Chapter Text
His heart pounded violently; his lungs could barely keep up.
The chase was killing him, but he couldn’t stop. Not when he was this close to catching him.
At last, he had managed to track down Aerion Targaryen and catch him in the middle of a smuggling operation. It was their only real chance to apprehend a member of the Targaryen family. The boy was the only one capable of making a mistake within a great house that had never been caught nor charged for its crimes.
From the moment Aerion Targaryen stepped into the public eye, Duncan knew it was him. That he would be the key to bringing down the House of the Dragon.
For ten years, with the case in his hands, he had found nothing in Baelor’s or Maekar’s movements. They were flawless—always with an alibi, always cooperating with the police in a way that was almost insulting, yet never enough to prove what everyone already knew… that they were a mafia.
When Daeron appeared, Duncan thought he had finally found a thread to pull. Maekar’s eldest son was a drunk, a womanizer—but unfortunately for the officer in charge, there was nothing beyond that. His actions were clean of the stain of organized crime.
With Baelor’s son, it was even worse. Valarr was perfect. They had nicknamed him “Prince,” because he was the closest thing to royalty the department had ever seen. Elegant, kind, charismatic… and, above all, untouchable. There was no evidence against him.
The open secret of the Targaryens’ dirty dealings was completely overshadowed by their status, by their ancestral lineage. And they used it well—so well that it wiped their tracks clean. They knew what to do. They knew how to move.
Duncan had been aware of the organization’s existence for as long as he could remember. More than once, he had wondered why no one stopped them—why the police didn’t put an end to their control over the streets and the violence they spread. But now that it was his responsibility, he understood his predecessors.
They were perfect at what they did.
Until he arrived.
Aerion. They called him the “Bright Flame,” for his constant need to draw attention.
And from the very first report—accompanied by a photograph of the boy grinning shamelessly at the camera following him—Duncan couldn’t look away.
The boy was a disaster. Completely temperamental, unhinged, erratic, arrogant… but above all, intelligent.
Aerion could afford to be everything he was because, from the moment he appeared, reports of the family’s rising profits never stopped coming in. The dragon—as he liked to call himself—had grown the family business exponentially, along with its excessive violence.
And he loved to show off. Loved to be seen… but never enough to become evidence.
He got himself into minor trouble—nothing worth reporting, nothing that could justify an arrest—with the sole purpose of walking right past the officers who responded to the scene, showing himself off as free and untouchable, fully aware they had nothing on him.
Duncan was there every time. And every time, he stayed inside his car. He didn’t step out, because he knew he would do something reckless under the rage the dragon provoked in him. That smile, those eyes… everything about Aerion radiated impunity. And to Duncan, that was intolerable.
But then, the day came.
The day they intercepted something unusual—something that didn’t match the container records. It was so small it would have seemed ridiculous to anyone else, but for Duncan, it was enough.
The shipping yard had been compromised. Agents were taking down accomplices, but Duncan went straight for the only one who mattered—the only one with an emergency exit the officer had identified months ago.
Aerion ran like a gazelle. Fast, agile, slipping past everything in his way with effortless precision. But Duncan wasn’t surprised. He had seen how dedicated the boy was to his body, to his training. The dragon stayed in shape, always ready for situations like this.
The officer was ready too. He had waited for this moment for years. He had dreamed of the day he would finally have that beast in cuffs… and he wasn’t about to let him go.
And just as Aerion had failed in a record, he failed in his footing.
In the middle of an alley lit only by a single streetlamp—empty, damp—Aerion Targaryen hit the ground hard. He tried to get back up immediately, but it was too late.
A firm grip seized his ankle, dragging him down—straight into the overwhelming mass of muscle known as Officer Duncan Tall.