Chapter Text
Duncan stared at the empty fridge.
For a moment, he just stood there with one hand on the door, staring into the weak yellow light like maybe something might appear if he looked hard enough. The bulb buzzed faintly, threatening to die any second. It painted the inside of the fridge in a sickly color that made the bare shelves look even sadder. A half-empty bottle of mustard. A jar of pickles he hadn’t touched in months. Two cans of cheap beer pushed against the back wall. Nothing that could pass for dinner.
His stomach cramped hard enough to make him exhale.
He was hungry. Not the kind of hungry that could be ignored with a glass of water or a handful of crackers. Famished. The kind that settled behind his ribs and made him feel hollow all over.
That shitty McDonald’s chicken sandwich from the morning had done nothing for him. Four dollars and some change, and it had disappeared in maybe six bites. He’d known when he bought it that it wasn’t enough. A guy his size, built broad through the shoulders and chest from years of rugby, wasn’t supposed to live off the dollar menu. He needed actual food. Protein. Carbs. Enough calories to make it through training without his legs turning to sand.
But knowing what he needed and being able to afford it were two different things.
Rent had gone through three days earlier. Utilities were coming up. His share of the internet bill was already late. So for now, McDonald’s and cheap coffee were what stood between him and passing out halfway through the day.
He shut the fridge with a dull, unsatisfying click.
The apartment around him felt smaller than usual. The kitchen barely deserved the name. One strip of counter, faux granite peeling at the edges. A sink that never quite drained right. Cabinets that smelled faintly of mildew. The place had been advertised as “cozy.” Duncan had learned that “cozy” meant too small for a man who stood six-foot-five and had to duck slightly every time he stepped into the bathroom because the showerhead hit him somewhere around the collarbone.
He leaned both hands against the counter and stared at the wall.
Practice kept replaying in his head whether he wanted it to or not.
His coach’s voice was still there, sharp and public and impossible to ignore.
“Sloppy, Duncan.”
He could still hear the whistle cutting through the cold afternoon air. Could still see the rest of the squad pretending not to look at him.
“You call that a pass? You’re out of form. Completely out of form.”
Duncan had been tired before he even got to the field. His legs were heavy, his shoulders tighter than usual, and his hands felt a fraction slower than they should have. That was all it had been. One bad practice. Two bad passes. Maybe three.
But Coach hadn’t stopped there.
“At your age, you should know better. If you can’t pass properly, you don’t deserve to be in this league.”
That part had stuck.
Duncan had stood there breathing hard, sweat cooling against the back of his neck, wanting to say something smart back. Something cutting. Instead, he’d just stared past him and swallowed it down.
Jerk-off, he’d thought. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
All he needed was sleep. Real sleep. Not four broken hours on a mattress with springs that poked into his back. Not falling asleep at two because his downstairs neighbor decided music sounded better at full volume. Just one good night. Then he’d be fine. Then he’d feel like himself again.
Instead, the coach had sent him home early.
That had been the worst part.
At twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, getting dismissed from practice like a teenager who couldn’t get his act together felt humiliating in a way he didn’t have words for. He’d spent most of his twenties telling himself things would level out. That rugby would become something steadier, that he’d land somewhere solid. That eventually, he’d stop feeling like everyone else had figured something out he’d missed.
Instead, he was standing in a cramped apartment, hungry, tired, and staring at an empty refrigerator. His phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down. The alarm read: " Look for a job, lunk. He snorted despite himself.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.
He unlocked the screen and dragged himself toward the counter, leaning his weight against it. His phone looked ridiculously small in his hand. His fingers were too big for the keyboard, and every other tap hit the wrong thing. He opened LinkedIn.
The app loaded slowly, then presented him with a job recommendation right at the top.
Live-in babysitter.
Duncan stared at it.
He almost laughed.
He tapped it anyway.
The listing opened. A private family looking for a dependable, organized live-in nanny for three children: a ten-year-old girl, a nine-year-old boy, and an eight-year-old girl. Daily supervision. School pickups. Homework help. Snacks. Activities. Calm environment.
He kept scrolling.
Then there was the part about the oldest son. Twenty years old. Independent, technically, but the family wanted someone responsible around the house. Someone who could keep an eye on him, notice if anything was off, communicate with the parents.
Duncan read that part twice.
Then came the line that really made him stop.
Live-in role at the family’s beach house. Private room and accommodations provided.
A beach house.
He looked around his apartment again.
The stained ceiling above the sink.
The warped floorboards.
The busted cabinet hinge.
He pictured a house with windows that opened to salt air. A shower where he wouldn’t have to crouch. A fridge with actual food in it.
His mouth twitched.
He kept reading. The requirements sounded almost suspiciously simple. Responsible. Patient. Good judgment. Comfortable with children. Reliable.
It sounded like something meant for an eighteen-year-old taking a gap year.
Duncan chuckled under his breath.
He would be an idiot not to apply.
Even if the job turned out weird, free housing alone would change everything. No split rent. No scraping together cash at the end of every month. No counting coins to decide between gas and groceries.
He tapped apply.
His resume sat in his files looking as tired as he felt. A short list of temporary jobs. Warehouse shifts. Delivery work. A few coaching assistant gigs. Rugby. Always rugby. It wasn’t exactly the profile of someone people trusted with elementary school children.
He hesitated for half a second.
Then he attached it anyway.
Maybe they’d laugh.
Maybe they wouldn’t.
He hit send.
For a second, the apartment felt very quiet.
Then he locked his phone and dropped it on the counter.
That was that.
–
A few days passed, and the application slipped out of his mind.
Life had a way of filling every empty space. He spent mornings hauling equipment for a landscaping crew. Afternoons helping a friend move furniture. One night he unloaded crates behind a grocery store for cash. None of it was steady. None of it was enough. But it would cover his share of rent if he stretched it.
By Thursday morning, he’d almost forgotten about the nanny job entirely. He was halfway through a cup of burnt coffee when his phone vibrated. An email notification. He almost ignored it. Then he saw the subject line.
Immediate start for a live-in nanny.
For a second, his whole body went still. He set the coffee down so fast that some of it sloshed onto the counter. His heart dropped straight into his stomach. “No way,” he said quietly. He opened the email. The screen felt absurdly small in his hands. It was real. They thanked him for applying. Said they’d reviewed his application and thought he might be a strong fit. The message detailed the pay, more money than he’d expected, along with his weekly schedule, time off, and living arrangements.
Private room.
Meals included.
Beach house.
Immediate start.
Duncan read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower. The apartment around him suddenly felt even smaller than before. He looked toward the fridge. Toward the sink full of dishes. Toward the shoes by the door, the sweatshirt thrown over the chair, and all the little evidence of a life that had somehow become a pile of unfinished things.
A strange feeling moved through him. Relief, maybe. Disbelief. Or maybe just the first small crack of hope. For the first time in months, the future didn’t look like another week of scraping by. He stood there with the phone in his hand, staring at the words on the screen.
Then, without meaning to, Duncan smiled.
–
After replying to the email, Duncan got his new employer’s phone number. The man introduced himself as Maekar Targaryen. The name sounded expensive somehow.
Not long after, Maekar sent over a set of profiles detailing each of the children Duncan would be looking after. He opened the files while sitting on the edge of his bed, phone balanced in one hand. Each page listed habits, routines, favorite foods, what upset them, what helped calm them down, what subjects they liked in school, and how they behaved around one another.
Duncan found it a little strange.
He couldn’t imagine a father keeping detailed files about his own kids like they were tiny coworkers. Then again, rich people did a lot of things he didn’t understand. Maybe that was normal in houses where people had enough money to plan every little thing.
He’d grown up what people called dirt fucking poor.
He spent most of his childhood bouncing from foster house to foster house, never staying anywhere long enough to feel settled. Then a man named Arlan Pennytree took him in. Adopted wasn’t exactly the word Duncan used. Arlan had mostly just kept him around. Still, the man had been good to him in his own quiet way.
Arlan was a mechanic. Most afternoons were spent in a cramped garage that smelled of oil, metal, and old gasoline. He taught Duncan how to take apart engines, how to use his hands, and how to fix something instead of throwing it away. For a while, Duncan thought that would be his life.
Then he found rugby. Thank God for that. Rugby gave him a place to put all the restless energy in him. It gave him teammates, structure, and eventually a shot at university, something that never would have happened otherwise.
He also learned that the house wasn’t anywhere near him….
That meant leaving his rugby club behind. That part hurt more than he expected. Raymun from the team had helped him through more than once. He’d let Duncan crash on his couch when money got bad and never made him feel small about it. Saying goodbye felt bittersweet. But he needed this job, and the money was too good to ignore.
Now he stood on the platform with one duffel bag at his feet, staring at the train waiting for him. Maekar had said the trip would take about a day. Duncan planned to sleep most of it, maybe read through the children’s files again. The train hissed to a stop in front of him.
He took one last look at the city, sighed, and stepped aboard, leaving it behind.
–
Duncan loaded the profiles on his barely functioning laptop, the screen flickering twice before finally settling. Thank God for the train’s free Wi-Fi. The carriage rocked softly as the city blurred past the window, and he opened the first files.
Daella Targaryen.
Daella is a quiet child, sensible far beyond her years in some matters and absolutely not sensible in others. She reads constantly. If a book cannot be found, she has likely taken it to a window seat, under a blanket, or into a closet she has decided is a private library. She is shy with strangers and will observe a new person for several days before deciding whether they are acceptable. This is not rudeness. It is caution, which I prefer.
She has a habit of asking questions at inconvenient hours. Why do stars move? Why do cats stare at walls? Why must adults discuss taxes? I do not always have answers. If you do, you will earn her respect quickly.
You should know that Daella dislikes loud voices, crowded rooms, and being made the center of attention. She prefers quiet afternoons, drawing dragons in the margins of school notebooks, collecting stones from the beach, and inventing names for every stray cat that wanders near the house. At present there is one orange creature she calls “Ser Pounce the Bold,” who has no fear of me whatsoever.
Duncan smiled without realizing it. She sounded like a good kid. Careful, quiet, easy enough.
He clicked on the next file.
Rhae Targaryen.
Rhae is not a quiet child. If the house is peaceful for more than fifteen minutes, it generally means she has gone somewhere she ought not to be, usually with a plan she has not shared with anyone. She has more confidence than caution, more opinions than patience, and enough energy to exhaust three grown men before noon.
She speaks to everyone as though she has known them for years. Strangers, delivery drivers, neighbors, teachers, and the woman at the bakery have all been informed of her views on proper chocolate-chip distribution in cookies. She asks questions, but unlike her sister, she does not wait politely for answers. She prefers immediate explanations and will continue asking until she gets one.
You should know that Rhae climbs things. Trees, garden walls, porch railings, and once, to my lasting irritation, the roof of the garage. She claims she “only wanted a better view.” She also has a habit of adopting animals. At present, there is a one-eyed gull she insists is her friend, though the creature appears to regard us all with open contempt.
Your duties will include ensuring she completes her schoolwork before vanishing outdoors, eats an actual meal instead of surviving entirely on fruit snacks, and remembers that shoes are not optional. Bedtime is not a negotiation, though she will attempt to negotiate it every evening with arguments of surprising complexity for a child of eight.
Duncan let out a quiet laugh. That one, he thought, was going to keep him busy.
Finally, he opened Aegon’s file.
Aegon is, to the continued surprise of this household, a remarkably easy boy to like. He has a way of speaking to everyone as though they matter, whether it is family, neighbors, the groundskeeper, or the old man who sells newspapers down the road. Within half an hour of meeting someone, he will likely know their name, where they are from, and at least one story from their childhood.
He has a cheerful nature, quick curiosity, and a talent for appearing innocent shortly before it becomes clear he has been involved in something he absolutely should not have been involved in. Not always the cause of trouble, but very often nearby when it happens.
He is particularly fond of rugby. If there is a ball in the house, it will be thrown, kicked, or carried at alarming speed through rooms not built for sport. He plays with great enthusiasm, very little fear, and the firm belief that every bruise is evidence of a successful afternoon. If taken outside, he will happily spend hours running himself into the ground and then claim he is not tired.
Aegon also collects things. Interesting stones, bottle caps, feathers, bits of driftwood, and once an alarming number of crabs from the beach, which were discovered in a bucket outside the kitchen door. He reads when the mood takes him, though he generally prefers stories of adventures, shipwrecks, explorers, and people making very poor decisions in exciting places.
Duncan leaned back in his seat, the train humming beneath him.
They sounded normal. Not perfect, not strange, just children. Curious, loud, thoughtful, a little chaotic. Nothing in the files felt beyond him. For the first time since stepping onto the train, he felt some of the tightness in his chest loosen.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
—-
When Duncan stepped off the train and finally arrived at the beach house, he stopped dead in his tracks. He had expected money, obviously. Nobody offering live-in work at a beach house was exactly scraping by. But this, this was something else entirely. The property was big enough to have a name.
Summerhall.
He stared at the iron letters worked into the front gate, then beyond them at the house itself. It rose from the hill in pale stone and long windows, half hidden by neat walls of green ivy and flowering vines. The gardens looked too perfect to be real. Everything had been trimmed and arranged so carefully it almost felt staged, as though someone had built a beautiful painting and then dropped him into the middle of it. In the center of the drive stood a fountain shaped like a dragon. Water spilled from its open jaws into a wide stone basin, catching the late afternoon light.
Duncan let out a slow breath.
He was wildly, catastrophically out of his depth.
He should have looked up the address before agreeing to this. That would have been the smart thing. Instead, he’d just seen a private room, meals included, and enough money to keep himself fed for once, and he’d hit yes before his brain had time to catch up.
Now that he was here, the whole thing suddenly felt absurd.
He could still turn around.
He could make up an excuse. Say there’d been some emergency. Say his mother had died. No, bad choice, he barely knew how to talk about family without sounding like a liar. Maybe say he’d gotten another offer. Or that he’d made a mistake. Or that—
“Duncan?”
The voice cut clean through his thoughts.
He turned.
A man was walking toward him from the front steps. He was tall, though not nearly Duncan’s height, and carried himself with the kind of easy confidence that made the whole place seem to belong naturally to him. His skin was tanned, his beard neatly trimmed, and his hair had streaks of grey at the temples. He looked freshly put together, but there was tiredness there too, fine lines around his eyes, the sort that came from years rather than age.
What caught Duncan most, though, were the eyes.
One was violet.
The other brown.
For half a second, he genuinely thought the man looked like someone out of a film. He hurried forward, dragging his bag behind him. His free hand shot out automatically.
“Duncan!” the man said warmly, smiling wide enough to show slightly uneven teeth. His accent was unmistakably central London, sharp and polished against Duncan’s deep Galway voice. Duncan’s hand absolutely swallowed the other man’s in the handshake.
“Mr. Targaryen,” he said, trying very hard not to sound like he was about to embarrass himself. “Your house is… really lovely.” The older man barked out a laugh and pulled his hand back.
“Oh, please. Call me Baelor. Mr. Targaryen is my younger brother, your boss.” That made Duncan blink.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“No need.”
Baelor glanced down at the battered duffel bag at Duncan’s feet, then back up at him. There was a moment where he clearly realized he hadn’t actually been told Duncan’s surname.
“Follow me, Mr…” he said, pausing awkwardly.
Duncan couldn’t help laughing.
“Pennytree,” he supplied.
Baelor’s face brightened.
“Oh! Yes….Mr. Pennytree. Come along.”
He turned toward the house.
Duncan adjusted the strap of his bag and followed him through the gates of Summerhall, feeling very small and very aware that his life had just become something entirely unfamiliar.
The man led him inside the house.
Duncan immediately felt like he’d stepped into a different world entirely.
The exterior had already been overwhelming, but the interior was worse, far worse. The ceilings stretched impossibly high above them, supported by pale stone columns that looked more like something out of a museum than a home. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, scattering light across polished floors so clean Duncan could almost see his reflection in them. Every surface seemed to catch the light in some deliberate, expensive way.
Even the air felt different. Warmer. Softer. Like the house itself was designed to make people forget the outside existed. Baelor continued walking ahead, speaking casually as if this was all normal. Duncan tried to keep up, but his attention snagged on everything at once.
Then he saw the piano.
A grand black instrument sat near the center of the room like it belonged there more than anything else. And sitting on the bench was a child. Duncan slowed. She was tiny, barely tall enough to see over the edge of the piano when she turned her head. White hair fell in soft strands around her face, and when she looked up at him, he saw eyes the same unusual violet as Baelor’s. Maybe even brighter.
She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.
“Rhae,” Baelor called, motioning her over.
She hopped down from the bench without hesitation and walked straight up to Duncan with the kind of fearless confidence only children seemed capable of. She tilted her head back to look at him properly. Duncan realized, a little late, that he was very tall from her perspective.
“You’re huge,” she said flatly.
Then, without waiting for a response, she turned and sprinted off down a hallway and up the stairs. Duncan let out a quiet chuckle, watching her go before looking back at Baelor.
Baelor just shook his head, amused. “That’s Rhae.” He gestured toward the open space near the staircase. “Please, put your luggage there.” Duncan set his bag down carefully. Baelor glanced at it, then back at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “You only have one suitcase? You do realize this is a live-in position, yes? Until you choose to leave?”
There was a pause.
Duncan felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.
“This is all I have,” he admitted.
For a brief moment, Baelor looked genuinely caught off guard, as if he hadn’t considered that answer as a possibility. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. “Right,” he said quickly, recovering. “Of course. That’s… fine. We’ll arrange proper clothing for you. Your size, I mean. And anything else you need.” He gave a small, easy smile. “You’ll be part of the household now, after all.”
Before Duncan could respond, Baelor lifted the suitcase himself with surprising ease and placed it neatly by the base of the stairs. Then he caught the eye of a nearby servant and gave a subtle gesture toward it. Without a word, the servant moved forward, picked up the luggage, and carried it upstairs.
Duncan watched it go, slightly stunned. Baelor turned back to him. “I should give you a tour first, if you don’t mind. I know you must be tired from your journey, but I’d like you to see the property before dinner.”
Duncan nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good.”
And as Baelor started walking again, Duncan followed, realizing that whatever he’d thought this job was going to be, it was already something much bigger.