looking at the text. He was entirely, helplessly consumed by the sight of the prince.
Every time Aerion took a commanding stride across the page, the crimson silk shifted. His chest was smooth and flawless, the flushed peaks of his nipples catching the late afternoon sun like tiny drops of morning dew. When Aerion reached the end of a sentence and spun around to walk the next line, the fabric rode up his thigh, granting Dunk a brief, agonizing glimpse of the curve of his ass.
It was maddening.
Aerion was furious, bossy, and currently the size of a trinket, yet Dunk found himself utterly captivated.
The sheer vulnerability of him—the fact that this vicious, beautiful creature was entirely at Dunk's mercy—sent a dark, heavy heat flooding straight to his cock.
"Duncan!" Aerion snapped, stomping on a letter T. "Are you deaf? I said turn the page!"
"Right. My apologies, my Prince," Dunk muttered. He flipped the page, sending a gust of wind that made Aerion stagger and clutch his toga.
"Watch it, you clumsy ox!"
As Aerion bent over to smooth down the edges, the neckline gaped and the fabric pulled tight against his small waist.
Dunk swallowed hard.
The aching pressure of his thick cock surged against his breeches. It was heavy, demanding, and utterly inappropriate for a library, let alone when dealing with a magical crisis.
He shifted his thighs under the desk, trying to find some relief, but the friction only made it worse.
He wanted to touch him. He wanted to press the pad of his thumb against that pale chest, to feel the heartbeat beneath his skin.
Aerion straightened up and paused mid-stride on the new page. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto Dunk’s flushed, sweaty face.
He marched to the very edge of the book and put his hands on his hips. "You aren't listening to a single word I am saying.
"I am listening," Dunk lied, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
Aerion’s gaze dropped.
Even from his minuscule vantage point, the strained tenting in the hedge knight’s breeches was impossible to miss.
A wicked, amused smirk spread across his face.
"Liar," Aerion purred. "You are not thinking about Valyrian hexes at all, are you, my giant?"
"I have no idea what you mean," Dunk lied. He shifted again, his thighs scraping against the underside of the desk. "I am focused on the text, Prince Aerion. The… uh… temporal ships."
"Temporal ships," Aerion mocked, his eyes gleaming. "Is that what we are calling it now, Duncan? Tell me, does this 'temporal ship’ usually strain against the laces of your breeches with such desperate ferocity?"
A fierce blush crawled up Dunk’s neck, heating his ears. "You are imagining things."
"Am I?"
Aerion didn't break eye contact as his tiny, nimble fingers reached for the knot resting on his shoulder. With a slow tug, he pulled the silk loose.
The makeshift toga slipped down his chest, catching briefly on his hips before pooling around his feet.
Dunk stopped breathing.
Aerion stood gloriously naked in the amber light. He was impossibly small yet he commanded the space with the arrogance of a dragon taking flight.
"You like looking at me, don't you, giant?" he whispered. He trailed a hand down his own chest, his fingertips grazing the taut peaks of his nipples.
Dunk let out a rough groan, his hands gripping the edges of the desk tightly. "Aerion…”
"I am right here," the prince murmured. His hand continued its slow, torturous descent over his stomach, coming to rest over his tiny, already-hardening cock. He wrapped his fingers around it, his thumb stroking the tip. “Ngh… fuck…”
It was the most surreal, maddening sight Dunk had ever witnessed.
His arrogant, terrifying prince—the Brightflame who terrorized the realm—was standing on a dusty book, putting on a show specifically to break Dunk’s composure.
His hand slipped from the desk, moving blindly towards his lap. He needed to touch himself, needed to match the filthy, beautiful rhythm Aerion was starting to set.
"Please," he rasped, the word tearing out of his throat like a prayer.
Aerion abruptly dropped his hand.
"Yes, please," he said flatly. He snatched the discarded silk and swiftly wrapped it back around his waist. "Please fetch me some parchment. I have decided we must send a raven to Aemon at the Citadel. If anyone can decipher this archaic nonsense, it is him."
Dunk’s hand remained hovering over his thigh. The whiplash was so severe that he felt dizzy. His cock was pulsing with an unfulfilled, agonizing ache.
"What…”
"A raven, Duncan. Try to keep up," Aerion sighed, crossing his arms and tapping his tiny foot impatiently.
"I… I can't write, Aerion. You know that," Dunk managed to say, still trying to drag air into his lungs.
The edged pressure in his lap was torture.
"I am aware of your limitations," Aerion snapped. "I will write the letter in miniature. You will take a normal-sized piece of parchment and copy the shapes exactly as I draw them. Like a child tracing a picture. Surely even you can manage that."
Dunk stared at the infuriating, beautiful menace on the desk. He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced his hands back onto the tabletop. "Fine. But you can't hold a standard quill. It's the size of a lance to you."
"Then make me one, you useless oaf!"
Gritting his teeth against the lingering ache, Dunk drew his dagger. He took a quill from the inkstand and shaved the very tip down into a minuscule splinter. He then carefully cut a square of parchment and laid it flat on the desk.
"Ink," Aerion demanded, holding out a tiny hand.
Dunk used the tip of his dagger to transfer a drop of ink from the well, depositing it onto the smooth surface next to the parchment.
Aerion stepped up to his makeshift workstation. He gripped the splinter of feather with both hands like a broadsword, dipping the sharpened point into the dark pool on the penny. "Watch closely, Duncan. I am only writing this once."
Aerion brought the nib down onto the parchment and pushed.
The splinter caught on a small imperfection in the parchment's grain. It bent under Aerion’s forceful grip, bowed deeply, and then snapped back with the force of a tiny catapult.
Flick!
Ink splashed across his face, splattered over his chest, and dotted the crimson silk clinging to his waist.
The library was silent.
Aerion stood perfectly still, looking like a statue vandalized by a careless scribe.
Dunk tightly pressed his lips together and bit the inside of his cheek, staring at the ruined prince.
"Duncan.”
"Yes, my Prince?" Dunk managed, his chest shaking as he fought down a laugh.
"If you laugh," Aerion said, slowly opening his ink-stained eyelids to glare at the giant, "I will climb into your ear while you sleep and carve my name into your brain."
"I am not laughing," Dunk wheezed, a traitorous tear of mirth escaping the corner of his eye. "But you do look a bit like a spotted pig."
"A pig?!" Aerion shrieked, dropping the splinter and furiously wiping at his face, which only succeeded in smearing the black ink across his cheekbones. "I am the blood of the dragon! I am a prince of the realm, and you dare compare me to a filthy farm animal? Get me water! Now! Before this stains my skin permanently!"
"Right away, my Prince," Dunk said, finally letting out a chuckle as he reached for his waterskin. "We wouldn't want the dragon looking like a common badger."
He procured a porcelain teacup from a forgotten tray near the hearth, setting it carefully on the desk. He poured from his waterskin, testing the pool with the very tip of his pinky to ensure the temperature would not scald the miniature prince.
Aerion stood on the parchment, arms crossed, shivering slightly as he glared at his makeshift bath. He dropped the ink-stained silk, stepping naked over the ceramic rim and into the water. It reached just past his waist.
Dunk cut a square of linen, no larger than a thumbnail. He pinched it delicately, dipping it into the warm water before bringing it to Aerion's skin.
The process required an agonizing, breath-stealing focus.
Dunk wiped the black streaks from Aerion’s cheeks, jaw, and shoulders. Every brush of the cloth was an exercise in restraint. The water slicked Aerion's hair flat against his neck and made his skin shine in the fading library light.
As he dragged the linen down the smooth expanse of the prince's chest, washing the taut peaks of his nipples, the air between them thickened.
Dunk swallowed hard, his throat completely dry. The desperate pressure in his breeches returned with a violent vengeance.
Aerion was a masterpiece stripped of all his worldly terror, entirely dependent on Dunk's gentle hands to cleanse him. He could crush Aerion with a mere pinch, and yet Aerion was trusting him to clean his tiny thighs and the vulnerable flesh between them.
Dunk’s cock throbbed again.
"I am clean," Aerion announced. He waded to the edge of the teacup and stepped up, droplets of water clinging to his skin like diamonds. A shiver ran visibly through his frame.
"You're cold," Dunk murmured.
His voice sounded foreign to his own ears—dark, thick, and wholly consumed.
Before Aerion could demand a towel, Dunk flattened his hand and scooped the prince off the rim. He cradled Aerion in the center of his palm, lifting him up into the air.
"What are you doing?" Aerion demanded, bracing against the deep callouses of Dunk's palm.
Dunk brought his hand close to his own face. "Warming you, my Prince.”
The fading sun caught the moisture on Aerion’s skin, making him glow.
He was flawless. A dewdrop of condensed, vicious beauty.
The scent of ink, warm water, and the unique, sharp scent of the Targaryen prince flooded Dunk's senses, circumventing every oath and rational thought in his head. It was a base hunger.
He couldn't resist.
Dunk tilted his hand slightly, parted his lips, and let his tongue slide out.
Aerion’s violet eyes went wide.
Dunk dragged his massive, wet tongue right up the length of Aerion's body. It was a single, encompassing stroke of devastating heat and slick muscle, starting from the prince's tiny toes, washing over his thighs, his stomach, his chest, and entirely slicking back his silver hair.
Aerion let out a shattered gasp. The force knocked him flat onto his back into the hollow of Dunk’s palm. He lay there, completely drenched in the giant's saliva, utterly stunned.
“Duncan!” he hissed. “How dare you treat me like a… like a sweetmeat?!”
Dunk didn’t hear him. And neither could he stop.
The taste of Aerion was intoxicating. He pressed his tongue down again, this time swirling over Aerion’s chest and stomach, coating the prince in his own spit. It was both an act of worship and complete possession.
"Enough—!" Aerion choked out. He tried to push against the massive, slick muscle descending on him, but his tiny hands merely slid against the wet surface. “Stop bathing me like I’m a newborn pup!”
Dunk groaned, the vibration tingling Aerion’s sensitive nerves. He laved him again, the rough papillae of his tongue dragging sensuously over Aerion's nipples and down over his tiny, quivering cock.
“Ah!”
Aerion arched his back desperately, a high keen tearing from his throat.
The heat of Dunk's mouth was suffocating, completely overwhelming his miniature senses. Every nerve ending in his tiny body was on fire.
He was being devoured, tasted, and revered by a creature that could crush him in a heartbeat.
Dunk finally pulled his tongue back, panting heavily as he stared at the ruined, completely slicked prince in his hand.
Aerion lay soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, his skin flushed pink. He stared up at Dunk’s dilated, ravenous eyes.
He should have been horrified. He should have demanded the knight’s head on a spike for such an insolent, degrading act.
"You…” he breathed. "You insolent beast…”
He spread his legs slightly against the deep lifelines of Dunk's palm, his tiny cock weeping, demanding more of that devastating heat.
"Do it again."
Dunk’s eyes darkened into twin pools of black ink. "As my Prince commands.”
He lifted his palm higher, bringing Aerion level with his mouth. The amber light of the library was eclipsed entirely by the massive shadow of Dunk’s face descending. Aerion’s breath hitched, his cock twitching in anticipation.
The heat radiated like a furnace before Dunk even made contact.
He lowered his mouth over the prince's lower half. His upper lip rested flush against Aerion’s stomach, just below his ribcage, while his lower lip settled firmly against the meat of Dunk's own palm, sealing the prince inside a hot cavern.
“Seven hells!” Aerion’s gasp echoed faintly against the roof of Dunk’s mouth.
It was absolute, consuming heat.
Dunk’s tongue—a slick slab of muscle—slid beneath Aerion’s thighs, lifting his hips upward. Aerion felt the wet, textured surface curl around his waist, entirely enveloping his aching cock.
Then, Dunk drew back his breath and pulled.
The suction was gentle, measured with agonizing care. But on Aerion’s scale, it felt like being dragged into the eye of a hurricane.
The vacuum sealed perfectly around his hips, coaxing pleasure from his tiny, weeping cock—leaving no nerve untouched.
Aerion threw his head back against Dunk's palm and let out a loud moan. Every inch of skin in his lower body ignited into white-hot ruin. The relentless friction of Dunk’s tongue swirling around him, painting his thighs and cock in thick saliva, was a sensory devastation.
"Duncan," Aerion sobbed, the sound muffled by the seal of the knight's mouth.
Dunk hummed in response, rattling the prince's bones. With excruciating slowness, Dunk dragged the flat of his tongue upward, flattening Aerion's tiny cock against his own stomach, before dragging it back down, bathing him in slick warmth.
“You taste so good,” he growled. “So sweet. A perfect toy for me to feast on. Feed me, Aerion.”
Below the desk, his free hand blindly found the laces of his breeches. He tore them open, his thick, heavy cock springing free into the cool library air, instantly slick with his precum.
He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, pumping in time with the slow, devastating pull of his mouth against the prince.
Aerion was entirely out of his mind. He was a dragon drowning in a sea of heat. He dragged his nails against the soft flesh of Dunk's lip, his hips bucking upward, desperately chasing the suffocating friction.
Dunk pulled back just a fraction, breaking the seal with a wet pop.
Cool air rushed over Aerion’s soaked skin, making him violently shiver. He lay gasping, his hair a ruined mess, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Mind your teeth, you massive brute," Aerion panted, glaring up at the cavernous mouth. It was a desperate attempt at his usual venom, utterly ruined by the severe trembling in his tiny frame and the heavy flush painting his chest. "If you nick me, I will have you gelded and exiled to the Wall."
"I would never hurt you," Dunk whispered, his hot breath washing over the prince. "No matter what size, you are always safe with me."
Before Aerion could formulate a retort, Dunk descended again.
This time, he didn't envelop the prince's waist. Instead, he parted his lips just enough to let the very tip of his tongue dart out.
It was the size of a velvet pillow to Aerion, and Dunk used it with devastating precision.
He flicked directly against the head of Aerion’s tiny, straining cock.
“Duncan! You—ngh—fuck…”
Dunk pinned Aerion's legs apart with his upper lip, ruthlessly attacking the sensitive peak with the rough papillae of his tongue. He flicked, swirled, and pressed in a concentrated rhythm.
The world narrowed down to the overwhelming wet heat, the heavy scent of arousal, and the deafening slap of Dunk’s hand working his own immense cock under the desk.
"Duncan! Duncan, stop, I command you—!" Aerion gasped out. He was spiraling closer to the precipice, no longer able to control the violent shudders wracking his miniature body.
He was entirely at the mercy of the beast he had tried to tame.
Dunk ignored the command. He increased the pressure, flattening his tongue completely over Aerion’s lap and pressing downward, trapping the prince's cock against his own stomach while maintaining the relentless, swirling friction.
It broke the Brightflame completely.
“Duncan!”
Aerion arched off Dunk's palm. A tiny jet of seed erupted from him, painting the vast expanse of Dunk's tongue. He trembled violently as wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure ripped through his shrunken form.
Dunk swallowed the tiny offering like it was the finest Dornish vintage. He dragged his tongue up the center of Aerion's body one last time—a gentle, soothing stroke—before finally pulling back.
He leaned his head back against the chair, his breath tearing through his lungs in ragged gasps. Beneath the desk, his fist worked frantically as he stared at the disheveled prince—thighs parted, covered in his spit, cock twitching in exhaustion.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “So perfect, my sweet dragon.”
Dunk’s body tensed, his hand gripping his cock like a vice as he spilled his thick seed all over his fingers and onto the floor, painting the surroundings white.
Silence descended on the room, broken only by the harsh, synchronized gasps of the giant and the prince.
Aerion lay motionless in the puddle of warmth on Dunk's palm, his limbs heavy and useless. Dunk slowly brought his hand back down, resting his wrist on the edge of the heavy Valyrian tome. He used the very tip of his clean finger to gently brush a damp strand out of Aerion’s eyes.
Aerion blinked slowly, turning his head to look at his giant. The venom and the fiery arrogance were entirely burned away, leaving something intensely raw and unguarded in his violet eyes.
"If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone," he whispered, "I will have you drawn and quartered."
Dunk smiled—a dopey, smitten expression that he couldn't have wiped off his face if he tried.
"Your secret is safe with me, my Prince," Dunk rumbled softly. "Now… we should probably figure out how to get you out of my saliva and back into your makeshift toga."
Dunk watched the miniature prince recover in the hollow of his palm. But as the haze began to clear, Aerion didn't look finished.
He looked ravenous.
Aerion pushed himself up on his hands and knees. He crawled unsteadily toward the edge of Dunk’s palm, his gaze fixed intensely on Dunk’s other hand which rested on the desk, the fingers completely coated in his seed.
"Bring your right hand here," he commanded.
Dunk blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "My Prince?"
"Are you deaf as well as stupid, Duncan?" Aerion hissed impatiently. "Bring your hand to me. Now."
Dunk slowly lifted his right hand. The thick, heavy white spend dripped slowly from his callouses, catching the dimming light of the room. He brought it close, hovering it just over the palm where Aerion knelt.
Aerion didn't hesitate. He reached out with both tiny hands, grabbing Dunk’s index finger. To him, the finger was the size of a marble pillar, coated in hot glaze.
He opened his mouth and pressed his tongue against it.
Dunk’s body went rigid. “What… what are you—?!”
Aerion lapped at him. He dragged his tongue up the slick skin, gathering as much of the salty seed as his small mouth could hold. He was completely shameless, closing his eyes as he swallowed it down, letting the thick fluid coat his lips and chin.
A beautiful, tiny dragon gorging himself on the spoils of his kill.
"Aerion…" Dunk rasped, his cock immediately stirring to life all over again.
Aerion let go of the finger and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up, his eyes dark and dilated, locking onto Dunk's flushed face.
"Turn me over," he whispered. It was a filthy, undeniable demand. "Use it. Put your finger inside my ass."
The air seized in Dunk’s throat. All the blood drained from his face, only to rush directly to his groin.
He looked at Aerion’s impossibly small, perfect body, and then at the thick, calloused mass of his own digits.
"No," Dunk breathed, panic lacing his voice. "Aerion, I can't. Look at me. Even my pinky finger is thicker than your waist. It is too large. I will tear you open. I will ruin you."
"Ruin me," Aerion repeated flatly. "When have you not wanted to ruin me? You have wanted to split me open and hear me scream since the moment you threw me in the mud at Ashford. Do not dress your cowardice up as chivalry, Duncan."
"I would kill you," Dunk pleaded, though his hand was already trembling, his thumb twitching instinctively.
"Liar," Aerion purred. "Look at the state of you. You are shaking. Your cock is dripping under that desk because the sheer thought of stretching me out is choking you. You want to feel how tight I am around you. You want to push inside and know that I am entirely, completely yours to break. So… do it."
Dunk stared at him. The knight's honor burned away, leaving behind nothing but a foolish, horny brain.
"If I hurt you," he warned, "you ordered this."
"I order you to obey me, hedge knight," Aerion shot back. A shiver of anticipation ran through his spine.
Dunk didn't waste another second. He used his thumb to gently push Aerion flat onto his stomach in the center of his left palm. The prince gasped as he was pinned, his hands gripping the deep lifelines in the giant's skin.
Dunk brought his right hand over. He curled his pinky, making sure it was completely drenched in his own hot seed.
He brought the massive, blunt tip down, pressing it flush against the tiny cleft of Aerion's ass.
Aerion let out a muffled whimper. The finger was overwhelmingly huge. The blunt tip covered his entire ass and the backs of his thighs, radiating a terrifying heat.
"I have you," Dunk murmured, his breathing completely ragged. "I have you, my Prince."
Dunk pressed down, angling the tip against the impossibly tight hole. The slickness of his seed was the only thing preventing disaster. He applied a fraction of an ounce of pressure, slowly, agonizingly pushing inward.
Aerion’s back arched violently. "F-Fuck—!"
It was a devastating stretch. He felt his entire body parting to accommodate the sheer mass of the invader. The thick pad of Dunk's finger stretched him impossibly wide, the wet friction burning through every nerve.
He was completely stuffed, filled past the point of reason, entirely consumed by the giant's flesh.
"You're taking it," Dunk groaned, his eyes rolling back slightly at the suffocating tightness gripping the very tip of his finger. It was hotter than a furnace, a desperate, clenching heat. "By the Seven, you're so tight, Aerion. So beautiful. Completely unmade with just my pinky.”
Dunk pushed a hairsbreadth deeper, burying the very first knuckle of his pinky into the tiny prince.
It was a sensory overload.
Aerion sobbed.
He was entirely impaled. The thick finger pressed against his sweet spot with crushing, brutal accuracy. He was locked in place, unable to move, unable to breathe, entirely at the mercy of the slow, deliberate rhythm Dunk began to set.
Dunk pulled his finger back an inch, dragging the slick friction along the abused walls of Aerion's ass, before sinking it back down with a wet, heavy sound.
Squelch!
"Duncan!" Aerion cried out, his tiny cock weeping uncontrollably against the floor of Dunk's palm. "Harder. Push—!"
Dunk obliged, losing himself to the primal, filthy rhythm. He pumped his pinky into the tiny prince, letting his thick, hot seed act as the only barrier against tearing him apart.
Every thrust forced a scream from Aerion’s throat, a beautiful, broken symphony in the quiet library. The prince's body shuddered with the impact, completely surrendering to the brutal stretch.
Dunk was utterly lost, watching the arrogant dragon take every agonizing inch, claiming the Brightflame in the hidden shadows of Summerhall.
Every time he drew back, the white coat of seed stretched into thick, glistening strings, only to be driven right back inside the writhing prince.
"Look at how you take me," Dunk growled. "My beautiful, perfect prince. Look at what you're letting a hedge knight do to you."
Aerion choked on a shattered sob, his tiny hands clawing uselessly. The thick knuckle of Dunk's finger bullied its way inward, pressing ruthlessly against the sensitive knot of nerves buried deep inside.
"F-Fuck you, Duncan!" Aerion screamed. But his hips betrayed him, bucking backward to chase the brutal pressure. "Bastard—!"
"I am," Dunk agreed smoothly. He lowered his face until his nose was mere inches from the struggling prince, his hot breath washing over the trembling body. "But you're swallowing my finger like a little whore, aren't you, my dragon? So small… so incredibly tight. I could break you in half, and yet you're just spreading open for me, begging to be stretched."
He curled upward ever so slightly.
“Ah! Fuck!”
"I have never felt anything like you," Dunk rasped. He angled his hand again, curving his finger to strike the swollen gland inside.
Aerion’s entire body went rigid. A silent scream tore from his throat.
"Did you feel that?" Dunk murmured. "That's it, my dragon. Take every inch of it. I want to feel your tiny hole clench around my knuckle. I want to feel how desperate you are for me to ruin you."
"Duncan—!" Aerion gasped, his eyes rolling back. "Deeper, please, stretch me—!"
"I am," Dunk promised, his voice thick with lust. He pumped his finger faster, the wet slap and squelch echoing loudly off the ancient tomes and dusty shelves. "I'm stretching you so wide, Aerion. You're completely filled with me. You're mine right now. Every drop of you. I own this perfect, tight little hole. Tell me I own it."
"You own it!" Aerion sobbed, completely broken, his pride incinerated by the blistering friction. "It's yours, giant—fuck, I'm bursting, I'm—"
"Give it to me," Dunk commanded. He pressed his finger deeper, burying it to the very edge of the first joint, and held it there. "Ruin yourself for me, my Prince. Fall apart!"
The command was the final strike.
Aerion exploded. A sharp, piercing cry ripped through his lips as his tiny cock wept again, completely dry of seed but firing violent spasms across Dunk's palm. Inside, his ass clenched around Dunk’s massive finger with desperate strength, milking the calloused flesh as wave after wave of paralyzing ecstasy crashed through him.
Dunk groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt the intense grip squeezing his digit. He held the prince firmly in place, letting his thumb rest lightly over the curve of Aerion's spine to ground the thrashing, tiny body.
"That's a good boy," he whispered soothingly. "I've got you. Just breathe."
As the spasms finally began to subside, leaving Aerion a boneless mess of flushed skin and tangled hair, Dunk slowly, with excruciating care, began to withdraw his finger.
The wet pop of his release left Aerion gasping for air, collapsing fully against Dunk's palm. The tiny prince lay completely motionless, his limbs splayed, looking like a shattered porcelain doll.
"Aerion?" Dunk asked softly, his heart twisting with worry as he surveyed the absolute devastation he had wrought upon the royal.
Aerion didn't move for a long while. Then, with an effort that seemed to take every ounce of his remaining strength, he turned his head just enough to press his flushed cheek against Dunk's thumb.
"If you drop me now, Duncan," he whispered, smiling dazedly, "I will haunt you from the Seven Hells."
As Aerion’s breath steadily evened out. The suffocating fog of lust finally began to lift in the room.
But in its wake, a cold spike of dread settled into Dunk’s chest.
He stared down at the center of his palm. Aerion looked absolutely wrecked—a tiny, pale doll slick with sweat and seed, lying limp against Dunk’s callouses.
The reality of what had just occurred, of the brutal, consuming rhythm he had subjected the prince to, crashed into him all at once. He had used his finger as a battering ram. He had pounded into a creature the size of a toy soldier.
"Gods…" Dunk rasped. He carefully, almost fearfully, set his right hand far away from the prince, wiping the mess onto a scrap of linen. He brought his face closer to his left palm, his eyes wide with overwhelming terror. "Aerion. Seven save me, did I tear you? I lost my mind, I—I should never have—"
Aerion peeled one violet eye open, glaring up at the giant’s panicked face. "If you start whimpering like a kicked hound, Duncan, I swear I will climb up your nose.”
"I could have killed you," Dunk insisted. His thumb hovered uncertainly in the air, suddenly terrified that even a gentle brush of his skin might snap the prince’s spine. "I let myself get carried away. I didn't think."
"Yet here I am, spectacularly alive," Aerion sighed. He shifted his hips slightly against Dunk's palm, wincing a fraction, but he quickly masked it with a haughty sniff. "I told you to do it. The blood of the dragon does not break simply because a hedge knight gets a bit eager. Now stop hovering. You are blocking the light."
Dunk let out a shuddering breath, the crushing weight in his chest easing just a fraction. He reached for a square of linen and dampened it with water.
With agonizing, painstaking care, he began to wipe his tiny prince down.
"You were magnificent," he murmured softly. He dabbed at the delicate curve of Aerion's spine, washing away the remnants of… whatever just happened. "Does this sting? Tell me if I am pressing—"
"It is a soft cloth, Duncan, not a morningstar," Aerion muttered, resting his cheek against the warm flesh of Dunk’s palm.
"I just want to be sure," Dunk said earnestly. He used his thumb to brace Aerion's hip as he gently cleaned the prince's thighs. "You took it so perfectly. You are so brave, but you are so…”
Aerion’s eyes snapped open. "If you call me delicate, I will bite you."
"I was going to say magnificent again," Dunk lied smoothly, a fond, dopey smile finally touching his lips. He dried the prince with another scrap of soft, warm cloth. "Are you in pain? Truly?"
Aerion rolled onto his back, swatting weakly at the linen cloth. "I am sore, you great lumbering oaf. As one is when they are thoroughly ploughed by a digit the size of a fallen log. But I am not fragile. I am a Targaryen."
Dunk chuckled. He set the cloth down and used the very tip of his index finger to lovingly stroke Aerion’s damp hair back from his forehead.
"Aye," Dunk agreed warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You are not fragile. But you are always small."
Aerion’s violet eyes narrowed into dangerous, beautiful slits. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and slapped Dunk’s knuckle with both of his tiny hands.
It felt exactly like an infuriating mosquito.
"I am a perfectly average height for a man of Valyrian descent!" Aerion shrieked. "It is you who is a freak of nature! A walking siege tower! Do not project your freakishness onto my regal stature!"
Dunk just laughed. He didn't pull his hand away, entirely content to let the prince take out his feigned, exhausted outrage on his calluses. "As you say, my Prince."
Still smiling, he reached over and took a fresh square of crimson silk, carefully draping it over the prince's shoulders to fashion a clean toga. Once Aerion was decent, he gently scooped him up and set him down on the reading desk.
Beside them lay the ruined parchment, still bearing the explosive black ink splatter that had started the entire ordeal.
Dunk leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his crossed arms so he was perfectly at eye level with the miniature royal. He looked at the inkblot, then back to the prince.
"I don't think Prince Aemon is going to be able to read that," he noted mildly.
Aerion adjusted the knot of his silk toga, sniffing disdainfully at the ruined letter. "My brother is a scholar, Duncan, not a miracle worker. Of course he cannot read a puddle of ink."
"Mayhaps we can send the raven some other time," Dunk suggested, his eyes now focused on the sharp, beautiful lines of Aerion's face. "Tomorrow. Or the day after."
Aerion looked from the ink-stained parchment to the giant. He took in the soft, devoted expression on Dunk's face, the protective way the knight kept his hands resting near him, creating a wall between the prince and the rest of the vast room.
A ghost of a smirk played on his lips.
"The Citadel has stood for thousands of years, Duncan," he declared haughtily. He stepped forward, leaning his tiny hands against Dunk's bracer. "It can wait another day to receive my correspondence. Now, be a good warden and carry me back to our chambers. I demand a proper bath, and you owe me a massage."
Dunk hummed. “And for once, you won’t be complaining that I’m not pressing hard enough.”
Aerion swatted him. “My current constitution does not give you leave to flatten me like an insect! Though I suppose… being small has its perks.”
Dunk chuckled. “It definitely does, my tiny terror.”
Aerion swatted him again. Dunk merely pressed a soft, lingering kiss on the crown of silver hair before finally carrying his prince towards the dimming sun of the Summerhall twilight.