Chapter Text
Duncan Penytree had survived the gutters of Flea Bottom, which, in his professional estimation, ought to have provided a lifetime’s immunity against all remaining human horrors.
He had endured starvation. Knife fights over scraps of copper. Winters cold enough to freeze the marrow in his bones. He had bounced through foster homes and shelters and alleyways that smelled of piss and old regret. He had learned young that survival was half stubbornness and half knowing when to smile before throwing the first punch.
Marriage into the wealthiest, strangest, and most alarmingly silver-haired family in the known world, however, was proving to be an entirely different category of catastrophe.
The black limousine carrying him through the wrought-iron gates of Targaryen Manor felt less like transportation and more like a very expensive hearse.
“You look like you’re being escorted to your execution, darling,” Aerion observed, his thigh pressing firmly, deliberately against Duncan’s.
Duncan adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal suit and glared, though his gaze slipped inevitably to the way Aerion’s throat moved when he swallowed. “That’s because your family estate looks like evil inherited money became sentient.”
Aerion laughed, a low, melodic sound that vibrated right through Duncan’s hip. Gods, Duncan loved that sound. It always made him ache in places that had nothing to do with fear.
Aerion Brightflame Targaryen—youngest son of Maekar, corporate heir, professional menace, and the single most beautiful mistake Duncan had ever made—looked devastating tonight. His silver-gold hair fell in loose waves around his shoulders, his white suit tailored obscenely well against his slender frame.
He also looked nervous.
That was the troubling part. Nervous suggested the existence of something capable of frightening a Targaryen, and Duncan found that deeply unhelpful.
“You’re sure your family won’t murder me before the wedding?” Duncan asked, his hand finding the space between them, his fingers brushing the fine wool of Aerion’s trousers.
Aerion’s smile sharpened, his violet eyes hooded and heavy. “Before the wedding? Don’t be absurd. Grandmother says pre-ceremony bloodshed ruins the flowers.”
Duncan stared at him flatly. “That was a joke?”
“Mostly,” Aerion whispered, his gaze dropping to Duncan’s lips before darting back to the window.
The gates opened with a metallic groan, revealing Targaryen Manor. Not a home, but a fortress. A billionaire dragon cult compound perched on a cliffside overlooking black water and crashing waves.
Inside, the manor was a monument to dynastic ego. Marble floors, Valyrian steel, portraits of ancestors who radiated the energy of people who ruined lives for sport. And dragons. Dragons carved into staircases, woven into rugs, etched into ceilings. Duncan felt like he’d stumbled into a religion, one that demanded sacrifices.
The grand hall was overflowed by family members.The room quieted the second Duncan entered, the scrutiny hitting him like a physical blow. Cold. Clinical. Curious.
Beside him, Aerion slipped an arm through his, his palm hot against Duncan’s bicep. “You’re tense,” Aerion murmured, his voice a low caress meant only for Duncan.
“I’m being hunted for sport by your extended family.”
“They’re just curious.”
“One old woman just looked at me like she was estimating my market value.”
Aerion’s fingers tightened on his arm, a possessive squeeze. “That means she likes you.”
Duncan blinked. “Aerion, sweetheart, your family concerns me.”
Aerion laughed again, softer, his thumb tracing a rhythmic, soothing pattern on Duncan’s skin.
At the center of the room stood Daeron II Targaryen, radiating polished authority beside Myriah Martell-Targaryen, whose smile carried the dangerous warmth of a beautifully sharpened knife. And near them— Maekar Targaryen. If Daeron looked like a king, Maekar looked like the war that kept him on the throne. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black, he carried himself with the rigid stillness of a man who had spent his life mastering control. The silver streaking his dark hair only made him seem colder. Sharper. Beside Duncan, Aerion straightened instinctively. “Father,” he greeted carefully. “Aerion.” The single word carried enough frost to preserve a corpse. For a moment, Maekar said nothing else. His pale eyes moved slowly across Aerion’s face with unsettling intensity, as though checking for fractures beneath polished glass. Then his attention shifted toward Duncan. “So,” Maekar said evenly. “You are the mechanic.” Duncan blinked once. Then smiled. “I own the shop,” he corrected mildly. “I only crawl under the cars when my employees disappoint me.” Aerion made a quiet sound that was dangerously close to laughter. To Duncan’s surprise, the corner of Maekar’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly before flattening again. “You built the business yourself.” “Turns out people pay surprisingly well when you stop their engines exploding.” “Hm.” The hum somehow sounded judgmental. Duncan folded his arms loosely. “That was a compliment where I come from, by the way.” Aerion’s fingers tightened around Duncan’s arm. “Duncan,” he warned softly, though amusement flickered briefly across his face. “Aerion always did prefer difficult things,” Maekar murmured. Aerion stiffened instantly. “Father.” Maekar ignored the warning in his son’s voice. “Your uncle Baelor arrived an hour ago,” he continued calmly. “Valarr and Matarys came with him. Your sisters should arrive before midnight, and Aemon and Aegon are already asking when they may see you.” For the first time all evening, something genuinely soft flickered across Aerion’s face. “I’ll see them after dinner,” he said quietly. Maekar gave a single nod. Then: “Your grandfather is asking for you.” Everything in Aerion seemed to tighten at once. Duncan felt it immediately. The subtle tension in his shoulders. The sudden sharpness beneath his scent. Fear slipping through polished composure. Interesting. Maekar noticed Duncan noticing. “The entire family gathers for weddings,” Maekar said calmly, his pale gaze settling back on Duncan. “Tradition matters here.” Something about the way he said it made Duncan’s instincts stir unpleasantly. “That sounds vaguely threatening when your family says it.” “Most things sound threatening when my family says them.” Before Duncan could answer, another voice interrupted smoothly. “Oh, marvelous,” Daeron announced, appearing beside them with a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. “The emotional repression has started early tonight.” Maekar closed his eyes briefly like a man reconsidering parenthood. “You’re drunk already.” “I’m preparing spiritually.” “You began preparing in the car.” “And yet,” Daeron said solemnly, throwing an arm around Duncan’s shoulders, “I remain the least tense person in this entire cursed bloodline.” Aerion laughed helplessly despite himself. Daeron looked Duncan up and down dramatically. “Aerion’s marrying a giant,” he declared. “This is already my favorite family event.” “You say that like previous Targaryen weddings ended badly,” Duncan replied. Silence stretched, heavy and immediate. Then Daeron barked out a loud laugh. “Oh, gods,” he wheezed. “Keep him.” Maekar looked at his son for one long, unreadable moment. Then quietly: “Do not disappear tonight.” The humor vanished from Aerion’s face instantly. Duncan felt the shift beside him like a sudden drop in temperature. Maekar’s gaze flicked once between them before he stepped away into the crowd, black silk disappearing among dragons and candlelight. Only after he vanished did Duncan glance sideways at Aerion. “…Well,” Duncan murmured. “That felt ominous.” Aerion stared after his father. “Yes,” he said softly. “It usually does.”
Dinner was extravagant, an exercise in economic violence. Aerion sat beside him the entire time, his presence a constant, feverish distraction.
His hand slid from Duncan’s wrist to his thigh beneath the tablecloth, fingers curling into the charcoal wool of his trousers, a silent, needy claim that stood in stark contrast to the polite chitchat.
Across the table, an ornate black-and-red box sat beneath a portrait of Aegon the Conqueror. It looked old. Intricate. Wrong.
“What’s in the box?” Duncan asked.
The table went dead silent. Aerion’s hand clamped down hard on Duncan’s thigh, his knuckles white, his grip bordering on painful.
“A family heirloom,” Daeron answered smoothly.
“That,” the drunk Daeron added, “is why none of us sleep properly before weddings.”
Aerion had gone pale. Duncan leaned in, his shoulder brushing Aerion’s, the scent of the man—expensive cedar and something darker, like ozone—clouding his senses. “Darling,” he murmured, his voice rough, “your entire family just reacted to that box like it contains nuclear launch codes.”
“It’s just tradition,” Aerion whispered, his hand sliding higher, searching, frantic.
“You’re overthinking it.”
“I don’t think I’m thinking about it enough.”
Aerion squeezed his hand, his eyes wide and pleading. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Duncan looked at him. At those frightened violet eyes, at the way his pulse throbbed in his throat. He was a fool. He was walking into a trap. But God help him, he was starving for this man.
“Yes.”
Aerion smiled, a fragile, broken thing.
Later, in the upper gallery, while thunder rattled the glass, Duncan found Aerion alone. He stood near the window, his cravat undone, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He looked exhausted, frayed at the edges.
“There you are,” Duncan murmured, closing the distance between them.
“Escaping,” Aerion said, his voice brittle. “From me?”
“From your family.”
Duncan stepped into his personal space, trapping him against the cold wall. The contrast was intoxicating—the freezing stone behind Aerion, the searing heat of his skin beneath Duncan’s hands.
“You’ve been acting strange all night,” Duncan said, his voice dropping an octave, rough with the desire he’d been suppressing since they left the city.
“I’m a Targaryen. Strange is our baseline.”
Duncan didn't let him retreat. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of Aerion’s head, pinning him there, enjoying the way Aerion’s breath hitched. “What exactly,” Duncan asked, his face inches from Aerion’s, “am I walking into tomorrow?”
Aerion’s composure cracked. Fear flashed, raw and naked, in his eyes.
Then, a bell tolled deep in the manor. The building groaned.
Aerion flinched, his eyes unfocused.
“The house just growled at me,” Duncan muttered, his gaze dropping to Aerion’s mouth.
“That’s dramatic, even for you.”
Duncan surged forward, capturing Aerion’s mouth in a kiss that tasted of desperation and expensive wine. It wasn't a soft, comforting kiss; it was a demand. Aerion made a strangled sound in his throat, his hands coming up to grip Duncan’s lapels, pulling him tighter, closer, until there wasn't a millimeter of air between their hardening bodies.
He kissed him like he was trying to exorcise the ghosts from the manor, like he was trying to mark his territory on skin that was already his.
One of Duncan’s hands slid down, fingers splaying across the small of Aerion’s back, pressing him harder against the wall. Aerion gasped against his lips, his hips bucking instinctively, a reflexive, needy movement that sent a jolt of pure lust straight to Duncan’s groin.
“I do love you,” Aerion whispered, his voice shattered, his lips swollen and wet against Duncan’s own.
Duncan rested his forehead against Aerion’s, his breathing ragged, his blood pounding in his ears. The manor groaned again, the machinery vibrating through the floorboards, through their heels, up their spines.
Duncan should have left. Every survival instinct he possessed was screaming for him to grab Aerion and run into the night.
Instead, he kissed his fiancé again, his hand sliding lower, slipping beneath the edge of Aerion’s jacket to find the curve of his waist, claiming what was his, regardless of the cost.
The wedding was tomorrow. And Duncan Penytree was already far too in love, and far too hard, to save himself.