modern au akotsk targaryen x hightower!bastard!reader
not much yn scene just targaryen lore cause im obsessed with them and also dunk being dunk.
It is 11:30 PM, and the air is a thick haze of expensive vapor, cheap desperation, and bass-heavy music that made the floorboards thrum.
Dunk adjusted the plastic tray under his arm, his large frame looking awkward in the tight, black waiter’s vest the club forced him to wear.
Being a working student at the Citadel was a marathon, and tonight’s shift as a waiter was the final leg.
He was mid-shift, clearing empty glasses from the VIP terrace that overlooked the alleyway.
He paused near the railing, his eyes widening.
A familiar figure slumped, holding a bottle of premium vodka by the neck like it was a life preserver, his head lolling back. He looked less like a prince and more like a shipwreck.
Dunk retreated through the heavy velvet curtains into the main service area. He fell into step with Raymun, a wiry, fast-talking guy who is now busy loading a tray with empty glasses.
Raymun didn't go to the Citadel; he went to the city college three miles over, and he had zero patience for the ‘dynasty brats’ who frequented the club.
"Hey, Ray," Dunk said, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Is that… is that Daeron Targaryen out there? He looks pretty wasted.”
Raymund didn't even look up, expertly stacking the tumblers.
"Probably. He’s a regular and oh its Tuesday," Raymun deadpanned.
"Its the Targaryen special, Dunk. They spend all day pretending they’re gods and all night trying to forget they have to wake up tomorrow."
"He seems... pretty wasted," Dunk said, his brow furrowing with a genuine, heavy concern.
"I mean, even for this place. He looks like he’s trying to drink the whole bar under the table."
"Listen to me, man," Raymun said, his voice dropping.
"Those guys? They’re made of glass and ego. You try to help a Targaryen when he’s that far gone, and you’ll be the one getting cut when he shatters. Just leave the bottle and clear the glass. That’s our job."
Raymun let out a dry, short laugh and put aside his tray.
“Don't waste your pity on the silver-bloods, Dunk. They have enough money to buy a new liver by the time they're thirty."
Dunk looked back toward the door.
"I don't think money helps with whatever he's trying to drown," Dunk muttered softly.
Raymun just shrugged, shoving a fresh stack of glasses toward him.
"Maybe not. But it buys a hell of a lot of scotch to try. Get back out there, big man. Table twelve is asking for their check."
By 1:00 AM, the atmosphere in the bar had shifted from high-energy partying to a jagged, frantic desperation, something much grittier.
And every time Dunk swung past the VIP section, his eyes involuntarily sought out the table in the corner.
It was a cluster of the Citadel’s worst, boys who wore their parents' wealth like armor, laughing too loudly and treating the staff like scenery, and women who laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny, all of them clinging to the Targaryen gravitational pull.
Dunk noticed the subtle movements, the quick hand-offs under the table, the way two of them would disappear into the bathroom and return with wide, glassy eyes and a sudden burst of frantic energy.
The table was a mess of spilled gin and discarded lime wedges.
At the center of the wreckage was Daeron.
He wasn't part of the energy. He had reached the terminal stage of his binge. His head was slumped unceremoniously on the sticky table, his cheek resting near a spilled pool of gin.
His silver-gold hair was a matted mess, trailing in the liquid.
"Look at him!" one of the guys jeered, slapping the table so hard Daeron’s head jolted.
"A ‘Targaryen' finally sunk!"
The table erupted in mean, jagged laughter.
One was filming a video of the slumped prince, probably for a group chat, while two others were shamelessly ordering the most expensive bottles of champagne on the menu, knowing full well the bill would be swiped on Daeron’s black card.
Dunk felt a knot of pure, human disgust tighten in his chest. He didn't care about the family name, he just saw a guy being picked apart while he was down.
They didn't care if he choked on his own breath, they just cared that the tab was being charged to Daeron’s account.
As he moved closer to clear some glasses, he caught the hushed, frantic whispering of two girls at the edge of the booth.
"We should call Valarr. We have to tell him Daeron’s in trouble." one whispered, checking her reflection in her phone screen and reapplying a layer of gloss.
"He’s the only one who can handle him when he’s like this."
The other girl smirked, checking her reflection in her phone screen as well.
"Exactly. You think he’ll let us in his car?"
“Maybe? Give us a ride home as a thank you, you know." The other girl replied, touching up her lipstick in a compact.
Dunk tightened his grip on his tray. They didn't care if Daeron choked on his own tongue, they just wanted an excuse to throw themselves at Valarr. To them, Daeron’s misery was just a bridge to a better prize.
Dunk couldn't take it anymore. He set his tray on the bar and walked straight toward the booth.
"Yo, waiter!" the loud one barked, snapping his fingers at Dunk.
"Another round of shots. And bring a glass of water for the Prince.”
Dunk stood his ground, his shadow looming large over the table. He looked down at Daeron’s slumped form. The boy looked exhausted.
"He's had enough," Dunk said, his voice deep and vibrating with a quiet authority that cut through the drunken haze of the group.
The table went silent for a beat, the rich boys looking up at him with a mixture of shock and disdain.
"What did you say, giant?" the guy sneered, leaning back.
Dunk didn't blink. He just looked at Daeron, then back at the group. "I said the tab is closed.”
The girls near the curtain scrambled, one of them already pressing 'call' on a contact labeled V. Dunk ignored them.
A guy in a designer polo looked up, scowling. "It’s not closed. We just ordered another round of Blue Label."
"Who’s paying for all this again?" Dunk asks.
The girl with the phone pointed a manicured nail at the unconscious Daeron.
"He’s done," Dunk said firmly. "And so is the tab. You’ve had enough of his money for one night."
The girl rolled her eyes, letting out a sharp, annoyed huff as she looked Dunk up and down.
"Calm down, White Shaq," she sneered, clicking her phone shut.
"We're already calling his cousin. We’re leaving once Valarr gets here anyway.”
Dunk didn't move. He looked down at Daeron, whose hand was twitching slightly on the table, then back at the group.
"If you're waiting for his cousin, you're waiting outside. Clear out."
"You can’t just clear us out! Do you even know who our parents are?" the guy in the sweater barked, trying to stand up and failing miserably as his balance betrayed him.
"I know whose tab you're running up," Dunk answers.
Dunk didn't even blink. He caught the eye of a massive, scarred bouncer named Hodor who was stationed near the VIP entrance. Dunk gave a sharp tilt of his head toward the booth.
"Hodor, these ones are done. They’re making a mess, and I’m pretty sure they brought in their own 'party favors.' Get them some air."
Hodor didn't need a second invitation. He moved in like a tectonic plate, his hands, the size of dinner plates, firmly guiding the protesters toward the exit.
The group was dragged out, still shouting about their lawyers and their family names, leaving the corner of the club suddenly, eerily quiet.
Only Daeron remained, still facedown on the table, the rhythmic thump of the bass vibrating through his skull.
A waitress named Mel moved in to help clear the wreckage. She paused, looking down at Daeron’s silver hair spilling over the table.
"Rough night for the Prince?"
Dunk sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"He’s out cold. Should I call a cab?"
Shae tilted her head, a stray curl falling over her eye.
"A cab? To a Targaryen penthouse? They’d probably arrest the driver for kidnapping. A family would be more suitable."
"Aerion?" Dunk asked, grimacing. He’d seen the younger brother before, he wasn't exactly the helping hand type.
"Or Valarr?" Mel suggested.
Dunk groaned, rolling his eyes. "Valarr? Oh, not you too."
Mel looked at him, confused for a second, then her eyes widened as she realized what he meant.
Dunk clearly thought she was just another girl desperate for a glimpse of the Heir, looking for any excuse to see him in the flesh.
Realization dawned on Mel’s face. She let out a soft, melodic chuckle that was far too cynical for someone her age.
"Oh, no, big guy," She leaned in a little closer to Dunk, a playful, dangerous smirk dancing on her lips.
"I don't need a glimpse. I already had him."
"Wait—what do you mean you 'had' him? Like, you met him or—"
"Do you want Valarr's number or not?" she called back over her shoulder, completely unbothered.
"I’ve got it in my phone. I'll bring it to you."
"Of course you have his number," Dunk muttered to himself, watching her go. He looked back at Daeron, feeling a new kind of chill.
He took the slip of paper Mel brought back a minute later, staring at the number.
Dunk took a deep breath and hit 'Call.'
The phone rang. Once. Twice. The silence on the other end felt heavy, expensive. Then, it clicked over to a crisp, professional-sounding voicemail.
“This is Valarr Targaryen. Leave a message.”
Dunk cleared his throat, leaning his massive shoulder against the cinderblock wall.
"Hey, uh... Sir. My name’s Dunk, I’m a server over at where your cousin Daeron is currently." he started, his voice a low, steady rumble.
"He’s down here and, honestly, he’s pretty wasted, more than usual. I already cleared out the group he was with, they weren't exactly looking out for him."
He paused, glancing through the porthole window of the door at the silver hair slumped over the booth.
"I would love to just call him a cab and be done with it, but I know how it is. It’s probably not safe for a Targaryen to be dumped in a random taxi in this state. I’m gonna keep him in a booth for now, but I'd appreciate it if someone would come to get him. Let me know what you want me to do. Thanks."
He hit end and exhaled, staring at the screen. Now, all he could do was wait.
The clock on the wall of the private training facility ticked toward 2:00 AM, while the rest of the city was surrendering to sleep or the bottom of a bottle, Aerion was turning his fury into something physical.
Aerion was at the heavy bag, his knuckles wrapped in black tape. He was stripped to his waist, his skin slick with a sheen of sweat that made the silver ink of the dragon tattoo on his ribs look like it was moving. Every muscle in his back rippled with the effort of a man trying to outrun his own mind.
Every time he closed his eyes to focus, he saw her. He saw the way Y/N had looked at the table, not like a victim, but like a woman who was slowly realizing she was being buried alive.
He saw the way she had leaned into his space in the hallway, her breath hot against his skin, telling him she’d rather have the Golden Son than him.
I do wish every night I wasn’t pushed by a maid... just so I could suck Valarr’s dick.
The memory of her voice made his vision red.
He wasn't just pissed that she’d been given to Daeron, he was possessed by the image of her wanting Valarr. She wanted the perfect heir, the golden lie. She wanted the version of Valarr that didn't exist.
"Stupid girl," he hissed through clenched teeth, his breath coming in ragged, white-hot bursts.
He hated the way she looked in that dress. He hated the way she smelled like rain and defiance.
He stopped suddenly, his forehead resting against the cool, swaying leather of the bag. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his chin and onto the polished floor.
He was exhausted, his body screaming for rest, but his mind was a riot of anxiety and jagged resentment.
He didn't need sleep. He needed to hit something until the image of her face finally faded into the dark.
With a final, guttural snarl, Aerion ripped his boxing gloves off and threw them angrily across the room. They hit a rack of weights with a hollow clack before falling to the floor.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to find the one place where he was still superior. In the fencing salle, he was king.
He remembered the look on Valarr’s face ten years ago, the shock of being disarmed, the tip of Aerion's foil hovering over the Golden Boy's heart.
He remembered the aftermath even more clearly.
Valarr’s mother had been livid. She couldn't stand the sight of her perfect son being humbled by the ‘Mad’ branch of the family.
In the same year Valarr then ‘voluntarily’ transitioned to the hockey team.
Valarr dont play games he couldn't dominate.
"Stay on the ice, cousin," Aerion whispered into the dark, empty gym.
He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his neck, trying to settle the vibration in his hands.
He was the one who knew Y/N’s fencing style. He was the one who shared her air in the salle. Daeron might have the contract, and Valarr might have her fantasies, but Aerion had the steel.
The gym was silent again, save for the hum of the air conditioning, and then his phone buzzed.
He ignored it, his mind still locked on Y/N, before he realized the caller ID.
"What do you need now, Golden Boy?" he muttered to the emptiness.
Dunk stared at his phone, the screen already starting to dim. No text, no callback, nothing. He looked at Daeron, whose head had shifted slightly, a bit of drool now pooling on the polished wood of the table.
"Any luck?" Raymun asked, passing by with a tray of dirty glasses.
"Voicemail," Dunk grunted.
"Rich guys must sleep better than us."
He looked at Daeron’s gold watch, then back at the door.
Just as Dunk was about to give up and call the police, his phone vibrated with a force that nearly shook it out of his hand. An unknown number.
"Hello?" Dunk answered, his voice a cautious rumble.
"This is Valarr," the voice on the other end said.
It was smooth, like expensive silk, perfectly modulated even at two in the morning.
Dunk blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sheer politeness. He’d expected an arrogant demand or a legal threat.
"Uh, yeah. This is Dunk. I’m a server at The Iron Bar. Your cousin is... well, he’s not doing great. He’s passed out and his 'friends' were basically using his thumb to pay for the whole bar's tab."
There was a microsecond of silence. To anyone else, Valarr sounded perfectly chill and charming, the quintessential concerned relative.
But Dunk, who had grown up around people who hid their anger behind smiles, could feel the icy, sharp edge underneath the tone.
Valarr wasn't worried, he was pissed.
"I see," Valarr said, his voice remaining terrifyingly steady.
"Thank you for looking out for him, Dunk. It's rare to find someone with a sense of duty these days."
"I just didn't want him ending up in a ditch," Dunk muttered.
"Admirable. I’ll be there in ten minutes to fetch him myself. Please keep him inside until I arrive."
The call ended with a soft click. Dunk pulled the phone away from his ear, his brow furrowing.
He didn't find it particularly scandalous or shocking that the Golden Heir of the Targaryen empire was awake and ready to drive in the middle of the night.
Probably just another overachiever with insomnia, Dunk thought nonchalantly.
Too many spreadsheets, too much coffee, or maybe he’s just spent the night staring at a textbook until his eyes bled.
To Dunk, Valarr wasn't a god, he was just another student at the Citadel who probably forgot what a full night's sleep felt like. He settled in, watching the front door and ignoring the way the nightclub lights made Daeron’s hair look like tarnished silver.
He just wanted to get this over with so he could go home, eat a bowl of cereal, and sleep before his 10:00 AM lecture.
The door to The Iron Bar swung open, and for a moment, the chaotic pulse of the bar seemed to steady itself.
Valarr stepped inside, looking remarkably composed for a man out at half-past two in the morning. He was dressed in a dark wool overcoat that cost more than Dunk’s tuition, but it was the hair that caught Dunk’s eye.
Under the strobing club lights, the white streak in Valarr’s dark hair stood out like a lightning bolt, that unmistakable Targaryen mark that reminded everyone exactly who they were looking at.
Valarr’s eyes scanned the room with surgical precision, landing instantly on Daeron.
A brief, sharp flash of disappointment crossed Valarr’s face, a look of a man seeing a recurring problem, before he smoothed it back into a mask of polite gratitude.
He walked over, and as he approached, Dunk felt himself straightening up.
If Aerion is ‘scary’ like a wild animal, Valarr is ‘intimidating’ like a high-rise building, quiet, towering, and perfectly constructed.
"I... uh, he's been out for about an hour," Dunk started, feeling suddenly clumsy under Valarr’s steady gaze.
"You don't have to explain my cousin's shit to me. Your concern is enough.”
He looked up at Dunk, and then he did it, he flashed a polite smile.
The one that probably had its own fan club at the Citadel. It was warm, charming, and felt entirely genuine.
Valarr’s eyes traveled up... and up. He let out a soft, amused huff.
“You’re remarkably tall. I think you might have applied for the wrong job."
Dunk couldn't help but chuckle, the tension in his shoulders finally dropped.
Valarr laughed quietly and pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, sliding a generous stack toward Dunk.
He looked back at the slumped form of his cousin.
"Now, I hate to ask more of you, but I think I’ll need some help getting him to the car."
"Of course," Dunk said immediately, nodding with a bit of clumsy enthusiasm.
Dunk reached down and hoisted Daeron up, slinging one of the prince's limp arms over his massive shoulders.
As they maneuvered the unconscious Daeron toward the exit, Dunk realized that while Aerion made him want to look for a weapon, Valarr made him want to do a good job.
He was a natural leader, a man who made the chaos of the night feel like a minor clerical error.
As they stepped out into the crisp past midnight air, Dunk caught a scent that didn't match the ‘overachieving student’ vibe Valarr was putting off.
It was faint, masked by expensive cologne, but it was there. The sharp, botanical sting of gin.
Valarr wasn't just awake, he’d been out, too.
He just carried it with a terrifying, silent discipline that Daeron lacked.
Dunk looked down at the side of Valarr’s head, his eyes lingering on the sharp, perfect line of his jaw.
Valarr didn't miss the look. He didn't flinch, and he didn't explain.
Valarr led them toward a sleek, matte-black Lamborghini Urus idling near the curb. Dunk expected the car to be empty.
But as they approached, the passenger-side window hummed down, revealing a girl with warm, brown skin and a head of shocking, neon-pink hair. She was lounging in the leather seat with her boots up on the dash, looking thoroughly bored with the world.
Dunk recognized her, Kiera Tyrosh. He’d seen her around the Citadel, usually tucked away in the back of the library with a stack of books or leaning against a wall while Valarr’s inner circle held court.
She took one look at Dunk, her eyes traveling.
"Fuck, you're tall," she said, her voice flat and unimpressed.
Valarr didn't even flinch at her language. He just maneuvered Daeron’s dead weight closer to the rear door.
"Mind helping us, Kie?" Valarr asked, his voice strained but still maintaining that terrifyingly polite edge.
Kiera Tyrosh let out a dry chuckle, swinging her legs down and hopping out of the car.
"Every time I hang out with you, Valarr, I end up doing manual labor," Kiera muttered, grabbing Daeron’s belt to help hoist him into the backseat.
"I tried calling Aerion through your phone while you were inside," she said, glancing at Valarr.
"Thought he might actually want to be useful for once," she adds.
Dunk stood back, watching the three of them, the Heir who smelled of secret drinks, the pink-haired Tyrosh girl, and the wasted prince being stuffed into a six-figure SUV.
"That was a waste of a dial. Aerion never answers when I call. And not because he’s asleep." Valarr sighed.
Once Daeron was folded onto the leather like a discarded suit, Valarr turned back to Dunk.
The streetlights caught the white streak in his hair, and for a second, the mask of the ‘perfect heir’ slipped just enough for Dunk to see the exhaustion behind it.
Kiera slammed the door shut and wiped her hands on her cargo pants.
"I know, I know," rolling her eyes as she swung back into the driver's seat.
"Because he despises the ground you walk on. The rivalry is getting exhausting, Val."
"It's not a rivalry if only one person is competing, Kie," Valarr replied smoothly, though the bitterness in his voice was a sharp contrast to his earlier charm.
Valarr walked around to the passenger side, pausing to give Dunk one last, polite nod.
"Dunk," the big man replied.
"Dunk," Valarr repeated, memorizing the name like a line of code.
"Yeah," Dunk muttered, watching as the pink-haired girl gunned the engine.
Dunk stood alone on the sidewalk, the cold 2:30 AM wind biting through his thin waiter’s shirt. He watched the red taillights vanish around the corner, thinking about the drunk prince in the back, the heir who smelled like tequila, the girl driving the car, and the brother who hated them all too much to pick up the phone.
"Damn," Dunk muttered to the empty street, shaking his head.
People didn't love the Targaryens because they were perfect. They loved them because they were a disaster draped in gold.
TAG: @sahvlren @bloatedandlonly
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