#akot7k

Ser Duncan had always known that princes were strange.

That, at least, was something he’d made peace with.

They were born strange, raised strange, and lived their lives in a world that did not much resemble the one the rest of them walked in. They spoke in courtesies that meant threats and in threats that meant nothing at all. They smiled when they were angry and grew angry when there was no cause he could see.

Still, he thought he understood them well enough—he’d been wrong all along.

He knows he is wrong because there he is, seated at a crystal big table amidst the gorgeous midday sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, ogling like a big oaf at Prince Aerion Targaryen—no, not at him, but at the lady sitting by his side, near the head of the table.

She is laughing, that is the first thing he is struck by. A melodious, gentle sound, like sweet honey. And then, the second thing that hits him is the sight of Aerion laughing with her as well, very quietly, with his head tilted towards her.

Hearing him laugh with genuine joy must be the most unnatural and eerie sound Duncan has ever heard.

Her hand rests casually on Aerion's forearm, intimately and so naturally, as if that's where it belongs. As if it's always belonged to touch him.

Dunk frowns and then he frowns even harder as his thoughts stumbled over themselves.

He keeps watching as she says something else—he can't hear what—and Aerion gives a slight tilt of his head, not in a scornful way, but in an expression of attention and delight.

Of course, Dunk has seen you before. You are no stranger to the Red Keep. You address the guards by name, thank the servants when they bring you things or offer assistance. Once, you even had smiled at Dunk himself, and he nearly tripped over his own feet when you did.

You are kind, gentle, and sweet. Everything Aerion is not, so Dunk naturally kept assuming you must be some cousin or sister or relative to the royal family.

Dunk just sits there, taller and clumsier than usual, and definitely feeling like a fish out of water among the majority of the Targaryens. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him, like that might stop him from saying something stupid, but it's already too late.

Next to him, Prince Aegon devours a fig with an expression of utter indulgentment; they went through this phase of confusion weeks ago and now seems to find it a source of amusement.

“Is something wrong, Ser?” asks Egg, his mouth partially full. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

Dunk doesn't respond immediately. His eyes remain locked on the other side of the table, where the shade of the vines reaches upon you and your husband.

Aerion, who usually looks at everyone as if they were insects beneath his boot, is doing the most horrifying act: he is peeling an orange with the greatest of care. In one perfect spiral, he strips the peel and offers it to you along with a faint smile.

“She's Prince Baelor's daughter, right?,” Dunk asks cautiously, leaning toward Egg as far as he can without falling over. “A niece. Or maybe a distant cousin whom Aerion has kindly decided not to terrorize today for reasons of royal courtesy.”

Egg chokes a little on the piece of fig and bursts out in a dry laugh, which sounds more like a little bark. “My Uncle Baelor's daughter? Oh, Ser—”

At that very moment, your laughter fills the air at something Aerion whispers in your ear. The Prince allows himself another smile; not one of those malicious grimaces that Dunk knows so well, but a genuine, gentle one.

You place a hand on his cheek, caressing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes Duncan's stomach churn with unbridled astonishment and revulsion.

“Come on, Ser, let's go meet her!” Egg suppresses a mischievous grin as he tugs on the sleeve of his tall friend's doublet, urging him to stand up as well. “I can see you like her. Let me introduce you, then.”

Dunk lets himself be led along, trying to remember every lesson in courtesy he never really learned, and as they reach the table, Aerion lifts his gaze. His eyes narrow with that characteristic coldness as he recognizes the knight, and all his gentle, carefree demeanor from mere seconds ago seems to vanish when he lays sight on Duncan.

“Ser Duncan,” Aerion drawls the name, his voice reverting to that harsh, extremely contemptuous intonation. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming. It seems you're encroaching on my family's privacy a little more each day—”

“Prince Aerion,” Dunk greets him back dismissively, disregarding what the prince is saying to him, and not even bothering to listen to his passive-aggressive nonsense, since he is too concerned on gazing in awe at you. “My lady.”

“It's a pleasure to have you here.” You flash him a cheerful smile, glancing sideways to see Aerion's plump lips gaping in shock and offense at your side. “Ser...”

You pause for him to introduce himself, and he rushes to do so, inclining his head once more.

“Duncan, my lady,” the tall knight pronounces his name with more trepidation than pride. “At your service.”

Aerion frowns, his eyes squinting with growing annoyance. “Your service? What—”

“You are very kind, Ser Duncan,” you interrupt your prince, struggling to stifle a giggle at his expression of pure bewilderment. “Thank you for taking such good care of Aegon.”

“You don't have to thank me at all, my lady,” Dunk replies, his voice coming out softer. “Looking after Egg—Prince Aegon, is truly an honor. And seeing you here, being so patient... well, it just confirms what everyone at court says.”

You tilt your head curiously, as Aerion stares at him with cautious defiance.

“Oh? And what do they say, Ser Duncan?” you ask with a twinkle of amusement in your eyes.

“That you have a noble soul,” Duncan states with complete conviction, nodding to himself. “One can tell in a heartbeat that you are Prince Baelor's daughter”

And he carries on, even when Egg sneaks a kick to his shin, and the whole dining table drops silent, with everyone turning to look at him with expressions of either bafflement or disgust—in Maekar's case.

“He must be immensely proud to have such a kind and compassionate daughter. Only someone with his blood could have the strength to...“ His blue eyes glance at Aerion with barely concealed distaste, “Well, to spend the entire day entertaining your cousin Aerion and still keep a smile on your face. You are an exemplary cousin, my lady.”

Egg muffles out a strangled laugh and has to cover his mouth with both hands to keep from spitting it out.

Aerion, for his part, is not amused and remains petrified beside you. His lips part, uttering a gasp of outrage, and his violet eyes gleam with a fury that promises a death of agony.

“Daughter?” Aerion hisses, his voice rattling like a viper’s threat. “Did you call her my uncle Baelor’s daughter? And my cousin?”

You blink, glancing first at your husband, whose face is flushing through various hues of red, and then at the tall knight standing in front of you, who is frowning in innocent confusion.

“Ser Duncan...” you begin, trying to maintain your composure as the situation descends into absurdity. “I’m afraid your compass for kinship is a little... misguided.”

“Misgui—what?” babbles Dunk, batting his eyelashes as slowly as an ox that has just been struck on the snout.

Before your husband or you can answer, a soft, vibrant laugh comes from the head of the table. Prince Baelor is leaning back in his chair, attentive to the unfolding scene before him, in his usual courteous silence. His eyes now sparkle with genuine amusement.

“Gods be good, Ser Duncan,” says the King's Hand, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the wine glass he holds in his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty and your high regard for my character, but I fear you are attributing merits to me that I do not possess.”

“Prince Baelor is my uncle-in-law, by marriage, not by blood, Ser Duncan.” you clarify, reaching out to Aerion’s hand, that had been resting on your lap the moment Duncan had arrived at your side. “I am Aerion’s wife, not cousin.”

“W–wife?” Dunk repeats, his voice breaking with disbelief. “Aerion's? But, my lady, you're kind and beautiful and—”

“For five years, you bloody twit!” Aerion explodes, springing up from his seat now in defense of your honor and his own as well. The chair scrapes violently against the floor. “She’s been my wife for five years! My wife!”

You quickly rise to your feet as well, standing between your husband's fit of fury and Dunk's monumental state of embarrassment.

The difference in height is almost laughable: you attempting to calm a fuming Aerion, with Duncan looming over you both, appearing to wish the ground would open up and swallow him now that he has finally realized the mistake he has just made.

You bite your lower lip, battling to keep from laughing, knowing that would only further wound Aerion's pride.

“Calm down, my love,” you coax him gently, pressing both hands on his chest to push him back a step away from Duncan. “I’m sure Ser Duncan meant no harm.” “He called you my cousin!” Aerion retorts, his burning gaze finally dropping from Dunk and focusing on you, relenting at the way you’re gazing at him, fearful of his anger.

His hands immediately curl around your waist, drawing you closer to him reassuringly and further away from the hapless hedge knight.

Dunk is as red as a tomato and his ears are turning crimson.

“Oh fuck— I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, my prince, my lady,” he blurts out, bowing his head apologetically over and over. “I didn't mean to... it's just that she's such a good person, and you're... well, you're...” His voice trails off the instant Egg kicks him again, without even trying to be subtle about it this time. “A thousand apologies to both of you for my clumsiness. Five years... Seven Hells, five years—”

“Cease your stammering, you simpleton!” a sharp voice growls from the other end of the table. “Have you no sense at all in that thick skull of yours?”

Prince Maekar is looking at Dunk with his characteristic loathing, there is a hint of fatigue in his eyes, as if being surrounded by such a load of idiocy is costing him years of his life.

“You've caused enough of a commotion with your lack of brains, Ser,” Maekar went on, glaring at his son Aerion to shut him up as well. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut before I decide that your penance for being a dimwit should be spending the rest of lunch standing next to the horses!”

Baelor breathes out another quiet snicker at his younger brother's interruption, visibly enjoying his nephew's humiliation.

Dunk straightens up at once, rigid as a plank, still pleading for your forgiveness under his shaky breath.

“There's no need to apologize, Ser Duncan,” you try to soothe him, leaning against your husband's chest.

Clinging to your body, Aerion glares at him with hateful, menacing eyes. “I won't forget this.”

“Aerion,” you call out in disapproval, pulling yourself back in his arms so you can face him, but he just keeps eyeing Duncan, who finally stumbles away from you two and back to his seat at the table.

You seize the moment to gently tug at your husban's hand, forcing him to sit back down as well. And he lets himself fall into the chair, still holding you in his arms, and pulling you onto his lap. And you let out a light, melodic laugh as he does, twisting a little in his arms to nuzzle your nose against his affectionately.

The garden eventually settles back into its rhythmic hum of clinking silverware and low conversation. The initial shock of Dunk’s blunder lingers only in the faint, lingering flush on his face as he focuses entirely on his plate, determined not to breathe in the wrong direction.

Aerion doesn't let you go. Even as he resumes eating with his free hand, his other arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing idle, possessive circles against over the fabric of your dress. He leans his head against yours appreciatively.

“He thought we were cousins even when we treated each other like this,” Aerion whispers into your ear after taking a bite of his slice of strawberry cake, his words still laced with indignation, although you can taste the sweetness of the pastry in his breath. “How could anyone be so—”

“Oh, hush,” you whisper, your eyes gazing at his with amusement and then you pick up the small silver spoon from the edge of his plate, scooping up a generous portion of the creamy pastry. “Now, stop pouting, my love. Open up for me.”

Aerion’s obeys you, naturally, leaning forward to take the sweet offering from your hand. He chews slowly, his violet softening eyes never leaving your face.

“Is it good?” you ask softly, wiping a tiny stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and sucking on it to taste the flavor yourself.

“It’s tolerable,” Aerion purrs, and then kiss your lips tenderly, his mouth lingers close to yours as he pulls away, flashing you a mischievous look. “Hmm, that is far more delicious...”

While Duncan sits frozen—staring at his plate as if the roast swan might testify against him—the rest of the table barely bats an eye at the scene unfolding at his opposite side over the table.

For the Targaryens, such public displays of affection are a common occurrence, perhaps too common during family gatherings or outings or feasts.

Maekar, though still wearing a permanent scowl, simply reaches for the wine carafe, maneuvering his arm around Aerion’s sprawling form without a word. He’s seen his son go from a bloodthirsty terror to a purring housecat in your presence too many times to count. To Maekar, your lap-sitting and sweet-feeding is a necessary evil—a price he’s willing to pay for a quiet afternoon without Aerion setting something on fire.

“You see, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor calls out, his voice smooth and teeming with mirth as he watches you feed Aerion another spoonful of the cake, but loud enough to make the hedge knight jump in his seat. “The Prince is quite manageable when he is well-fed and well-loved. It is a pity we cannot bottle his lady wife’s influence and distribute it among the rest of the Realm.”

Your husband scoffs, though there's no real heat in it as he tries to steal another kiss between your spoonfuls, making you laugh.