Chapter Text
The battle had been going on for months.
It had started quietly, the way these things usually did. Sleepless nights that stretched longer than they should have, cigarette smoke hanging in the air long after the ashtray was full, and the kind of silence that wasn’t peace but exhaustion wearing the shape of calm. Dunk had learned to recognize the difference.
Aerion had tried to hide it at first.
The cuts were never deep enough to be immediately visible, or so he thought. But there were nights when Dunk found him sitting in the bathroom floor, shirt sleeves pushed too far up, breathing slowly as if he was counting something only he could hear. The first time it happened, Aerion had laughed when Dunk took the razor away.
“I just wanted to feel something,” Aerion had said, voice too light, too sharp, too carefully controlled.
Dunk hadn’t known what to answer.
After that came the doctor visits, the medication changes, the promises made in quiet voices that cracked under the weight of both hope and fear. Aerion hated the pills. They made his thoughts feel thick and distant, like he was walking underwater and forgetting what he was trying to reach.
Some days were almost good.
Those were the dangerous days.
Because Aerion would wake up early, shower, dress properly, talk about ordinary things like university classes or the stupid news he read on his phone, and Dunk would think maybe this time they were winning.
Then there were the bad days.
The days when Aerion didn’t speak at all.
The psychiatrist had warned them that self-harm was not always a cry for help, not always a decision made in anger or sadness alone. Sometimes it was something quieter. Something mechanical. A way the brain tried to escape itself when everything inside felt too loud.
Dunk had tried to stay close.
But love did not stop illness.
It only made the waiting heavier.
The call came in the afternoon.
Dunk was sitting in the hospital corridor when the door opened and two orderlies walked out first. Then Aerion.
Aerion’s wrists were bandaged under the white sleeves of the hospital gown they had given him. His hair was messy in a way that suggested he had resisted when they tried to check him earlier. His eyes looked tired, but not empty. Not yet.
“Dunk,” Aerion said softly.
“They’re going to keep you for now,” Dunk said, because he couldn’t find a gentler way to say it.
Aerion nodded once.
He didn’t argue.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Months ago Aerion would have fought. Would have argued. Would have thrown sarcasm like a weapon and pretended nothing was wrong. But something had worn down inside him, slow and relentless, like water carving stone.
“The self-harm risk is still high,” the doctor said behind them. “Until the medication stabilizes and we see sustained improvement, institutionalization is the safest option.”
Dunk clenched his hands together so hard he felt his knuckles ache.
“How long?” he asked.
“We cannot give a definite timeline.”
Silence settled again, thick and suffocating.
Aerion was looking at the floor.
“Can I…?” Dunk began, then stopped, because he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to ask.
The doctor nodded anyway.
Dunk stepped closer to Aerion.
He wanted to touch him. To hold his face the way he had done on nights when Aerion woke up shaking from nightmares he would never explain. But there were rules here, invisible and heavy.
So he just said, very quietly, “I’ll come every visiting day.”
Aerion’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“You don’t have to,” Aerion said.
Dunk shook his head. “I do.”
Aerion’s lips pressed together, pale and trembling for a moment before he spoke again.
“I hate this place.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be crazy.”
Dunk closed his eyes briefly.
“You are not crazy,” Dunk said. “You are sick. There is a difference.”
Aerion let out a small, broken breath that was almost a laugh but not quite.
“Same thing in practice.”
“No,” Dunk said.
Aerion straightened slightly.
“I should go,” he said.
Dunk nodded.
For a moment they just stood there, because neither of them knew how to make goodbye smaller.
Then Aerion leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Dunk’s cheek, careful, almost formal, like he was trying to memorize the shape of Dunk’s face with something more permanent than sight.
“Don’t let Egg hate me,” Aerion said.
“He won’t,” Dunk replied immediately. “He never could.”
“Tell him I’m getting better,” Aerion said. “Even if it’s a lie.”
Dunk didn’t answer that. The orderlies gently guided Aerion toward the secure door at the end of the corridor. Dunk watched until the door closed behind him. Months of fighting had not ended. They had simply changed shape. And somewhere inside the sterile white walls, Aerion was alone with a mind that had betrayed him too many times to trust it again. Dunk stayed sitting in the corridor long after the footsteps faded.
The other problem was Egg.
Little Aegon – Egg, as everyone called him – who was still trying to understand why people kept saying his father was gone when Maekar was simply supposed to be at the hospital and then come home.
Cancer was a word Egg had learned but did not fully understand. It was something adults spoke about in lowered voices. Maekar had died in a hospital bed that smelled of disinfectant and plastic curtains, far away from the place where Egg had waited with Dunk and Aerion, clutching a drawing he had made of his father wearing a crown he had seen in a history book.
Egg had asked once, very carefully, if the cancer was like the monsters in video games that slowly take away your health bar.
Dunk had told him yes, because he did not know how to explain that sometimes life did not have a visible enemy.
After Maekar died, Egg had stopped asking when his father would come home.
Instead, he started asking whether people could die from being sad.
Egg was too young for the kind of grief that did not fit inside a child’s body. He missed Maekar in small, sharp ways that showed up unexpectedly. Like when he saw other children walking with their fathers at the park. Or when he tried to call someone “dad” in a dream and woke up crying without knowing why.
Daeron had adopted him after the funeral. Daeron was Egg’s eldest brother, the one who had been living alone before the funeral changed everything.
He had taken Egg in because there had been no one else who could do it immediately, and because despite his own instability he had wanted to believe he could be strong enough to keep his little brother safe.
But Daeron was not well.
The diagnosis came later, though everyone had suspected something was wrong long before the official words were spoken.
Bipolar disorder, the psychiatrist said.
Episodes of deep depression that could swallow Daeron for weeks, followed by periods of restless energy where he drank too much and talked too fast and stayed awake until dawn listening to music Egg was not allowed to hear.
Alcohol made the episodes worse.
Egg knew this even if nobody told him directly.
Children learned things about adults by watching how other adults spoke about them when they thought the child was not listening.
Egg loved Daeron.
But sometimes Daeron forgot to eat.
Sometimes Daeron cried in the kitchen without explaining why.
And sometimes, on the worst nights, Egg woke up because Daeron was sitting beside his bed, staring at him with eyes that were too bright and too lost at the same time.
“You’re safe here,” Daeron would say, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.
The social worker had started talking about stability.
About guardianship.
About what was best for Egg.
That was the other reason Dunk was sitting in the hospital corridor now, staring at the closed door where Aerion had disappeared.
Because the family was breaking under weight it had never been strong enough to carry.
And Egg was too small to understand why adults kept deciding things about him in rooms he was never allowed to enter.
Dunk closed his eyes and imagined the boy’s face.
Egg had Aerion’s sharp eyes and stubborn mouth, but there was a softness in him that came from somewhere else.
Dunk did not want that softness to break.
He did not want Egg to learn too early that love could hurt even when it was real.
He stood up slowly.
The corridor was still empty.
Somewhere behind the institutional walls, Aerion was beginning the long, painful work of trying to survive his own mind.
And somewhere else, a child was waiting to know whether the adults he trusted would stay or leave him behind in the chaos they were trying desperately to manage.
Dunk pressed his hand briefly against the wall, as if he could send a silent promise through concrete.
He would not let Egg fall.
The house was not a place a child should have lived in.
Daeron tried. God, he really did. But trying was not the same as being well.
There were days when the smell of alcohol followed him like a shadow even when he had not been drinking that morning. Egg learned early that if Daeron smelled strongly of medicine mixed with something bitter and sweet at the same time, it meant he had taken his prescription pills and then washed them down with something he should not have.
Daeron said the alcohol helped him sleep.
The doctor had said it did the opposite.
Egg did not know which one was true, but he knew what fear smelled like.
It smelled like old whiskey and cold air and the silence that followed Daeron when his mood dropped so low he could barely speak.
There were nights when Daeron sat at the kitchen table staring at the wall while Egg finished his homework beside him, pretending not to notice when Daeron’s hands started shaking.
Once, Daeron forgot to turn off the stove.
The pot had burned black before Egg noticed the smoke.
Egg had been nine years old.
He had stood there frozen for a moment, then dragged a chair to reach the switch because Daeron was sitting on the floor laughing quietly at something Egg could not hear.
Another night was worse.
Daeron had been drinking and taking his medication at the same time, something the psychiatrist had explicitly warned him against.
He kept saying he was fine.
Egg knew he was not.
That night Daeron’s sleep was broken by dreams he could not explain later. He woke up screaming once, then crying, then suddenly silent in a way that terrified Egg more than the screaming had.
In the early morning, Egg found that Daeron had wet himself without realizing it, his body reacting to whatever nightmare had trapped him inside his own mind.
Daeron was shaking so badly he could not speak properly.
“I thought… I thought something was in the room,” Daeron whispered.
Egg did not ask what.
He just climbed into Daeron’s bed and stayed there until sunrise, pressing his small body against his brother’s side because Daeron’s breathing was too fast and too shallow and Egg was afraid he might disappear if he let go.
That was the night Daeron cried quietly into Egg’s hair and apologized over and over again without saying what he was apologizing for.
Egg’s safe place was not the house.
It was Valarr.
Valarr was Baelor’s only son, a college student studying medicine who visited when he could, sometimes bringing cheap cafeteria snacks and sometimes just sitting on the floor beside Egg while he played with his figures.
Egg’s favorite figure was Valarr.
Not because Valarr was perfect, but because Valarr was the kind of person who spoke softly and listened carefully even when Egg talked about things adults usually dismissed as childish.
Valarr would come to check on Daeron too.
Sometimes he would stand in the kitchen talking quietly with Daeron while Egg pretended to focus on his toys but actually listened with the intense concentration children have when they are trying to understand the adults who control their world.
“How bad is it today?” Valarr would ask once Egg had left the room.
Daeron would usually answer with a shrug.
“Not good,” Daeron would admit after a long silence.
“I can help you find another therapist if you want,” Valarr would say.
“I don’t want Egg to see me like this,” Daeron would reply.
“You are not hiding it very well,” Valarr said once, very gently.
Daeron had laughed, but it was a tired, broken sound.
Sometimes he heard Daeron say things like “I am trying to stay alive for him” or “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”
Egg did not fully understand what that meant. But he was afraid to ask.
The news about Aerion came a few days later.
Dunk had believed, maybe foolishly, that the facility would be a turning point. That once Aerion was inside a place where professionals watched him constantly, where medication schedules were strict and sharp objects were not accessible, things would finally stabilize.
He had told himself that this was safety.
He had told himself that this was treatment.
He had told himself that this was hope.
Then the doctor called him.
Aerion had tried to kill himself inside the psychiatric facility.
There had been no clear trigger, no argument, no visible emotional collapse that staff could point to as a cause. According to the report, Aerion had been sitting quietly during group therapy earlier that day. He had answered questions. He had taken his medication.
Then later, in the bathroom, he had tried to use something small and improvised enough that it should not have been possible inside a monitored environment. They had found him in time.
Barely.
Dunk sat very still while the doctor spoke. It was not anger he felt first. It was something heavier and colder.
Disappointment was the closest word he could find, but even that felt too small. Because Dunk had believed this place would help Aerion survive his own mind.
“I thought this would help him,” Dunk said finally.
The doctor did not answer immediately.
“I understand your frustration,” the doctor said after a moment.
Dunk shook his head once, sharply.
“No,” Dunk said. “You don’t.”
He pressed his fingers against his temples, because the thought that kept repeating inside his skull was not about what Aerion had done. It was the realization that even here, even surrounded by trained professionals, Aerion’s mind was still a dangerous place for him to live in.
Aerion was not entirely well.
Dunk had always known that. Love had not blinded him to the sharp edges inside Aerion’s thoughts. But he had believed there was a difference between struggling and being actively pulled toward death by something invisible and relentless inside the brain.
“I trusted this place,” Dunk said quietly.
The doctor lowered his eyes slightly.
“We are adjusting his supervision level,” the doctor said. “This was taken very seriously.”
Dunk exhaled slowly. It did not feel like relief. It felt like exhaustion.
Dunk was allowed inside after a long conversation with the staff, after signing papers he barely read because his hands were shaking too much to focus on the words.
When the door opened, Aerion was already sitting on the bed.
He looked smaller than Dunk remembered.
Aerion’s skin was very pale, almost white under the harsh clinical lighting, the kind of whiteness that made the dark circles under his eyes look deeper. His hair was messy, not styled the way he usually kept it when he still lived outside, and his posture was weak, shoulders slightly hunched as if even sitting upright required effort.
For a moment Aerion did not speak.
Then his eyes lifted.
“Dunk,” Aerion said quietly.
His voice was thin. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep alone.
Dunk stepped closer.
And then he saw the bandages.
They were wrapped around Aerion’s forearm and partly hidden under the sleeve that had been pushed up slightly by the movement of his arm. But the blood had soaked through in a faint, dark stain at one edge. The sight hit Dunk’s stomach like a physical blow. His vision narrowed for a moment as nausea rose sharply in his throat. He had seen injuries before. He had cleaned wounds. He had held Aerion when he was bleeding in the past.
But this was different. This was not an accident. This was Aerion trying to disappear. Dunk swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he fought the sudden, overwhelming urge to vomit.
“I’m fine,” Aerion said immediately when he saw Dunk’s expression.
“You are not fine,” Dunk said hoarsely.
Aerion’s lips moved slightly as if he wanted to smile, but the movement never completed itself.
“I’m tired,” Aerion admitted instead.
Dunk sat down slowly on the chair beside the bed because his legs felt unsteady.
Up close, Aerion looked even worse.
His skin was too pale, the kind of pale that suggested he had not been eating properly or that the medication had taken something from his appetite. His hands were resting loosely on the blanket, fingers slightly trembling as if they could not decide whether to curl into a fist or stay open.
“I almost lost you,” Dunk said after a long silence.
Aerion closed his eyes briefly.
“I know.”
The words were very small.
“I am trying,” Aerion added after a moment. “I swear I am trying.”
Dunk pressed his lips together so hard it hurt.
“Why, Aerion? Why?” Dunk asked, voice breaking. “Why would you do this to yourself?”
Aerion was very quiet for a long moment. His eyes were unfocused, staring somewhere past Dunk’s shoulder as if he was listening to something that wasn’t inside the room.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” Aerion said finally.
His voice was slower now, like each word had to be pulled up from deep underwater.
“There is something inside me,” Aerion continued. “Not me. Not my thoughts. Something else. Like a pressure. Like it wants to break out.”
Dunk’s stomach tightened. Aerion’s fingers moved slightly against the blanket, not consciously, like they were searching for something to hold.
“It feels wrong,” Aerion said. “Living feels wrong sometimes. Like I am trapped inside a version of myself that is not supposed to exist.”
He swallowed.
“I keep thinking if I cut deep enough, maybe it will come out.”
Dunk felt the nausea return sharply.
“What will come out?” Dunk asked, though he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Aerion’s pupils were slightly dilated, eyes too wide and too bright.
“I don’t know,” Aerion said. “Something that isn’t human. Something angry. Something that wants to scream and hurt things because it is locked inside my head.”
His breathing quickened slightly as he spoke, like the thought itself was frightening him even while he was saying it.
“I am scared of it,” Aerion whispered. “But sometimes I am more scared that it will never get out and I will have to live with it forever.”
Dunk closed his eyes. He reached out very slowly, stopping just before touching Aerion’s hand, giving him the choice.
“I don’t want to die,” Aerion said suddenly, voice cracking. “I just want it to stop.”
Dunk did not answer immediately. He thought back to older memories without meaning to.
To the first time he noticed something was not quite right.
Aerion had been younger then, still sharp-tongued and arrogant in the way he hid uncertainty behind cruelty. There had been nights when Aerion stayed awake far longer than anyone else in the house, sitting by the window and staring outside as if he was waiting for something to arrive from the dark.
Dunk remembered asking him once what he was thinking about.
Aerion had answered, “Nothing.”
But there had been a tension in his shoulders that said it was not nothing. Later, there were the episodes when Aerion would suddenly become suspicious of small things. Sounds in the hallway. People speaking too softly. The feeling that others were talking about him even when there was no evidence.
Dunk had told himself it was stress.
He had told himself it was personality.
He had told himself Aerion was simply difficult, wounded in ways he did not know how to express. Love had made him slow to see the truth. Or maybe he had seen it and chosen not to name it.
He remembered the nights when Aerion would pace the apartment like a trapped animal, muttering under his breath in a language that was almost coherent but never quite formed into real sentences. Back then Dunk had thought Aerion was angry. Now he understood it had been fear. A deep, structural fear that was not connected to any single event. Aerion had always looked at the world as if it might suddenly change into something hostile.
This was not just depression.
This was something that made existence itself feel wrong inside Aerion’s skull. And Dunk felt a terrible, suffocating grief settle inside him as he understood another truth he had been avoiding.
Aerion had been trying to survive not only the world, but his own body.
The chaos started suddenly.
At first Dunk did not understand why people were running.
The corridor outside the visiting room filled with hurried footsteps, the sharp sound of medical carts being pushed too fast, voices overlapping in a way that meant something serious had happened.
Dunk stayed with Aerion for a moment, confused by the sudden disturbance.
“What’s happening?” Aerion asked quietly.
He looked more lost than afraid, like the noise had broken whatever fragile concentration he had been holding onto.
“I don’t know,” Dunk said.
Then more staff rushed past the door. Someone was speaking quickly into a radio. Dunk caught fragments of sentences.
“…alcohol poisoning…”
“…collapsed…”
At first he did not hear any names.
Then one of the nurses said something while walking past them.
“Another Targaryen. That’s the second one today…”
The words were spoken almost casually, the way hospital staff sometimes spoke when overwhelmed by workload rather than emotional weight. But Dunk felt the blood drain from his face.
Another Targaryen.
Second one today.
The realization hit him slowly at first, then all at once like a blow to the chest.
Daeron.
Egg’s older brother.
Aerion’s expression changed beside him.
It was subtle, but Dunk knew him well enough to see it. The confusion in Aerion’s eyes deepened for a moment, as if the information was slipping through a place inside his mind that was already too exhausted to hold it. Then Aerion’s hand suddenly gripped Dunk’s sleeve.
“Dunk,” Aerion said urgently. “Go. Go check if he’s alive.”
“What?” Dunk said.
“My brother,” Aerion said, voice sharpening with sudden clarity. “Daeron. It’s Daeron, isn’t it?
“Go now,” Aerion repeated.
Dunk hesitated only a second longer.
Then he stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“I’ll come back,” Dunk said.
“You better,” Aerion said, but there was no sarcasm in it.
Dunk ran.
Dunk ran until he found the emergency department entrance, chest burning as he forced air in and out of his lungs. He stopped at the reception desk, hands shaking slightly as he tried to speak.
“I need to see the patient brought in for alcohol poisoning,” Dunk said. “Daeron Targaryen. I’m his relative.”
The nurse looked at him quickly, then at the chart on the screen.
“Are you immediate family?”
“I’m the closest he has here right now,” Dunk said. “Please. Let me in.”
For a moment she hesitated. Then she spoke in a careful, professional voice.
“They are currently attempting resuscitation.”
The words did not register at first. Dunk blinked once.
“What do you mean?” he asked, though he already understood.
“Cardiac instability after acute intoxication,” the nurse said. “He collapsed shortly after arrival. The team is performing CPR.”
Dunk felt the world tilt slightly around him.
For a moment there was a terrible, hollow ringing in his ears, like something inside his skull had gone suddenly very, very quiet.
“Can I go in?” Dunk asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. You cannot enter during active resuscitation.”
Dunk pressed his hands against the counter because his legs felt weak.
Egg.
Aerion.
Daeron lying somewhere behind those closed doors while strangers tried to restart a heart that might already have decided to stop.
“How long has it been?” Dunk asked.
“Five minutes,” the nurse said. “Maybe a little more.”
Five minutes.
Not long. Time had lost meaning.
Dunk stood at the counter, trying not to listen to the distant, muffled chaos coming from the resuscitation room at the end of the corridor.
The minutes stretched slowly, painfully, as if time itself had become reluctant to move forward.
After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, one of the doors opened and a doctor stepped out while pulling off his gloves.
Dunk turned toward him immediately.
“Doctor?” Dunk asked, voice rough and exhausted.
The doctor’s face was tired but not unreadable.
“The resuscitation is still ongoing,” the doctor said. “The patient is in critical condition, but he is still responding to intervention.”
Dunk closed his eyes briefly. Not good. Dunk’s voice was very low when he spoke again.
“What happened?” he asked. “How did this happen?”
The doctor exhaled slowly before answering.
“From what we can determine, it was an accidental overdose,” he said.
Dunk closed his eyes for a moment.
Then another thought struck him suddenly, sharp and terrifying.
“Where is the little boy?” Dunk asked. “Aegon. Egg. Where is he?”
There was a brief pause before the doctor answered.
“He is safe,” the doctor said. “The police are with him.”
Dunk’s heart skipped painfully.
“Is he hurt?” Dunk asked immediately.
“No,” the doctor said. “He is physically unharmed. He was the one who called the emergency services.”
Dunk felt something inside his chest loosen slightly, though the relief was so small it was almost drowned by fear.
Egg had done the right thing.
Egg had been brave.
Dunk nodded once, slowly, because he did not trust his voice enough to speak again.
Dunk’s hands were still shaking when he pulled his phone out and found Valarr’s number.
It rang three times before Valarr picked up.
“Yeah?” Valarr said. His voice was distracted, muffled slightly as if he was moving while talking. “I’m in the lab right now, I really can’t–”
“Something happened,” Dunk interrupted.
The urgency in his voice made Valarr stop speaking immediately.
“What happened?” Valarr asked, sharper now.
“It’s Daeron,” Dunk said. “He overdosed. “
There was a brief, stunned silence on the other end of the line.
Then Valarr spoke again, slower.
“Is he alive?”
“They are still doing resuscitation,” Dunk said.
Another silence followed.
Dunk could almost hear Valarr processing the information.
“Egg?” Valarr asked.
“The police are with him,” Dunk said. “He’s safe. Physically unharmed. He was the one who called emergency services.”
Valarr exhaled sharply.
“Good,” he said. Then, more firmly, “Listen to me.”
Dunk waited.
“I am in the university hospital building,” Valarr said. “I cannot leave the lab immediately, but I will go as soon as I can. You need to tell me exactly where Egg is.”
“Daeron’s apartment,” Dunk said. “The police are there with him.”
“Alright,” Valarr said. “I want you to go there if you can’t reach him by phone and make sure he doesn’t panic. But I will go to the apartment and pick him up if he is still there.”
His voice softened slightly.
“Stay with Daeron for now if you are allowed.”
“I will,” Dunk said.
“Call me if anything changes,” Valarr added. “Even the smallest thing.”
“I will.”
The call ended.
Dunk stood there for a moment, staring at the darkened phone screen before forcing himself to breathe slowly again.
After another few minutes, the door opened again.
This time the doctor’s expression was more guarded.
“We have restored cardiac activity,” the doctor said.
Dunk’s breath caught sharply.
“But the patient is not yet stable,” the doctor continued. “He will be transferred to intensive care once we are certain he can maintain adequate circulation without continuous intervention.”
Dunk nodded once.
His legs felt weak, but he did not sit down.
“Can I see him?” Dunk asked again.
“You must keep your voice low. He is still very fragile.”
Dunk exhaled slowly.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
Daeron survived.
The medical team worked for a long time before they finally allowed themselves to stabilize his condition, adjusting medication, ventilation support, and monitoring every vital parameter until his heart and lungs could sustain function without constant emergency intervention.
When the crisis phase passed, they transferred him to the intensive care unit.
He was breathing with assistance, but the rhythm of the monitor was steady enough that the doctors no longer spoke in the tense, rapid voices that meant someone was dying.
Dunk was allowed to stand beside the bed for a few minutes.
Daeron looked smaller than he had ever seen him.
His skin was pale under the ICU lighting, and there were tubes attached carefully to him, connecting him to machines that beeped quietly in a slow, measured rhythm. But his chest rose and fell.
Dunk felt the crushing pressure inside his chest loosen for the first time since the call had come.
He reached out very carefully and rested his hand near Daeron’s, not touching the medical lines, just close enough that if Daeron woke he would know someone was there.
“He will need time,” the doctor said quietly behind him. “But the prognosis is stable for now.”
Dunk nodded once.
“Thank you,” he said.
Dunk stepped out into the corridor and called Valarr as soon as he had a moment of calm.
The phone rang only twice before Valarr picked up.
“We’re on the way to the hospital,” Valarr said immediately, before Dunk could speak. “I found Egg. He was scared, but he is with me now.”
Dunk closed his eyes briefly in relief.
“Good,” he said. “How is he?”
“He cried for a while,” Valarr admitted. “He thought Daeron was dead.”
Dunk swallowed.
“He isn’t,” Dunk said. “Daeron is alive. Stable for now.”
There was a long, quiet exhale on the other end of the line.
“I told Egg that,” Valarr said. “But he wants to see him.”
“He can,” Dunk said. “When you arrive, I’ll speak with the staff.”
“Alright,” Valarr said. “We are about ten minutes away.”
The call ended.
Dunk took a moment before turning back toward the psychiatric unit where Aerion was staying. When he entered the room, Aerion was sitting upright on the bed, tears running silently down his pale face. He moved closer and sat down beside the bed.
“Daeron is alive. He survived.”
Aerion let out a broken, shaky breath that turned into quiet crying.
“I was so scared,” Aerion whispered.
Dunk did not speak immediately.
Instead, he carefully reached out and slowly, gently began to stroke Aerion’s hair.
“It’s okay,” Dunk said softly.
Aerion shook his head slightly.
“I can’t lose him,” Aerion said. “I can’t lose–.”
“You won’t,” Dunk said.
“Daeron is in intensive care,” Dunk continued quietly. “He is stable. The doctors are watching him.”
Aerion’s breathing slowly began to settle, though his eyes were still wet and exhausted.
“Promise?” Aerion asked.
“I promise I will tell you if anything changes,” Dunk said.
Aerion nodded very slightly.
Six hours had passed since the resuscitation had ended. The hospital had settled into the kind of quiet. Egg had been very quiet at first, clinging to Valarr’s hand as if afraid that letting go would make the world collapse again. Now they were sitting in the waiting area near the intensive care unit.
Meanwhile, the medical team had begun the slow process of waking Daeron from the sedated state they had kept him in after stabilizing his breathing and heart rhythm. The doctors explained that they were reducing the medication gradually. It would not be a sudden awakening.
Aerion Targaryen was sleeping.
The sedatives had taken him gently, pulling him into a rest that his exhausted mind and body clearly needed.
Dunk stood quietly for a moment beside the bed, making sure Aerion was breathing steadily before leaving.
Then he went downstairs.
The corridor leading to the ICU was dimmer, quieter, filled with the soft mechanical beeping of monitoring machines filtering through closed doors.
Valarr saw him first.
“How is Aerion?” Valarr asked immediately in a low voice.
“Asleep,” Dunk said. “He needed it.”
Valarr nodded once.
Egg was sitting beside him, small and tense, eyes red from crying earlier.
When he saw Dunk, he stood up quickly.
“Dunk,” Egg said.
Dunk crouched down slightly so he was closer to the boy’s height.
“He’s waking up,” Dunk said gently.
Egg’s breath caught. “Daeron?” he asked.
Dunk hesitated only for a moment.
“Yes,” he said gently. “They are starting to wake him.”
Egg’s eyes filled with tears again, but he did not cry loudly.
An hour passed in slow, careful medical time.
The monitors beside Daeron’s bed continued their steady, mechanical rhythm as the doctors gradually decreased the remaining sedative support.
Then there was a change. It was subtle at first. A shift in the pattern of his breathing. The faint movement of his fingers against the sheet. The neurologist spoke quietly, adjusting one of the IV lines while watching Daeron’s response carefully.
His face twitched faintly. Then his eyelids moved.
Daeron’s eyes were unfocused at first, drifting slightly under the harsh clinical lighting.
One of the doctors leaned closer and spoke softly.
“Daeron. Can you hear me?”
There was a long pause.
Then, very weakly, Daeron’s fingers moved again, curling slightly as if searching for something to hold.
His voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath.
“Egg?”
The word was slurred by exhaustion. Outside the glass, Egg pressed his hands against the window, eyes wide and wet.
“He’s awake,” Valarr whispered.
Dunk closed his eyes briefly in relief, feeling the tight knot inside his chest loosen just enough to let him breathe again.
The doctor glanced toward the window and then gave a small, controlled nod.
After confirming that Daeron’s vital signs were stable enough for a brief visit, he opened the door and allowed them inside, reminding them to keep their voices low.
Egg was the first to move.
He walked carefully, almost hesitantly, until he reached the side of Daeron’s bed.
Daeron’s eyes were half-lidded, tired and unfocused, but they shifted slowly when he noticed the people approaching him.
His long, messy blond hair lay tangled across the pillow, some strands sticking slightly to his pale, weakened face.
Then he spoke.
“I fucked up this time, didn’t I?”
“No,” Valarr Targaryen said gently. “You didn’t.”
Daeron’s eyes moved slowly toward him.
“I almost died,” Daeron said.
“But you didn’t,” Valarr replied immediately, firmly but softly. “You are here. You are safe now.”
Daeron’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“I don’t remember what happened,” he whispered.
“You took medication and alcohol together accidentally,” Valarr said. “ It was an accident.”
Daeron closed his eyes briefly.
“Is it now?” he asked, then laughed.
“Everything is going to be okay now.” said Valarr, ignoring what Daeron said.
Egg climbed carefully onto the edge of the chair beside the bed and reached for Daeron’s hand, very gently, as if afraid he might break his brother if he touched him too hard.
Daeron’s fingers twitched slightly and slowly closed around Egg’s smaller hand.
“I’m sorry buddy. I failed you. “
Egg shook his head immediately, tears gathering in his eyes.
“You didn’t fail me,” Egg said, voice trembling.
“I was supposed to take care of you,” he whispered.
“You do,” Egg said. “You always do.”
Valarr stood quietly beside the bed, watching them with a soft, tired sadness in his eyes.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be a good brother,” Valarr said gently.
Daeron closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly through the oxygen support tube.
“I was scared,” Daeron admitted after a long silence.
“Of what?” Egg asked softly.
“Of being alone inside my head,” Daeron said. “It feels like… sometimes it gets too loud and I can’t think properly and I don’t know who I am supposed to be.”
Egg squeezed his hand tighter, though very carefully.
“I was scared too,” Egg said.
Daeron’s lips moved slightly in something that was almost a smile but not quite strong enough to fully form.
“I am trying,” Daeron said again, the same words he had spoken so many times before, but this time they sounded less like a defense and more like a quiet vow.
“We know,” Valarr said.
The hospital room door opened quietly, and Aerion stepped inside wearing a loose hospital robe and slippers that were clearly not meant for walking far.
Dunk noticed him almost immediately.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Dunk said, moving toward him quickly. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be walking around yet.”
Aerion lifted one finger slightly.
“Hush,” Aerion said softly.
Then he walked past Dunk and went toward the bed where Daeron was lying. Daeron turned his head slowly when he saw him. There was a long, tense silence. Then Daeron spoke first.
“I know what you did,” Daeron said quietly.
Aerion did not ask how he knew.
“You don’t get to leave me here,” Aerion said simply.
His voice was very tired, but there was a stubborn, desperate certainty underneath it. Daeron let out a short, breathy laugh.
“Because you get to leave me huh?” Daeron said.
“Who just got resuscitated Daeron?”
Aerion stood beside the bed for a moment, looking at him.
Then very carefully he reached out and touched Daeron’s hair, pushing one messy strand away from his face with the kind of gentleness that did not match the storm inside his own head.
Neither of them said anything else.
The next day, the doctors decided that Aerion was medically stable enough to be discharged, but only under strict conditions.
The agreement was very clear.
He could go home only if Dunk accepted legal and practical responsibility for his continuous supervision.
It was written into the discharge plan that Aerion would remain under close, personal monitoring, meaning he should not be left alone for extended periods. Medication adherence had to be strictly followed, alcohol was absolutely prohibited, and any sign of suicidal ideation or behavioral deterioration required immediate return to the psychiatric facility.
The psychiatrist spoke calmly but firmly when explaining it.
“This is not punishment,” he said. “This is risk management for your safety.”
Aerion did not argue. He looked exhausted and he couldn’t give a fuck.
“If anything happens,” the doctor added, looking directly at Dunk, “you bring him back immediately.”
“I understand,” Dunk said.
When they left the hospital building, the air outside felt strangely too open after the sterile confinement of the wards.
Aerion walked slightly closer to Dunk than usual, as if subconsciously making sure he was still within the protective boundary of someone who would not let him fall again. Neither of them spoke for a long time. The car had barely pulled away from the hospital entrance when Aerion’s breathing changed. At first it was just faster, uneven, like the beginning of a panic storm trying to build inside his chest.
“Fuck this shit.”
The words were sharp. Dunk glanced at him quickly.
“Aerion–”
“I hate this,” Aerion said. “I hate the hospital. I hate feeling like I’m broken. I hate needing people to watch me like I might disappear if they blink.”
His hands moved once, frustrated, gripping the edge of the seat.
“I am tired of being afraid inside my own fucking head.”
Dunk said nothing immediately. He knew this kind of crash-out was not really anger. Aerion turned his head slowly. And then he looked directly into Dunk’s eyes. For a moment the car was completely silent except for the sound of the engine and their breathing.
Then Aerion leaned closer and kissed him. The movement was sudden but not violent
Dunk froze.
His eyes widened slightly in clear, stunned surprise, heart jumping once sharply inside his chest as his brain tried to process what was happening.
Aerion did not pull away immediately. Aerion’s expression shifted slightly after the kiss, something restless and vulnerable still lingering in his eyes.
“I missed sex,” he said suddenly. “Can we do it now?”
Dunk’s reaction was immediate.
“No,” he said quickly.
“Why not?”
Dunk reached slowly and placed a hand lightly on Aerion’s arm, grounding both of them.
“Because you need to calm down first,” Dunk said. “And because yesterday you tried to end your life.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I’m not going to break if we–”
“I know,” Dunk interrupted gently. “But this isn’t about whether you can. It’s about whether you should right now.”
He paused, searching for the right words.
“You are still coming out of a medical crisis,” Dunk continued. “Your brain and your emotions are exhausted. ”
Aerion looked away for a moment.
“God you sound awful. “
Dunk blinked.
“What?”
“You sound like one of those careful, overly rational doctors who talk to you like you are made of glass,” Aerion said. His voice was sharper now, frustration bleeding back in. “Like I’m some fragile patient who can’t decide anything for himself.”
Dunk’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.
“I am trying not to let you hurt yourself again,” Dunk said.
“I know that,” Aerion said immediately. “But you don’t have to talk to me like I’m already dead.”
The words hung in the air inside the car. Dunk exhaled slowly.
“I am not talking to you like you are dead,” he said. “I am talking to you like someone who almost died yesterday.”
Aerion’s jaw clenched.
“So I’m supposed to just sit here and be treated like a broken thing?”
“You are supposed to heal,” Dunk said quietly. “There is a difference.”
“Yeah? It doesn’t feel like it.”
Aerion turned his head slightly toward the window.
“I hate this,” he said after a moment. “I hate feeling weak.”
“I know,” Dunk said.
“I don’t want to need supervision.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be the kind of person who needs someone watching him so he doesn’t try to kill himself. You know what?” he said. “This is your fault.”
“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.
“You act like you are perfect,” Aerion said. “Like you always know exactly what to say, exactly how to behave, exactly how to keep everything under control.”
Dunk frowned.
“I am not perfect.”
“You make me feel like I am the broken one in this relationship,” Aerion said. “Like I am the only problem.”
“That is not true,” Dunk said immediately.
Aerion laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“Oh, come on. You talk like that because you think being calm and rational makes you morally superior.”
Dunk’s chest tightened.
“I am trying to keep you alive,” Dunk said.
“And I am trying to live,” Aerion snapped.
Dunk inhaled slowly.
“This is about the fact that you tried to kill yourself yesterday.”
Aerion’s expression cracked slightly.
“And now you are making it sound like my fault,” Aerion said quietly.
“Not everything is someone’s fault,” Dunk said.
“Oh really?” Aerion said. “Because you keep saying I need supervision. That sounds very much like ‘you are dangerous’.”
“You were dangerous to yourself,” Dunk said.
“Exactly,” Aerion said bitterly. “See? That is the problem.”
He leaned back against the seat.
“You know what hurts the most?” Aerion said after a moment. “You being so calm about it.”
Dunk did not answer.
“Aerion,” he said, voice low but sharper than before. “You are just making this up.”
Aerion’s head turned slowly toward him.
“What?”
“You are twisting everything I say into something malicious,” Dunk continued. “I am trying to keep you alive. That is not emotional control. That is not moral superiority. That is fear.”
Aerion’s eyes darkened slightly.
“I am not making it up,” Aerion said.
“You are, –” Dunk said. “Your brain is exhausted. You are projecting hostility onto me because you feel vulnerable.”
Aerion suddenly sat up straighter, voice rising.
“Stop talking like a fuckin’ textbook,” he said loudly.
The words were sharp, almost desperate.
Then, after a second, his voice changed again.
“Hey,” Aerion said more quietly. “How is the real Dunk? Duncan the Tall? The one I used to hear about when I was younger?”
Dunk frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
“Because sometimes it feels like he is gone,” Aerion said. “Like everything got worse after we grew up. Like things were better when we were younger.”
His breathing became uneven.
Then his hands moved to his hair.
At first it was just gripping the strands tightly, fingers trembling as if trying to anchor himself in something physical.
“I’m sorry,” Aerion said suddenly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
His voice cracked.
Dunk reacted immediately, reaching over and gently but firmly taking Aerion’s wrists before he could pull his hair hard enough to hurt himself.
“Aerion, stop,” Dunk said quietly but urgently. “Hey. Look at me.”
Aerion’s eyes were wide and wet.
“I’m sorry,” Aerion repeated, voice shaking. “I don’t want to be like this!”
When they reached home, Dunk parked the car and walked around to open the passenger door for Aerion. His eyes were red, his hair messy from when he had almost pulled at it earlier. Neither of them spoke while walking inside. The apartment felt strangely quiet after the hospital noise. Dunk checked the locks automatically, like a habit formed from fear he did not want to name.
Then he went to the bedroom. Aerion followed him. When they got to the bed, Dunk sat down first and waited. Aerion hesitated for a moment, then climbed onto the mattress and moved closer, settling beside him under the blanket.
For a few seconds neither of them said anything. Then Aerion leaned in carefully, resting his head against Dunk’s chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat like it was something he needed to confirm was still real. Dunk lifted one arm and wrapped it gently around Aerion’s shoulders.