Chapter Text
The tiny café smelt of bacon grease and bad coffee. It took Dunk a moment to spot Inspector Tanselle, face partially concealed beneath a black baseball cap. He’d never seen her in casual clothes. She smiled as he approached and took a seat opposite. Dunk leaned an elbow against the table and fiddled absently with the sugar packet.
‘I’m in,’ he finally said and felt a hot tight bubble expand in his stomach at the thought.
Tanselle glanced around the café before she leaned in, but there was no one near them, just one old man in the corner reading The Sun newspaper.
‘Now are you sure you understand?’
Dunk nodded. ‘Of course.’
They’d been through it a million times. Gather evidence. Make friends. Don’t be-
‘A twat, yes I know,’ huffed Dunk as Tanselle leaned in to fix the collar of the blue shirt he was wearing ‘Don’t stare. Don’t-don’t linger, just-‘
Inspector Tanselle smiled. ‘Just be yourself Dunk. You know everyone loves you.’
Dunk felt his face slowly turning red. He picked at the ketchup bottle before he realised what he was doing and stopped. ‘Oh I dunno about that.’
‘Now remember this will be the last time we see each other for quite a while. Only make contact if absolutely necessary. Understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am, of course,’ said Dunk, managing to meet her eyes and trying not to blush.
Tanselle rose, and gently pressed his shoulder. ‘See you at the other end of this, sergeant.’
The tall, dark bricked building was set slightly back from the street. It was notable only for how plain it was; the door black and blank. No numbers. No doorbell. Dunk felt in his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper again. This appeared to be it. Steeling himself he walked up the two well-scrubbed steps and banged the brass door knocker. For a long while nothing happened. A van drove by, and Dunk turned his back, pulling up the collar of his jacket. Somewhere a dog barked. And finally, the door slowly opened. An older woman in a pinafore peered out.
‘Deliveries go around the back,’ she said.
Dunk caught the door just as she was about to shut it. ‘Ah. No. I’m here to see Baelor. Baelor Targaryen, we spoke on the phone. I’m the new driver.’
The woman’s sparse eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. ‘Are you indeed.’ The door widened. ‘I suppose you better come in then.’
Dunk was led into a dark hallway, cluttered with hat racks and umbrella stands, the bottle green wallpaper oppressive. He briefly caught sight of himself in a spotted hallway mirror, wide eyed and badly dressed, dark circles under his eyes from tossing and turning half the night. The woman walked on ahead, shoes tapping on the parquet flooring and Dunk had to hurry after her. She led him to a cavernous kitchen that someone had sploshed with rather too much terracotta paint.
‘Wait here, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived,’ she said, and then disappeared.
Not sure what else to do Dunk took a seat at a scratched oak table. Somewhere far away a heavy door slammed shut. He heard raised voices and stood, the chair scraping against the flagstones, but they moved away again. He jumped as the woman popped her head around the door.
‘He’ll see you.’
Baelor Targaryen was sitting behind an enormous mahogany desk but he rose as Dunk entered and held out a slim hand, bristling with rings. He was taller than Dunk had expected, broad shoulders filling out his black suit.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, settling back behind his desk after a brief handshake.
‘You too, sir,’ Dunk added, who wasn’t sure if he should sit or not. After a second’s pause he settled opposite, one thigh jumping before he caught himself.
Baelor noticed. ‘There’s no need to be nervous. I won’t bite. Now I’m sure you’ve heard what we do in this organisation.’
Dunk cleared his throat. ‘Uh. Only rumours sir.’
Baelor didn’t smile. From what Dunk had heard he never did, but he nodded, rolling one of rings around and round. His eyes, one purple and one dark, found his. Dunk felt a flicker of something, what he wasn’t sure, slide cold down his spine. Baelor spoke slowly, every word considered as it passed over his tongue.
‘If I hire you, you know enough I’m sure to never speak of what goes on in my organisation.’
Dunk fervently nodded. ‘Yes sir. Of course.’
Baelor nodded again. He suddenly stood up. ‘Then let’s have lunch.’
Dunk thought he had misheard. He blinked. ‘Excuse me, sir?’
‘It’s 1pm. Time for lunch.’
He strode smartly from the room and Dunk quickly got up and lurched after him.
They retreated to the terracotta kitchen and Dunk stood and watched, mouth slightly ajar as Baelor rootled through an oversized refrigerator.
‘Is chicken okay with you?’ he said.
For a second Dunk struggled to speak. ‘Should-should I do that, sir?’ he said, leaping forward.
Baelor waved him away. ‘It’s no matter at all. Now we spoke on the phone about room and board.’ Here he eyed Dunk. ‘I will of course provide you with a uniform, and a weapon.’
Dunk nodded.
‘Do you know how to shoot?’ continued Baelor, pulling a loaf from the bread bin, which was patterned with hens.
‘Yes sir,’ replied Dunk. ‘I told you I used to hunt. With my uncle.’
The bread bin matched the tiles, Dunk vaguely registered. In fact now he was looking properly he could see all sorts of poultry based prints, from the crockery to a rack of mugs above. The butter dish had a pattern of tiny chicks. He wondered if this had been purchased by Baelor himself. Surely not? He stood and stared at Baelor Targaryen, arguably the most powerful man in Westeros, standing in a chicken patterned kitchen and buttering bread. For him. He made a mental note to leave this out of his report. No one would ever believe him. Baelor nodded to one of the plates.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
Dunk immediately sat. He picked at the edge of the sandwich, waiting until Baelor sat opposite to take a bite. From somewhere deep in the house came a yell and a clatter.
‘You stupid boy!’ someone boomed, voice echoing.
Baelor calmly chewed his sandwich. ‘Ignore that,’ he said.
Dunk looked nervously to the door. He saw the handle turn and braced himself. A scowling, silver haired man burst into the room. Baelor kept chewing.
‘That boy will be the death of me,’ he groaned.
‘Have you said hello to our new driver?’ replied Baelor, ignoring the question entirely.
The man, Maekar, Dunk realised, threw a cursory glance his way, expression not changing, and then ignored him entirely, marching across the room and slamming a hand down on the table.
‘Aerion has got himself in trouble again.’
‘Again?’ replied Baelor, looking up at him. ‘He just attracts things to him like a magnet doesn’t he.’
Maekar grumbled something under his breath. ‘He got into another argument with Daeron again and he’s left him stranded outside the Golden Lion.’
‘What a pity,’ said Baelor, finally setting down his sandwich. ‘I suppose he’ll have to get a cab.’
Maekar growled something incomprehensible. Valyrian summarized Dunk. Baelor replied but spoke too fast for him to translate. He watched them arguing and wondered if it would be rude to eat his sandwich. Maekar suddenly swung around and jabbed a finger at him.
‘He can go.’
‘He is not trained,’ said Baelor.
Maekar leaned in, still glaring, purple eyes clashing horribly with the terracotta kitchen and making swear prickle across Dunk’s back. ‘Did Baelor explain to you your role here?’
‘Uh a bit,’ said Dunk, trying to hold eye contact and not look longingly at his chicken sandwich.
‘Then you can go and pick him up,’ hissed Maekar, shooting a look at Baelor like he dared him to say anything.
‘I-ah-‘ Dunk looked to Baelor, who slowly nodded. ‘Of course. Maekar. Sir.’
Maekar curled a lip. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘King’s Landing,’ said Baelor evenly. He felt in a pocket and slid something across the table. ‘The key to my car. It’s the black one. I’ll give you the code for the door too.’
Dunk nodded. He wasn’t sure what else he could say.
Dunk pulled up outside the club, neon lights spilling across the dark pavement. He peered at the crowds, searching for a light haired Targaryen but saw no one remotely close to that description, only a gaggle of young women in puffy skirts. He finally got out, slamming the door of the black Mercedes and marched across the road, pushing through a haze of tobacco smoke. A large, Dornish bodyguard raised his eyebrows at his approach.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ said Dunk. ‘I’m looking for Aerion Targaryen, has he been out here?’
The Dornishman frowned, brows knitting together. ‘The sulky blonde?‘ here he smirked. ‘Yeah we locked him in the back, he nearly took out someone’s eye.’
‘He what?’ said Dunk.
The Dornishman didn’t answer, but with a jerk of his head, beckoned Dunk to follow. They walked into the thrumming disco, pumping music thudding in Dunk’s chest. He was led down a corridor and shown to a room off to one side, the bouncer unlocking it and motioning for him to go through. A short, blonde man was sitting behind a desk, scowling. He was the very spit of his sire.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he snarled, as Dunk approached.
Dunk stalled, unsure if he should move closer. ‘I’m Duncan,’ he finally said. ‘I’m the new driver.’
Aerion curled a lip. ‘Like fuck you are.’
Dunk ran a hand through his hair, unsure what to do next. He looked back at the bouncer only to find he’d already vanished.
‘Baelor sent me,’ he tried, which only made Aerion roll his eyes and scoffed. ‘And your father,’ he added.
Aerion finally stood. ‘Do you have any idea who I am? And this who he sends? Some half-witted lunk? What are you, half giant?’
Dunk bristled. Who was some boy he’d just met to speak like that to him? He managed to swallow down his anger, but barely, feeling it simmer beneath his skin.
‘No, sir,’ he managed, feeling a heat simmer beneath his skin. ‘But I need to take you back home, your father is worried about you.’
Aerion let out a long breath. ‘And? I’m sure he was up to worse at my age. I’m going to get another drink.’
Dunk watched helplessly as he breezed past him. He trailed after him as he walked smartly across the dance floor, barging between dancing couples, and headed straight for the bar. His silver-blonde hair glimmered beneath the flashing lights. He stood there, as useful as a chocolate dragon, as Aerion ordered a double vodka, watched him down it, and order another.
‘I’m not sure your father-‘ he began and stopped as Aerion fixed him with a look, violet eyes hypnotic under the pink lights.
‘I don’t see what my father has to do with anything,’ he said, and took a gulp of his drink.
A couple pushed between the two of them, leaning over the bar and trying to get the bartender’s attention.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ said Aerion, glaring at them.
Dunk stood by uselessly, the lights were giving him a headache. His tongue was a slug in his mouth.
‘I think,’ he tried but it was no good.
He watched, feeling as though he were underwater, as Aerion grabbed for the man. There was a flash of metal, and a scream, and then there was blood blooming across the man’s shirt, dark beneath the dancing lights. Dunk grabbed for Aerion instinctively, grappling with his hands.
‘What the fuck are you doing?!’ he cried, and received a punch across the jaw before he could block.
He managed to catch hold of his wrists, squeezing until he dropped the pocket knife he was brandishing. Out the corner of his eye he saw the enormous bouncer from earlier approaching like a planet. He swung around to intercept and staggered from a punch to the jaw. Growling, he turned, blocking the next swing from Aerion, and threw one back, his fist crunching into the centre of his nose.
Oh. Oh no. He immediately stepped back, sensing his mistake as blood spurted from the other man’s face.
‘You!’ roared Aerion before he launched himself at him.
Fine. If that was how it was going to go. The next few moments were a blur of ragged breathing and a tangle of limbs until Dunk was grinding Aerion’s face against the bar top, blood plinking on the sticky floor.
‘Are you done?’ he snarled, feeling the other man’s skull in the palm of his hand and thinking how easily he could crush him. ‘Are you?’
Slowly Aerion nodded. Dunk finally released him. The other man straightened up, clinging to one of the bar stools and wiping at his streaming face.
‘We’re going, now,’ barked Dunk, and grabbed his collar before he could protest, and towed him to the door.
Aerion was silent on the way home, the orange glow of the street lamps sliding across his reddened face. At first Dunk was satisfied but then he began to worry. He’d just laid his hand on a Targaryen. Maekar’s son no less. As they pulled up outside the house he considered pushing Aerion out the car and leaving but after Aerion got out he slowly drove into the garage, taking his time parking and buffing at a tiny mark on the car’s bonnet, before he finally walked up the concrete steps and into the house, feeling like a man ascending the gallows.
Baelor was waiting for him. Dunk’s blood ran cold. How could he be so fucking stupid? He couldn’t meet his eyes, staring down at his hands instead. They were marred with Aerion’s blood and he quickly hid them behind his back.
‘My office, now,’ said Baelor, only he didn’t sound angry, merely resigned.
Dunk followed him down the long corridor. He was going to lose his job. He’d ruined the whole fucking operation because of his fucking temper. If the Targaryen’s didn’t kill him, Inspector Tanselle was going to finish him off.
Baelor leaned past him to shut the door and Dunk tensed.
‘Do not fear Duncan, I am not my brother’s son,’ said Baelor. ‘I hear there was an altercation in the bar. He tells me you laid your hands on him.’
Dunk dryly gulped. ‘I apologise,’ he mumbled, tongue slow in his mouth. ‘But he was carrying a knife. Sir.’
Baelor nodded and settled behind his desk. Dunk tensed as he opened a drawer, certain he was pulling out a gun, but he pulled out a packet of nicotine gum instead, and popped it into his mouth.
‘I though you knew what was expected of you,’ said Baelor, finally, as Dunk stood there, struggling to breathe. ‘Laying your hands on a member of this family is unacceptable.’
Dunk had nothing to say. He only nodded.
‘However,’ continued Baelor, still chewing. Dunk tried not to look at the flare of his jaw, and his cheekbones. ‘I can infer from what my nephew has told me that he was completely in the wrong. So from this moment on, Duncan-‘ here Dunk’s head snapped up. ‘You’re my man. Do you understand? I’m putting my neck on the line for you. My brother isn’t happy about this at all but I am going to vouch for you. Beginner’s enthusiasm shall we say, hm?’
Dunk fervently nodded, clawing back what little air was left in his lungs. ‘Oh. Thank you sir. I really appreciate your trust in me. I won’t let you down. I promise.’
‘Won’t you?’ said Baelor, a sharp glint in his mismatched eyes. He slid further from his desk, feet firmly planted. ‘Perhaps you should show me just how much you appreciate this second chance?’
Dunk blinked. Because surely he didn’t mean-? He looked at Baelor. Baelor looked back, handsome face completely impassive. The chilly air in the office seemed to thicken.
‘On your knees,’ said Baelor, every word treated like a drop of gold on his tongue, perfectly enunciated.
Dunk for a second, froze, like a fox in a steel sprung trap. Baelor Targayen, head of the most powerful gangster family in King’s Landing, possibly in all of the seven kingdoms, was asking this of him. Could he? Would he? What would the chief inspector say? As soon as the thought passed across the forefront of his mind he knew what the answer was. Do whatever it takes. He dropped to his knees, feeling his kneecaps grind into the Tyroshi woven rug.
For a long moment Baelor didn’t move. Dunk felt his face slowly redden. Had he misinterpreted? Seven help him, he’d absolutely get shot now. He braced himself, smudged hands scraping wetly across the rough denim of his jeans, eyes still fixed on Baelor. And then the other man rose, chair creaking. He walked around the edge of the enormous desk, steps unhurried, and stood over him. Dunk eyed his zip.
‘Can I count on you Dunk?’ said Baelor. ‘To do the right thing?’
Dunk nodded and reached for his fly. Baelor didn’t move as he carefully unzipped him, and reached inside. He was hard already, Dunk dimly registered. He was hard, for him, dark cock rising from a thatch of curling hair, thick and weighty, the head already wet. How long had he been hard for him? Since he’d walked in? Dunk shuffled closer, bones digging into the floor. He could feel his heart slamming up against his ribs. If he should do or say something wrong-
Leaning in he curled a tongue around the crown of Baelor’s straining cock and felt the other man jump. He needed no more encouragement. Hands gripping his suit trousers he opened his mouth, and felt the salted weight of the other man on his tongue. He began to suck with slow heavy pulls, and heard Baelor make a little sound. Not quite a whimper. No, Baelor Targaryen would never lower himself to make such a needy sound but it was something. The sound went right to his own cock, blood rushing down with a roar, and making him throb.
Dunk doubled his efforts, tongue gliding over the silky underside, swallowing him down with eager sucks. Baelor gripped the back of his head, fingers carding through the strands of his hair, and rocked into him. He was soon fucking his mouth in earnest, Dunk eagerly gulping. He huffed air, spittle sliding down his chin, his jaw aching, and tipped his head back, feeling Baelor’s cock knocking against his throat. He retched, eyes watering as he pushed into the hot tunnel of his convulsing throat. Trapped in his jeans his own cock gave a longing pulse. Dunk grabbed hold of the other man’s behind, still sucking, still gulping, lips pursed around his throbbing length.
Above him Baelor groaned. He looked down at him, mouth slightly parted, odd eyes blown wide, and his hips stuttered. A second later he was coming, spilling hot down his throat, and making Dunk gasp. His cock jumped, grating maddeningly against the hard denim of his jeans and before he could catch himself he was coming in sympathy, moaning around the other man in his mouth, eyes rolling back as he throbbed.
He came back to himself as Baelor pulled out, still dripping. Dunk reached down to adjust himself, cock twitching, his underwear sticky and uncomfortable. They stared at each other as Baelor tucked himself back in. Dunk was very aware of the ache in his knees and the cooling mess between his thighs.
‘Mrs Beaton will show you to your room on the second floor,’ said Baelor finally. ‘I believe she is currently preparing dinner.’
Was it Dunk’s imagination or was there a little shake to his voice? Surely not. He stood, wobbling slightly, not daring to grab the desk for support.
‘Yes sir,’ he said, voice rasping.
‘I will speak to my brother,’ said Baelor, and retreated back behind his desk without another word.
Dunk nodded, and headed through the door. He wasn’t putting this in his report either.