Chapter Text
Dunk stared at the crinkled paper, mouth slightly ajar. A bold red F bled into the top right corner of his midterm results, not ink, but a wound, bright and unapologetic. It sat there like a verdict.
He wasn't a bright man. Never had been, but he was stubborn, the kind of stubborn that built passing grades out of late nights and grit-teeth determination. He dragged credits over the finish line by their heels; usually, that was enough.
Not lately.
His grades are slipping, the possibility of repeating not only this course but others are looming over him like a slow-moving storm. He scrubbed a hand down his face, as if he could wipe the mark from existence. His glasses slipped from his nose and clattered to the floor.
"fuck..."
He bent to retrieve them, misjudged the height of the desk and cracked his head against the cheap plywood with a dull thunk. A low growl rumbled from his chest, more wounded pride than pain.
"It's not that bad, mate... just need to do well on the next few ones" Raymun, a good friend of Dunk's, lightly patted the giant's back in an awkward but somehow reassuring way. "Remember my cousin? totally flunked his third year. But hey... he's getting there".
Dunk looked down at the smaller man, taking in the awkward tilt of his smile. "Didn't that cousin drop out in the end, and your family went ballistic?" Dunk muttered, his Irish accent thickening with irritation. He dropped the paper on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "I dunno man, between these grades, rugby picking back up again and rent still due", he let out a sharp huff ", don't think I'm gonna make it up this time, and I don't know what the old man's gonna think". His fingers found the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric. a childhood habit he'd never quite shaken. A telltale sign. A crack in his armour.
"Get a tutor then, might be a hot lassie too," Raymun expressed with a slight huff and a wiggle of his eyebrows. Dunk didn't really understand Raymun's fascination with girls; he, like every man, gets urges, but his mind wanders to... other ways of relieving himself. He just assumed he was wired differently, but it didn't change the fact that it felt good, though.
"With what money, you daft man? " Dunk groaned, sinking down his chair, "besides don't have time for a girl" nor even wanting to be with a girl to begin with. Above them, the fluorescent light buzzed faintly, indifferent. The two men fell silent as students in the class laughed and compared marks, their relief and triumph weaving through the room.
Self-pity was a language and Dunk spoke it fluently.
Raymun leaned back, shaking his head at Dunk’s dramatics. “Ah, come on. You spend half your time moaning and the other half staring at the ceiling. Bet you could scrape together a few quid if you actually tried". Raymun twisted towards Dunk, "or you could pick up another job, you know, some extra cash and BAM, problem solved"
Dunk let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers. He had thought about getting another job, but time was thin as it was and he had a talent for clumsiness that tended to unnerve employers. He was frustrated; it wasn't as if he wanted to fail at classes, at rugby, at adulthood. It was just... a bad time in his life.
He dragged a hand through his dirty blonde hair, now shaggy and overgrown. The old man hadn't cut it in months.
"Alright then," Raymun began again, taking Dunk's silence as his oncoming defeat. "A side Hussle... like mowing lawns or babysitting. Those kinds of jobs. easy cash, early mornings or late nights" Raymun, for once, proposed a thoughtful solution to Dunk's triad of slightly annoying problems. "It would allow you to earn money while still keeping up with rugby or studying", he added, leaning back in his chair, a smug grin covered his face. He basked in the look of contemplation and mild despair on Dunk's large, hunched frame.
"That... could actually work"
Dunk would have to look for a position; the large common area stairwell usually had job postings of questionable origin, some oddly specific requests, and a sprinkling of club or hookup ads. There had to be something there. something that didn't require charm or finesse.
"I guess I could give it a shot, doesn't hurt to try" He rubbed his chin, feeling the rough stubble returning from his shave that morning.
"That's the idea, man, keep working towards the end of the semester, you'll get through it" Raymun clapped his back, wincing slightly as Dunk’s sinewy muscles did more damage to his hand than the slap ever could, yanking his hand away quickly.
With a determined look, Dunk packed his bag, carefully placing his glasses in their case. Between the countless times he’d lost them over the years and the clout in the ear he took from his adoptive grandfather, it's safe to say he has learnt his lesson. "I'll catch you later, Raymun.. thanks" He claps him on the shoulder, parting ways from the wincing man before heading off to see if any job listing tickles his fancy.
"Do you understand me, boy!"
The voice belted through the large study, absorbing the sound without flinching. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, heavy with philosophy, leather-bound classics and meticulously organised business journals. Not a single object sat out of place. No colour disrupted the dark mahogany austerity. Even the air felt curated.
Maekar Targaryen likes order. In his study. In his home. In his bloodline. A standard he had drilled into his sons from a young age
"Yes, Father," Aerion answered, submissive in the ire of his father's wrath. He had endured variations of this lecture before, but this time the air felt... sharper. One minor scandal, a careless indulgence and now the blade had come down.
"Between my eldest sons," Maekar continued, fury coiling in his words, "one being a fool and a drunk, the other is hotheaded, vicious and a whore of a son. Your duty was to be here, watching Aegon! and instead, you partied and dallied, dragging our name in the mud!" his anger was palatable, it could almost be cut with a knife. "No more of this. No more dalliances, no more parties, no more running around like there aren't any consequences. Fix yourself, or you are out of this house, permanently".
"Yes, father", Aerion ground out. He stood perfectly still, eyes trained on the polished hardwood floor. His back was straight, shoulders squared, suit immaculate and his silver-gold hair coiffed to perfection. He was the picture of impeccable pedigree and restraint. Only the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "I will take your words into account"
"You will do more than that," Maekar said, voice colder now. "It seems I've been soft on you. You don't know hardships. nothing of working for things you are given. So, on top of barring you from your usual... entertainment. I want you to find a productive, well-placed position or charitable position that shines favourably on your character and on the Targaryen name" Maekar didn't kid around with his children. With his late wife's passing, he took it upon himself to make sure his children turned out... reasonably respectable of the Targaryen name. He failed with the first two, was successful with the third in an academic sense and the fourth well... he couldn't really be sure.
Charity.
Aerion blinked.
No drinking. No parties. No sex and now what? philanthropy!
The absurdity almost made him laugh.
He was a Targaryen. British elite. Six centuries of lineage woven into his surname. Generations of power, influence, quiet dominance and now he was to become some smiling benefactor, shaking hands with commoners?
"Father, you can't be serious", Aerion protested, voice sharp "I have studying to do... and what if I have to look after Aegon?" Of course, he never would look after that creature willingly, but it was a well-placed argument. "If I did do some charitable act as you have asked, it would be a distraction from my academics. "Father, please." It was a bit pathetic to beg his father, but he would fold soon enough; he always did.
The cold silence that followed gave Aerion his answer.
Maeker Targaryen would not budge on his decision; Aerion had to become a beggar of some sort, helping the helpless and being... kind about it. A ridiculous notion for him to even think about.
"You are excused, Aerion. I expect something worthwhile in the next report," Maekar cooly proclaimed, clearly halting the conversation and ending Aerion's little spat.
Aerion, whose composer finally snapped, stomped off huffing about his father's absurdity and how unfair it was. truly brat-like behaviour.
He felt his face heat up with anger and embarrassment at the way that meeting went. His father was an ice wall; he felt as though pleasure and enjoyment were things for lesser men. Aerion, ever slightly hypocritically, agreed with his father but only in part. Berating others remained his sport, helping him blow off steam. If he couldn't fuck or drink, he would be cruel, his father didn't forbid that at least.
Dunk's search for a job had reached a quiet, humiliating dead end.
The stairwell in the common area that funnelled into the library was a popular thoroughfare for most commuters, staff, and students. It often had a constant tide of chatter and footsteps, but at dusk it was awkwardly quiet. The corkboards lining the stairwell were half-stripped of opportunity, sporting overlapping posters, societies recruiting members, and brightly coloured leaflets for themed pub crawls and questionable "networking events". A handful of hookup ads littered the board, often lurking at the end or in a corner, each featuring increasingly suspicious imagery.
Dunk looked.
Dunk fled.
His ears had burned for a full minute afterwards.
Jobs on the other end turned up nought. A tutoring gig already filled, a casual nighttime cafe position "seeking experienced baristas," a dog-walking ad torn in half, phone number missing.
Nothing that paid well. Nothing that fit well around his already increasingly tight schedule. Nothing that didn't require charm, he wasn't sure he possessed.
What the hell was he gonna do?
With a tired exhale, Dunk lowered himself on the cold concrete stairwell steps. The chill seeps through his jeans instantly, not uncommon for November. It was unpleasant. Outside of the hulking university building, dusk began to gather slowly, bleeding orange and bruised violet across the sky. The last few students on campus flickered past, laughing with friends or simply minding their business.
The commute home was short. He could leave, try again tomorrow. The weight in his limbs answered otherwise, making standing even an effort.
"Well, well, well... if it isn't my little Dunkie." The voice rolled down the stairwell like a distant storm. Dunk startled, dragging himself from his thoughts. He tilted his head back, something he rarely had to do. Framed against the dimming light stood Lyonel Baratheon in all his broad-shouldered confidence. A familiar shit-eating grin stretched across his face, pearly teeth flashing with unapologetic mischief.
He was older. sharper. self-assured in a way Dunk had never quite managed.
Lyonel frequented the library while studying for the bar exam. Through a string of accidental encounters, most of them caused by Dunk's inability to blend into any environment, the two had formed an unlikely friendship. Lyonel claimed he simply kept "running into the great oak of a man". Dunk suspected he was just impossible to miss.
"Cat got your tongue." Lyonel drawled, descending the steps, two at a time. " Or are you just slow today?"
He dropped down beside Dunk with casual ease, long legs stretching out across the step below.
"Nah..." Dunk muttered, staring down at his hands, "was just hoping the boards might cough up something decent." His fingers found the hem of his shirt again, twisting the fabric tight, "but it seems no one's in need of a giant who can barely balance his own schedule."
He let out a breath that felt heavier than it should have.
Usually, his face carried a faint brightness. An easy, slightly aloof warmth that made people comfortable, laughter came naturally to him and those in his company. Tonight, it had dimmed. His shoulders curved inward, as if trying to make himself smaller against the concrete.
"What am I supposed to do, Lyonel?" Dunk's voice cracked despite his effort to keep steady "I can't afford to fail another test and coach is practically waiting for me to slip up. Don't even get me started with the fish 'n' chip shop, my boss is this close to firing me" He demonstrated with a tight pinch of his fingers, holding them barely a breath apart.
"Raymun finally gave me a decent suggestion, an actual solution and I can't manage that properly" He exhaled sharply. The sound grated against his own ears, thin, almost petulant. He hated it. He hated sounding like a child who couldn't keep up.
"What's this about, exactly?" Lyonel asked, brow lifting. There was a curiosity there but no mockery. He leaned back slightly, pressing further on the cold steps. He studied dunk whilst he fidgeted, never being able to sit still.
Dunk scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Shit. Sorry, man. You're probably busy with other stuff and here I am rambling over nonsense."
Heat crept up his throat, staining his ears. Lyonel was composed in a way Dunk admired, of course; once he had a few too many drinks, that admiration dropped away pretty quickly, replaced instead with his own foolish foot stomping and gaudy shouting.
"Hey." Lyonel nudged his knee lightly against Dunk's. "I don't mind, you've clearly got something chewing at you. speak your truth." A grin tugged at his lips, "Then we'll go drinking."
The mere mention of it made Lyonel's eyes brighten, like a man already picturing the first pour. His attention could only hold on for so long before drifting toward his favourite vices.
Dunk hesitated, then pushed forward.
"Right. I'm short on cash. Behind on bills and I need a tutor if I'm going to drag these grades up." He flexed his hands restlessly against his thighs. "I don't have time for another full-time job. I was hoping for something... small. A side hustle. That's what Raymun said." He sounded younger when he admitted it. smaller. It unsettled him.
Lyonel hummed thoughtfully, gaze sharpening.
"Funny you mention that." He shifted, resting his forearms on his knees. "A friend of mine has a brother in a bit of a pickle. He needs someone to look after his kid, pays well, a cash-in-hand sort of arrangement."
Dunk blinked
Dunk's face lit up so suddenly it was almost painful to watch. Hope transformed him, straightened his spine, pulled the slump from his shoulders.
"Really?" he breathed. "Man, that'd be... That'd be brilliant. I owe you big time." Without thinking, he clapped Lyonel on the back.
Hard.
Lyonel lurched forward with a sharp shout. "Christ, are you trying to collapse my lungs?"
He swatted Dunk's hand away, shaking out his arm. "Yeah, alright. You're welcome, just buy me a few drinks and we'll call it even, yeah?"
"Deal"
Lyonel Baratheon knew how to party.
By the time Dunk finally reached his studio apartment on the east side of London, the night had soured into something quieter, heavier. The buzz of alcohol had faded, leaving behind a dull ache behind his eyes and the faint ringing of laughter that no longer felt funny.
The hallway outside his flat smelled faintly of damp carpet and burnt toast.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The first thing that greeted him was the stack of envelopes shoved on top of the hallway table. Harsh red stamps littered the paper. OVERDUE screamed across each one. He stared at them for a moment, choosing to ignore them for now. It wasn't like he could pay them off now.
The apartment itself sagged with neglect. The ceiling bore faint brown water stains that spread like continents across a peeling map. Mould gathered in the corners, creeping along the edges of the room in quiet conquest. The windowsills sweated with constant condensation, the glass rattling whenever a bus roared past outside.
It was shoddy. Dingy. Cold in ways that had nothing to do with temperature, but it was his, for now.
Dunk dropped his bag onto the lone chair and stood still in the centre of the room, listening to the hum of the tiny refrigerator and the distant sirens wailing somewhere deeper in the city. London never truly slept; it simply shifted restlessly.
He missed Ireland, not just the place, but the feeling of it.
The little farmhouse tucked beside his grandfather's workshop, the steady clang of iron striking iron. The rhythmic scrape of carving tools against wood as the old man whittled something beautiful from something ordinary. The tiny village nestled in the heart of Ireland smelled of fresh-cut grass, livestock and the earth carried on damp air.
Most city folk would wrinkle their noses at that scent.
To Dunk, it was a memory. It was summer evenings chasing chickens from the vegetable patch. It was wobbling down the dirt path on a too-big bicycle before careening straight into a patch of stinging nettles, shrieking as his grandfather barked with laughter from the doorway. It was the sharp sting of slicing his finger while learning to whittle, blood welling bright, followed by a clout to the ear for being careless.
It was warmth, even in reprimand.
He didn't remember his parents clearly, their faces blurred by time but sometimes the smell of cut grass or rain on soil would drag something loose inside him. A flash of a hand on his shoulder. A voice, bright and familiar. The feeling of being small and safe.
The city had no such scent. London smelled of petrol and wet pavement, of other people's cooking bleeding through thin walls, something always slightly rotting beneath the surface.
Dunk ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and let out a slow breath. He should visit soon. Make sure the old man was still kicking, still hammering iron into shape with stubborn hands. Maybe over the Christmas break. If he could afford the ticket. If he wasn't drowning in retakes. if the fish 'n' chip shop hadn't replaced him by then.
He bent at last and picked up the letters.
The red ink felt heavier now.
When Dunk woke the next morning, it was to the shrill vibration of his phone skittering across the bedside table. He groaned, blinking into the pale grey light filtering through thin curtains. His head still throbbed faintly from the night before, for a moment he considered ignoring it.
Then he saw the notifications.
Unknown number. One voicemail. One text.
His stomach tightened.
He opened the message first,
This is Maekar Targaryen. Lyonel informed me you are experienced with children and available to look after my youngest son. Respond at your earliest convenience.
The text was polite. Precise. Immaculate.
Dunk sat up so quickly the room tilted.
"Lyonel, you mad bastard," he muttered. Lyonel had obviously lied to this friend of his, who was experienced with children. Was he mad? Actually, he already knew that.
Targaryen.
The name tugged something in his memory: Newspaper headlines? Old money? Politics? Something powerful, but the rush of adrenaline drowned the thought before he could pin it down.
He scrubbed his hand over his face
I should call him back. Yeah, that's smart. Don't overthink it.
He hit dial. The ringing filled the tiny flat, bouncing off mould-stained walls and the hum of the fridge. Each tone stretched longer than the last.
Then the line clicked.
"Maekar Targaryen speaking."
The voice was deep, unmistakably upper-class. The kind of voice that didn't ask twice, Dunk swallowed.
"Oh, hello, sir. This is Duncan. Duncan Pennytree, Lyonel mentioned me... for the babysitting position." His Irish accent thickened under pressure, vowels rounder, rougher against the older man's clipped precision.
A pause.
"Ah. Yes." Paper shuffled faintly on the other end. "I am rather pressed for time, so I shall be direct. Thirty pounds an hour, beginning this evening. Does that suit you?"
Silence swallowed Dunk whole.
thirty.
Pounds.
An.
Hour.
For a moment, his brain stopped functioning. That was more than double what he made smelling of fryer oil and vinegar.