Chapter Text
Dunk isn’t even certain how he ended up here.
Raymun has a special way of getting the two of them into places that they don’t belong. The problem is, he slips through the crowd unnoticed, slinking between grinding couples and dancing drunks, while Dunk, in all of his towering glory, sticks out like a sore thumb. And that’s the bit that usually gets them into trouble.
Tonight, Raymun had known the right name to get them past the surly bouncer, which is a miracle in its own right given the stark difference in the two of them and the rest of the crowd. Everywhere Dunk looks, guests are clad in leather and sparkles and harnesses and suits in various states of undress. Dunk is less bold in his choices, simple jeans that are a tad too short for his never-ending legs and a black t-shirt that definitely fit him better as a teenager. He just hunches his shoulders and wishes the ground would swallow him up to the knees, until he saw eye-to-eye with the average club-enjoyer.
He’s lost his friend at this point, scanning the sea of sweat and alcohol for the mousy brown top of his head. He’s not paying a semblance of attention to where he’s going, evidently, when he collides with a much smaller frame. He isn’t moving fast enough to knock the man on his arse, but his drink is past saving as it spills all over the front of his expensive-looking shirt. Dunk’s eyes go wide, heart hammering in his chest as the man turns hateful eyes onto him.
“Watch where you’re going, you useless oaf!” He exclaims, pulling the soaked shirt away from his sticky torso. The man has cropped hair, bleached to the root. Dunk swallows down his shame, and tries to salvage the situation.
“Pardon, sir, I didn’t mean to-“ He stutters, hands hovering helplessly in the air as he tries his best to make amends.
“Do you know who I am? How did you even get in here?” The man continues, face scornful and annoyed, as he takes in the giant picture that is Dunk. Swallowing the ball of lead in his throat, he scrambles to find the words, his boozed up brain failing him. The man doesn’t say anything else, disappearing into the crowd with a roll of his eyes. Dunk watches him as he makes his way to a bouncer on the outskirts of the club, pointing a long, manicured finger at Dunk as he spits venom to a fat, bald man in all black. Dunk panics, his search for Raymun igniting once again, as his time runs out for the night.
The bouncer begins to move towards him in the crowd, luckily for Dunk the crowd is moving with more fervor, like waves crashing over sandy beaches. The man gets lost instantly. Dunk continues his hunt, finding his way to the stage. He doesn’t take the steps up, simply stands by the railing hoping to hide amongst the elevated bodies.
Dunk plays the scene over and over again in his head, agonizing over what he did wrong in that interaction as he drinks and drinks. Might as well get caught up before he gets kicked to the curb. He vaguely thinks he recognized the man, but from where he is clueless. Before he can dwell on it too long, a hand is gripping his bicep, hard enough to leave bruises where fingers dig into his skin. It’s the bald man from before, the one who had been searching for him. He’s joined by two more men dressed in black, with equally bitter looks on their faces. Dunk’s luck had run out, and now he’s about to sour Raymun’s night by getting himself kicked out of the club.
“Who do you know here? The boss seems to think you’ve snuck in off the street. If that's so, we might have a problem here.” His voice is threatening, and Dunk wracks his brain for the name Raymun had given at the front door. The man’s stony eyes are drilling into Dunk, like he can read his mind. Like divine intervention, the name slots into the front of Dunk’s mind.
“Lyonel Baratheon.” He says with as much confidence as he can muster. The men level him with a look, and then burst out laughing. Dunk can see their lips hang open and their eyes crinkle, yet the sounds of their cackles are swallowed by the buzzing speakers to their left.
“Right. You know Lyonel Baratheon?” One of them says, too young and lanky to be any good of a bouncer, pimples dotting his cheeks underneath a pathetic excuse for a beard.
“That’s right.” Dunk draws up taller, shoulders back. Fake it until you make it, he tells himself like a mantra. Sneaking into enough clubs has taught him that rarely anybody will question confidence if it’s done right. The bouncers look unconvinced, and the grip tightens around his arm.
“Well, why don’t we go ask the man himself?” He offers, hauling Dunk off balance and around to the steps of the stage. Now you’ve done it, thick as a brick wall you are, Dunk thinks miserably, trying to stay upright as he’s dragged through the parting crowd. They go up past the stage, into an elevated suite cut off from the rest of the club by a red velvet rope. Past tables of beautiful women seated in sweaty laps, neat lines of white powder occupying the flat surfaces in front of them. Bottles look more expensive as they go back, back, until they reach a great purple couch, lined with multiple women and an important-looking man at the center. He sits along the velvet with each arm around a model with long legs. His unbuttoned shirt hangs open, exposing a field of black, wiry hair that covers the expanse of a lean, muscled chest. The man fixes the party’s arrival with a piercing set of hazel eyes, contrasted by a relaxed smile splitting his face in two.
He says something that Dunk misses, and after a while of back and forth with the bouncer, he’s shoved forward until he’s standing almost directly over the man. Dunk’s eyes focus on the large set of stag’s antlers seated crookedly in the man’s greying curls. He’s acutely aware of the man’s full attention boring into him.
“This guy says he knows you. We wanted to check with you.” Dunk’s skin is slick with sweat as he awaits his fate. He knows what comes next. He tries not to wear a guilty look on his face. The man, presumably Lyonel Baratheon himself, is looking at him like he has a puzzle on his forehead. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then, he whispers something in the woman’s ear next to him and she stands up, only looking minorly inconvenienced.
“I was wondering when you’d be showing up! Please, lad, take a seat.” The bouncers look as confused as Dunk feels. When they release their grip on him, he stumbles for a moment to find his bearings. He best not fuck this up, so he sits gingerly between the man and a woman clad in nothing but a tiny sheer dress, trying so hard to look like he belongs. “Thank you for bringing me my guest, gentlemen, I’m sure your service is needed elsewhere this evening.” The man waves a hand, and the bouncers are gone. Relief floods Dunk like a breaking dam.
“Thank you so much, sir, you didn’t need to lie on my accord.” Dunk tells the man gratefully, loosening the crushing grip on the empty plastic cup in his hand. Before he can even process the emptiness, the man is tipping a bottle of champagne over the rim, filling it with a bubbly gold liquid.
“Don’t fret, handsome, you’re the most interesting thing that has presented itself in this club so far! I couldn’t have them throwing you out in the cold.” Dunk flushes at the pleasantries, sipping his drink to hide the color rising in his cheeks. Condensation drips down his fingers. “And please, sir makes me feel old. Call me Lyonel.”
“Dunk- um, Duncan.” Dunk offers, shifting awkwardly on the couch so as to not take up too much space. Warm fingers trail the collar of his t-shirt, trailing sparks along his tacky skin. Oddly enough, it soothes him the same way it would a spooked horse.
“It happens more than you’d suspect, people lying on my name. I don’t usually vouch for them, though.” Dunk doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. Focusing on his words becomes an impossible task, utterly distracted by the line of heat where their legs are pressed hip to knee. Instead, Dunk watches a bead of sweat roll down the side of Lyonel’s face, across chiseled cheekbone and into a grey nest of hair at his jaw. Lyonel is looking at him expectantly, he realizes, so he swallows the mouthful of champagne on his tongue and manages a response.
“Well, I owe you a big one. Thank you for your hospitality.” Attempting to rise from the couch, Dunk is anchored in place by a hand on the back of his neck.
“Stay, please. And think of your debt as repaid.” Lyonel talks funny, fancy words like the boys in Dunk’s neighborhood after they’d spent a couple years at private school. Settling a little on the couch, he nods, and Lyonel yet again tops off his cup. “Tell me, sweet Duncan, what did you do to garner the attention of such unfriendly bouncers?”
Dunk tells the story, and Lyonel holds onto every word. When Dunk describes the man from earlier, he gets a strange look on his face.
“Blond you said? You wouldn’t have spilled vodka cranberry onto young star Aerion Targaryen? Not very wise, considering it’s his event.” Lyonel clicks his tongue, then takes a big sip straight from the bottle he’s holding. Drops of champagne fall into his beard, onto his bare chest. Dunk’s stomach rolls at the sound of Targaryen. He knew the man had looked familiar.
Dunk had booked the nannying gig with the Targaryen family by sheer luck. He had been late to his interview and his suit had been ill-fitted, yet he seemed to charm the father and uncle all the same. He had gotten a call back and an offer of more money than Dunk could ever dream of, and so his answer needed no thought. All he has to do is spend his weeks seeing the young Targaryen boy to a variety of private lessons, and his living expenses are paid for. Now, his dream arrangement dangles dangerously in front of him, and Aerion holds a blade to it.
There is no chance he recognized Dunk. He had never spared more than a few moments with the other Targaryen brothers, as Aerion spent his months travelling on father’s dime, and the other two boys had their own schedules to attend to. Lyonel seems to sense his tension, squeezing the back of his neck fleetingly and bringing his hand down to his knee.
“Sorry, it’s just- in my head, is all. I’m being sorry company, I am.” Dunk throws his head back and drains the rest of his drink. He sets the cup on the table in front of him, head spinning from the alcohol swirling in his gut. He lets out a long breath.
“Relax, whatever worries you can wait until tomorrow.” His voice is placating, almost inaudible over the music. Dunk feels his heartbeat leave his ears, but it quickly returns as Lyonel shifts to turn his body until his back is to the girl on his right. She rolls her eyes and leaves the couch, dragging the girl next to her with her. Lyonel doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does notice, he doesn’t care. “Let’s dance.” And well, if that’s not what Dunk came for, he’s not sure what is.
Of course, Dunk finds Raymun as he’s in the most compromising of positions, arm wrapped around Lyonel from the back, hips slotted together as they move in time. Raymun’s eyes widen, getting a terrifying grin on his face. They exchange silent words from across the dark club. Don't fuck this up for me, Dunk is saying. His friend just laughs. Before Raymun can pull out his phone and use this as Dunk’s hangxiety fuel tomorrow morning, Dunk is swinging to two of them around so his back is to his friend. Lyonel makes a noise at all the manhandling, vibrating against Dunk’s chest enough to set him on edge.
Dunk can barely think straight, with the thrumming pressure against his front, with the alcohol swimming through his veins, with the music rattling his head. It’s all too much. He can’t dwell on his overwhelm, however, as Lyonel tips his head back against his shoulder and slides a hand over the side of Dunk’s head, down the length of his neck and chest, arching his back to deliver a delicious friction. Dunk dips his head, trails his lips across whatever skin he can reach. He isn’t particularly experienced, to say the least, but he’s done enough internet research to know what people seem to like in these types of circumstances. It appears to work, Lyonel squirming in his grip until they’re chest-to-chest. Dunk barely registers the movement before he’s pulled into a searing kiss, one that tastes like sweat and champagne and electricity. Humility abandons his body as he pulls Lyonel closer, fisting the fabric of his shirt with one hand and getting a grip on the back of his thigh with the other. Raymun and his prying mobile camera be damned, he’s allowed to have a good time once and a while. So he melts into the iron grip Lyonel has him in, and lets go.