Announcement + Rebrand
Hi this is like super awkward especially after saying I would continue writing Rigor Mortis but I recently discovered I am a lesbian and my attraction to Aemond was literally just comphet lmao.
I may continue Rigor Mortis as a Helaena fic but that depends if y'all want that or not. For now, I'm pausing my writing for Rigor Mortis because I am experiencing the biggest writers block ever
From now on my tumblr/ao3/character.ai handle will be changed to strawberrysmootji because it sounds cuter and i like strawberries better.
Have a nice summer/winter and let me know if any of you have any questions! <3
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Rigor Mortis Update!
Hi!
I just finished uploading the re-written chapters of Rigor Mortis. (A week and a half too late im so sorry omg)
Not much has changed but feel free to write the updated versions. If you don't want to re-read everything here is a short summary:
- Reader is a confirmed Manderly (no physical descriptions).
- Mentioned factory outside of White Harbour is now in White Harbour.
- Westeros is an absolute monarchy with house Targaryen ruling over the realm.
- Reader knows the wailing lady from chapter three is Aemma Arryn.
I think that is all besides some minor dialogue changes to make the story flow better. If you have any questions please let me know!
I'm nearly finished with this year of college and I have so much inspiration rn omg. I am itching to get back to writing!
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Taglist:
@helaenaluvr @saltedcaramelpretzel @certifiedhaters @imawhorecrux @jbaby2
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Rigor Mortis announcement!
Rigor Mortis Masterlist | Main Masterlist
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â
Hello everyone!
It's been a while since I've updated the fic. As I've said in this post, I've been extremely busy with school and I have also experienced a bit of a writer's block. I have decided to fix this by rewriting the first four chapters of Rigor Mortis. Nothing major about the plot will change, I will only add a few things to make writing and reading the story easier.
I'll update the chapters tomorrow, Monday May 21st at 8pm CEST!!!
If you have any questions please let me know. I plan on releasing the fifth chapter within five weeks!
Have a great day/night!
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â
Taglist:
@helaenaluvr @saltedcaramelpretzel @certifiedhaters @imawhorecrux @jbaby2
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1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]
Series Summary:Â Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemondâs chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count:Â 5.9k
Let me know if youâd like to be tagged! đĽ°
đ All of my writing can be found HERE! đ
The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.
In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfieldâin actuality, forged by a New York journalistâwelcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDRâs press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJâs top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.
Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise heâs dreamed of: his wifeâs redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacreâcommitted back in March but only now brought to lightâairs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as heâs sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.
Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFKâs promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.
But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husbandâs hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.
~~~~~~~~~~
You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. Itâs the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is Godâs will.
You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Ottoâs suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemondâs side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. Itâs 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.
âYeah?â he says, slow and lazy like heâs been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.
âHey.â And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: âItâs me.â
âOh, I know. Should I take off my pants, orâŚ?â Heâs only half-joking.
You smile. âThat was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.â
âYou think Nixonâs guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. Theyâre goddamn buffoons. Theyâre too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.â You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. âEverything okay down there in the swamp?â
You shrug, even though Aegon canât see you. âItâs fine.â
âJust fine?â
âMy parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt soâŚdishonest.â
âOf course theyâre proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell weâve all been living in since 1963 goes away.â
âI miss you,â you confess.
âYouâll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.â Heâs right: Aemondâs entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. Youâll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Islandâwith journalists in tow, of courseâand then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors dâoeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. âWhat are you going to dress up as?â
âSomeone happy,â you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. âActually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.â
âAemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.â
âWhat are you going to be for Halloween?â
You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. âA cowboy.â
âA cowboy,â you repeat, giggling. âYou arenât serious.â
âExtremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cowsâŚâ
âYou are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.â
âI ride the cowsâŚâ
âCowboys do not ride cows.â
âMaybe this one does.â
âI thought you liked being ridden.â
Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. âDonât tease me. You know Iâm celibate at the moment.â
âMiraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?â
âTaking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the AlopekisâŚand playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.â
âHe does. I remember.â
âHe keeps asking when youâll be back.â
âReally?â you ask hopefully.
âYeah, itâs cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.â
âNot an appropriate myth for children, I think.â
âCosmoâs what, seven years old?â
âFive.â
âClose enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.â
âAnd you have no resulting defects whatsoever.â You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinaiâyouâve forgotten that youâre on Aemondâs side of the bedâyou find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. âOh my God, thereâs aâŚthereâs a Ouija board in the nightstand!â
Aegon laughs incredulously. âThereâs a what?!â
âA Ouija board!â You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. âWhy the hell would Aemond have thisâŚ?â
âHeâs trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.â
âOh wow, itâs heavy.â You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. Thereâs something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You canât beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they arenât welcome to stay.
âAemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kidsâŚ?â
âNo, I think itâs custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, thereâs something engraved on the back.â You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.
âWhatâs it say?â Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.
Youâre staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. âWhoâs Alys?â
Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. âOh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.â
âAegon, whoâs Alys?â Sheâs his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isnât envy or pain or betrayal butâstrangely, paradoxicallyâhope. âSheâs his girl, right?â
âPlease donât be mad at me for not telling you,â Aegon says. âThere wasnât a good time. When I hated you I didnât care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didnât want to hurt you, I didnât know how youâd take it. Itâs not your fault, thereâs nothing wrong with you. She was here first. Heâd have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.â
âIâm not mad.â Youâre distracted, thatâs what you are; youâre plotting. âWhere is she?â
âShe lives in Washington state. Iâm not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesnât want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.â
âWashington.â Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didnât come back. âWho knows about her?â
âJust the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. Itâs the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.â
âHis mistress.â
âYeah,â Aegon says reluctantly. âAre youâŚare you okay?â
âIâm okay. Whatâs wrong with Alys?â
âWhat?â
âWhy couldnât Aemond marry her?â
âI mean, sheâs the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,â Aegon says. âAnd sheâsâŚsheâs not educated. Her familyâs trash. Sheâs older than Aemond. Hell, sheâs older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, heâŚâ
âHe loves her,â you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. âAnd she loves him.â
âI guess. Whatever love means to them.â
A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. âDoes she have children?â
Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. âA boy. Aemondâs the father.â
âHow old?â
âI donât know, I think heâs around ten now.â
And thatâs Aemondâs true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldnât mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.
Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemondâs polished black leather shoes.
Aegon is asking: âAre you sure youâre okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?â
âIâm fine. I gotta go.â
âWait, no, not yetâ!â
âBye.â You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. Youâre still clutching the Ouija board. Youâre perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.
Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. Heâs begun wearing his eyepatch in public more oftenânot for every appearance, but for some of themâand whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasnât you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesnât speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.
âI know about her,â you tell him.
Still, Aemond says nothing.
âAlys,â you press. âSheâs your mistress. Youâre in love with her.â
âI did not intend to hurt you.â His words are flat, steely.
âIâm not hurt, Aemond.â
âYou shouldnât have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.â But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.
âWhat we have is a political arrangement,â you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. âYou donât love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but thatâs all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.â
He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldnât have understood you correctly. âWhat?â
âI want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.â
âNo,â Aemond says instantly.
Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. âButâŚbutâŚwhy?â
âBecause I donât trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children youâll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.â
Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. âYouâre asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything Iâll ever experience, everything Iâll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and youâre stealing it away from me.â
âYes,â Aemond agrees simply.
âSo whereâs my consolation?â you demand. âYou get Alys, so whereâs mine?â
âWhat do you want?â
You donât reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Heraâs, with fatal vitriol like Medusaâs.
âYou think I donât know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?â Aemond is furious, betrayed. âYou used to hate him.â
âI was wrong.â
âBecause he was at Mount Sinai and I wasnât? Three days undid everything weâve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!â
âNo,â you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. âBecause heâs real. He doesnât try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesnât pretend to be someone heâs not, when heâs cruel itâs because he means it and when heâs kind thatâs genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who youâre trying to turn me intoââ
Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You canât sway him. Youâve never been able to. âAegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,â Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. âYou would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.â
âLet go of meââ
âAnd thereâs one more thing.â Aemond pulls you closer so he knows youâre paying attention. Youâre sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. âAegon isnât capable of love. Not the kind youâre imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. Iâm trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.â
Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.
~~~~~~~~~~
Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.
The childrenâghosts, pirates, princesses, witchesâdash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.
Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: âYouâll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!â
Fosco is Ettore Boiardiâbetter known as Chef Boyardeeâan Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat thatâs too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.
Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: âIâll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,â âIâll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.â While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing Iâm A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.
Now the children have been sent to bedâmollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalistsâand the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.
Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know itâs him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesnât feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: âLetâs do some witchcraft.â
You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeusâs weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. Youâre not highâyou canât smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigateâbut you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.
Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt thatâs still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.
He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. Heâs taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. Heâs lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. âWait, how do we start?â
You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. âWe have to say hello.â
âOkay.â Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: âHelloâŚ?â
âIs there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?â
âYouâve done this before,â Aegon accuses.
âI have. In college.â
âWith a guy?â
You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. âNo, with my friends. Itâs not really a date activity.â
âI think itâs very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, whoâs gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things aroundâŚâ
âYouâd fight a ghost for me?â
âDepends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No maâam. Youâre on your own.â
âWhich ghost should we summon?â
Aegon ponders this for a moment. âJohn F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?â
âThat is wrong, that is so wrong.â
âThen why are you smiling?â Aegon says. âJFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?â
âThat is not the kind of question youâre supposed to ask. Weâre not on 60 Minutes.â
âJFK, do you haunt the White House?â Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. âOh no, Iâm scared.â
âYou are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.â You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegonâs rum bottle. âJFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?â
Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. âDamn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.â
âGive me the planchette, youâre abusing your power.â
âNo,â Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand heâs clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegonâs shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back youâre drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the worldâs ghosts are momentarily forgotten.
âYouâre dripping wax on meââ
âGood, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.â
Youâre laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. âIâm freshly shaved, you idiot.â
âEverywhere?â Aegon asks, intrigued.
You smirk playfully. âAlmost.â
âOkay, letâs get you cleaned up.â Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who youâre supposed to be.
Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegonâs eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: âNow youâre going to stop?â
His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone whoâs been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. Youâre opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something heâs been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.
You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you canât decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegonâs fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Donât stop. Come closer.
Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way youâve never been before. You catch Aegonâs face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: âDonât look at me.â
Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. âStop,â he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegonâs hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal youâve long ago already committed in your mind.
Youâre combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegonâs lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on youâyearning, aching wetnessâand you thought you knew what this felt like but itâs more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what heâs doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.
You jolt upright. âWaitâŚâ
Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. âWhat? Whatâd I do wrong?â
âNo, itâs not you, itâs justâŚitâs likeâŚâ You canât describe it. âItâs tooâŚumâŚtoo intense or something. Itâs like I couldnât breathe.â
Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: âBabe, youâve come before, right?â
Iâve what? âYeah, of course, obviously. I meanâŚI think so?â
Heâs stunned. Heâs in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. âLie back down.â
Youâre nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, youâll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spotâwhere you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first timeâand suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking itâs happened but it hasnât yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegonâs arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. Itâs a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. Itâs something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.
Itâs always like this for men? Thatâs what Aemond has been getting from me, thatâs what Iâve been denied?
As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. âNot bad, right little Io?â he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now heâs taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.
Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know heâs been high on so many thingsâthings that corrupt, things that killâand you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.
He canât last; he finishes with a moan like heâs in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. âGood boy,â you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.
Heâs murmuring through your disheveled hair: âI gotta see you again, when can I see you again?â
You donât know what to say. You donât have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his familyâs money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You areâlike Fosco once saidâpieces of the same machine.
âWhere are you going?â Aegon asks, like heâs afraid of the answer.
âI have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes Iâm missing.â
âAre you serious?â
âI am.â You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. âI have to, I have to,â you whisper, and then you do.
You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cashâs Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.
In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As youâre rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.
âCome to bed,â Aemond says.
âNot right now. Iâm busy.â
âYou arenât busy anymore.â
âI told you no.â
He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You donât harm him, youâre not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.
âDonât fucking touch me,â you hiss. You canât let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But thatâs not the only reason you stop him. âEvery goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight Iâm saying no. You want to take me? Youâll have to do it properly. Iâm not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But Iâm going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.â
Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.
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Hello. Hope you have good day. I just wanted to ask about Rigor Mortis, will this story be continued? Ofc no pressure I just wanted to ask since there is option for that. Have a nice day/night :)
Hii!!
Rigor Mortis is definitely being continued!
However, i have been busy with school work and a personal writing project. I have also been thinking about rewriting the first chapters to establish better world building with a proper political system bc the Rigor Mortis universe is LACKING one lmao. Once I am certain Iâll definitely make an announcement post :)
Thank you for the ask, I hope you have a wonderful day!!
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1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]
Series Summary:Â Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemondâs chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count:Â 6.2k
Let me know if youâd like to be tagged! đĽ°
đ All of my writing can be found HERE! đ
Is it a story worth telling? I think so. Itâs better than nothing. Itâs better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.
Today Iâm sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping backâtheyâre doing something to his shoulders, theyâre destroying himâbut he likes to listen. Heâs getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemondâs retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and heâll snap bones to keep it.
So anyway, Io was a kingâs daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the godâs wrath. Thatâs easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someoneâs life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that Iâve forgotten. I donât think John McCain will know the difference.
Iâm sure youâre wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I donât seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. Youâre right, Iâm not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.
Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheusâchained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fireâand he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.
I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. Theyâre fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemondâs wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. Sheâs sharp, sheâs hilarious. Sheâs mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.
At first I wondered why Aemond hasnât gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. Itâs the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.
I feel kind of bad for her. Aemondâs wife, I mean.
I donât think she knows about Alys.
~~~~~~~~~~
On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.
Ariâs vaultâan unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone elseâsâis located just above yours. You canât stop staring at it. You canât hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimiâs other children are somber but seem to be coping well enoughâthey are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies diedâbut Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegonâs, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.
Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Cristonâa man with no plaque assigned to himâis trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he canât. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so thatâs what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.
When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. Itâs a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.
You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.
âHe is okay?â Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.
âHeâs alright. Heâs resting. Are you okay?â
âOh,â Fosco sighs mournfully. âI keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, thatâs why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldnât, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasnât who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.â
This family breaks people. This family kills people. âWeâll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. Iâll help you, and we can teach the kids.â
Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. âI am very glad you are still here.â
âIâm not trying to race you to that mausoleum.â
Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: âUmâŚI will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.â
âYou donât have to leave, Fosco.â
âIt is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.â Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.
Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmoânow fast asleep, his face smooth and peacefulâbefore he speaks. âI canât grasp that sheâs really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.â
âYour children need you.â Itâs not the first time youâve said it, but itâs the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. âThey have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.â
âIâll have time to work on it. Iâm staying here. Iâve already been informed.â
You are alarmed. âWhat? By who?â
âAemond and Otto.â Aegon says. âWhen the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.â
âTheyâre getting you off the campaign trail,â you realize.
âTheyâre putting me on house arrest.â
Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? âIâm sure youâre relived. You hate the grandstanding and the media.â
He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. âI donât want to leave you alone.â
âI wonât be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.â
âIâll talk to them.â
âAbout what?â
âAbout the fact that they need to look out for you.â
âAegon, Iâve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.â
âBut itâs different now.â
Heâs right, it is.
âYouâll call, wonât you?â he asks. âYouâll let me know how the trip is going, youâll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but Iâd risk it.â
âOf course Iâll call.â
âHey.â Gently, he turns your face so you canât hide from him. âWill you be okay without me?â
I have to be. I donât have a choice. Instead you reply: âIâll miss the weed.â
The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. âBehave yourself.â He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.
âWhat, what?â Ludwika says. âAre we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain wonât resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.â
âI canât be there for the last leg of the campaign.â Aegon points to you. âI need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.â
âThis is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.â
Aegon furrows his brow at her. âWhat are you talking about?â
Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. âYou are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.â She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.
~~~~~~~~~~
In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavezâbeing treated for debilitating back pain at OâConnor Hospitalâand expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam Warâin money, in time, in bloodâand pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesnât even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond canât be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.
âWhat if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?â Criston demands. âWhat if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?â
âNo one can kill me,â Aemond says, grinning wryly. âIâm not supposed to die yet. Iâm supposed to be the president. It is Godâs will.â And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?
The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though heâll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.
George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegonâs second son.
Nixon promises âpeace with honorâ in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about âstatesâ rightsâ and âlaw and order,â ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallaceâs white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You canât think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.
A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: âPeople are voting for Aemond, but theyâre voting for you too.â
And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I donât help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?
~~~~~~~~~~
The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first ladyâŚaccording to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You arenât sure where Aemond is, and you donât especially care. You are relieved to be alone.
Thereâs a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. Itâs 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.
Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: âGeiĂĄ sou? Ti?â
âHi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?â
âWhere else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.â
âPlease be nice to him. His wife just died.â
âAnd so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?â Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. âAntio sas,â she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.
Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. âYeah?â
âHey, itâs me.â
âHey!â You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. âWhatâs up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?â
âI just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?â
Heâs smiling; you can tell. âTheyâre alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.â
âWell heâs in middle school and thus beyond your skill.â
âHowâs Jupiter?â
You know who he means. âI donât want to talk about Aemond.â
âOkay.â Aegon says, curious. âSo what should we talk about?â
A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. âWhere are you right now?â
âIn my lair. Like a beast.â
âAlone?â
A transitory pause. âAt the moment.â
âOn the shag carpet or your futon?â
Now heâs very intrigued. âFuton. Why?â
âI just want a visual.â Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.
âWhere are you?â Aegon asks.
âYou wouldnât believe it.â
âMaybe I want a visual too.â
You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. âIâm in a gigantic pink bathtub. Itâs ridiculous, itâs shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.â
âOh.â And then he hesitates, like heâs afraid to say the wrong thing. âBig enough for two?â
âMore like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.â
âMy basementâs been pretty empty recently.â
Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: âYou arenât seeing other girls?â
âNah, babe. I want something they canât give me.â
You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. âI wish you were here.â
âIn Seattle?â
âNo. Right here.â
Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. âHowâs the water?â
âExtremely hot and full of bubbles.â
âSo I wouldnât be able to see you.â
âNo,â you say, baiting him.
âBut I could touch you.â
âYou already have.â
âNot enough,â he murmurs. âNowhere close to enough.â
âDo you remember what I felt like?â
âOh God,â he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. âYeah. Of course I do. I canât get it out of my head. But Iâve been trying not toâŚyou knowâŚit felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.â
âNo, I want you to think about me.â
You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. âWhereâs your other hand, huh?â
âUnder the water,â you reply coyly.
âYou bitch,â he says, laughing. âI miss you so fucking much. The house isnât right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.â
Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water canât wash away. Itâs a familiar sensation, though you havenât felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. âTell me about you,â you pant.
He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He canât believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. âI mean, IâmâŚIâm insanely hard.â
âStroke yourself, imagine itâs me. I wish it could be me.â
âOh fuck,â Aegon whimpers. âOkay, okayâŚI want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and thenâŚâ
Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you canât fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. Whatâs happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You canât get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.
âI need to see you,â Aegon says. Heâs close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; heâs gasping. âI need to be with you, let me give you what you want.â
âI want you to finish inside me.â
âIoâŚbabeâŚoh my God, youâre gonna kill meâŚâ
There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. Youâre so consumed you almost donât notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. âGotta go, bye.â
âWaitâ!â
You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks inâimmaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpetâand turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where heâs been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. âWho were you talking to?â
âMy parents.â
If Aemond doubts this, he doesnât show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. Heâs always been less a man than a force of nature. âI know this year has been hell.â
You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. âYou havenât made it easier.â
Thereâs a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. âWe canât forget everything weâve accomplished together,â Aemond says. âI still need you. Youâre my Aphrodite.â
Heâs going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. âAny luck with Nixon?â
Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. âHe still wonât agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, heâs rabid for it, heâd show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.â
âBecause he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. Theyâll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.â
âSo how do I get him to do it?â
You look up at Aemond. Itâs not a hypothetical question; heâs really asking for advice.
âI have to debate Nixon,â Aemond insists. âItâs close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. Iâll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. Thatâs just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixonâs resting on his political experience and accusations that Iâm a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.â
You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. âChallenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.â
âWhat if Nixon still refuses?â
âThen you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how heâs supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he canât even face you.â
Aemond grins admiringly. âYouâre vicious.â And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.
âIf thereâs a debate, everyone should go,â you say, seized by sudden inspiration. âWe should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that theyâre doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.â
Aemond isnât grinning anymore. Heâs studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, heâs trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. âOtto and I will decide what to do with him.â
âHeâs a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.â
Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. âItâs late. Letâs go to bed.â
Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you donât want to leave it. âIâm not done yet.â
âYes you are.â
Thereâs nothing else to say. Legally, a wifeâs flesh is one with her husbandâs. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like heâs helping you; like youâre something he owns.
~~~~~~~~~~
Two knocks, swift and forceful. âHey, itâs me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.â
You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. Theyâre an inch higher than what youâre used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. Itâs mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemondâs retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. Itâs harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegonâs flight must have just landed.
As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: âCan you help me zip this, please?â
He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. âSorry, what?â
âThe zipperâs stuck. I need you to get it.â
âYeah. Sure.â He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasnât tight a week ago, but now it is, and you arenât pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldnât bother you if Aemond didnât seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: âI donât think itâs gonna fit, babe.â
âIt has to fit.â
âEven if I miraculously get this closed, you wonât be able to breathe.â
âDo whatever you have to. JustâŚjustâŚâ You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. âYes!â Oh, but Aegon was right: you really canât breathe. âOkay. Letâs go.â
âYouâre not gonna last the whole debate in that. Youâll be sweating more than Nixon.â
âIâm fine.â
âIoâŚâ
âIâm fine. Come on.â You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.
At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen childrenâAegonâs five and Helaenaâs threeâare presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegonâs kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what theyâre learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leavesâa powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legsâand he says he hopes youâre coming home to Asteria soon.
âMe too, kiddo,â Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.
As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallaceâs dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.
âI tried to call,â he says. Heâs a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, andâyou have the impressionâmore aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. âBut no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.â
You arenât sure what he means. âOh?â
âI never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,â Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. âPat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the countryâŚI canât even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.â
âIt does,â you say softly.
âI lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. Youâre a remarkable woman. Youâre lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? Youâre like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than EthelâŚalthough, to be frank, who wouldnât be? And youâre not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Tedâs wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? Heâd lose, thatâs what heâd do.â
Nixonâs smart, but heâs wounded. Heâs capable, but heâs so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. âYouâre very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this countryâŚâ You smirk, a bit mischievously. âJust not as the president.â
Nixon chortles. âNo matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,â he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. âYou know that bastard tried to primary me?â
âActors donât belong in politics.â
âI couldnât agree more,â Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.
As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you canât breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who wonât stop making jabs about Nixon: âHe looks like a troll,â âHe looks like a sasquatch,â âDo you think Pat makes him wear a  Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?â The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.
âYou alright?â Aegon whispers.
âYeah.â
âYou donât look alright.â
âIâm great.â
âSure,â he says, and he acts like heâs teasing, but thereâs something tremendously sad underneath. He canât save you from this. He canât save you from anything. What must that feel like?
On the debate stageâbroadcast to a national audienceâAemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemondâs entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now youâre gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.
âI told you,â Aegon says. And then: âCome on. Weâll take the first limo back.â
In the front room of your hotel suiteâone yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilightâAegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. âOw,â you whine. âOh fuck, this was so stupidâŚâ
âDonât let him make you wear shit you donât want to wear.â
âI have to do what he says, Aegon.â
âHe doesnât own you.â
âLegally, he does.â
Heâs tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. âAre you planning on using this again?â
âI believe that would be wistful thinking.â
âYou probably look better out of it anyway.â He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. âDonât move, okay?â
âOkay.â
âAt all.â
âGot it.â
You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything youâve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.
The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.
âWe canât,â you whisper, hating yourself for it.
Aegon kisses the nape of your neckâso slow, so kindâand then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesnât. Heâs looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another worldâs gravity.
We canât, we canât, we canât.
âIâm so sorry,â you say.
And only then does Aegon vanish.
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1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]
Series Summary:Â Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemondâs chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count:Â 8.7k
Let me know if youâd like to be tagged! đĽ°
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âMy uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,â Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; sheâs not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but youâre making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. âSo I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.â
âOh, Librium,â Mimi says, perking up.
Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. âWhatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks heâs God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, Iâm nice, Iâm charming, but he doesnât like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouseâs. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.â
âYou drugged him?â you ask, incredulous, grinning.
âYou are a criminal,â Fosco tells Ludwika. âI will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.â
âListen, listen,â Ludwika insists. âHere is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, KrĂłwki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the messâI have to encourage him, âoh sir wonât you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,â you understandâI put the pills in his tea.â
âHow many pills?â you ask.
âI donât know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.â
âSeven?!â Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.
âWhat? He did not die,â Ludwika says. âI wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying âare you sure, are you sure?!â Of course Iâm sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.â
All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. Itâs Alicentâs 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and itâs the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, todayâs newspapers and tomorrowâs itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husbandâs fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that heâs gone.
âOtto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,â you tell Ludwika. âHis Eastern Bloc defector princess.â
âHe is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But thisâŚâ Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. âIt is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.â She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. âYou will help him.â
You reply a bit wryly: âItâs an honor.â
âWe are like four legs of a table,â Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. âYou are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimiâs father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.â
âI donât think I succeeded,â Mimi confesses.
âAnd then when it was time for Aemond to get marriedâŚâ Fosco turns to Mimi. âDo you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.â
âRight.â Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. âAnd from the South.â
âYes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.â Now Fosco notices how youâre looking at him, because youâve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. âBut the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.â
His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: âWho else was being considered?â
âNo one,â Fosco answersâtoo quicklyâand he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.
What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where Iâm from. What I was studying.
Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. âYou were just so captivating, so cleverâŚâ
âAnd young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegonâs record of five children,â Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what sheâs said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. Youâve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you donât even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.
âItâs fine,â you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell itâs not.
Ludwika breaks the tension. âYou do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.â And youâre so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. Itâs a strange thing to be grateful for.
âSheâs right,â Mimi says mournfully. âThey had to sew mine back in.â
Fosco pleads: âStop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.â
Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. âItâs sad. I used to love sex.â
âMimi, please,â Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. âYou are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.â
Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. âI used to love sex too.â
Now youâre all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.
âI think you like it, yes?â Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. âI could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.â
Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. Itâs not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. Itâs too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. Itâs a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.
Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. âI always feel like I could keep going.â
Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: âNot after youâve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if itâs good.â
âFinished?â you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.
Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulderâbrief, familiar, welcomeâand Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. Heâs fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.
Fosco stops a passing waiter. âSignore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?â
The waiter stares blankly back at him. âWhat?â
âThe turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.â
The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure itâs in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.
âHappy birthday, Mom,â you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. âWhen I first heard this, it made me think of you.â
Otto and Sargent Shriverâthe aspiring vice presidentâare glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldnât want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.
As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. âOh, thatâs really funny.â
âWhat?â Fosco asks.
âItâs Mama Tried.â You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi canât seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.
âThe first thing I remember knowinâ
Was a lonesome whistle blowinâ
And a younginâs dream of growinâ up to ride
On a freight train leavinâ town
Not knowinâ where I'm bound
And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.â
Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. âLetâs go, letâs go!â he shouts impatiently.
âCall the FBI, Iâm being kidnapped,â you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.
âOne and only rebel child
From a family meek and mild
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store
Despite all my Sunday learninâ
Towards the bad I kept on turninâ
âTil Mama couldnât hold me anymore.â
At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The childrenâTargaryens and Shrivers alikeâare stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmoâs tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.
âAnd I turned 21 in prison doinâ life without parole
No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied
That leaves only me to blame âcause Mama tried.â
Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegonâs 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegonâstill strumming, still singingâhe doesnât look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.
âI need you to do something for me,â Aemond begins.
Of course, you once would have said. Anything. âWhat is it?â
âI want you to cut your hair like Jackie.â
Youâre so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. âNo.â
âThink about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, sheâs sophisticated, sheâs mature.â
âIf you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.â
âHoneyââ
âI do everything you ask,â you say, barely more than a whisper. âEverything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But Iâm not chopping it off.â
âYouâre never going to be able to wear it down anyway,â Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. âIf I win, youâll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You canât be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.â
âItâs my hair. Iâm keeping it.â
Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: âYouâre my wife, and everything thatâs yours belongs to me.â Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. âThink about it. Now smile.â
You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.
Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign stafferâshe looks like a girl, but sheâs probably your ageâwho is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like youâre waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.
âAre you okay?â Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.
âIâm perfect. Iâll be right back.â
You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemondâs entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closingâas only a foot of space remainsâAegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.
âWhat the hell are you doingâ?!â
âWhat pissed you off, huh?â Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because youâre afraid of what youâll do if itâs gone.
âNothing. Iâm so great, Iâve never been better, canât you tell?â
Heâs so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. âYou want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.â
âAsk for what?â
âYou know.â
If you touch him now, you wonât be able to stop. Thereâs nowhere for us to go. Thereâs no way out of this family, this year, this world. âI donât. I have no idea what youâre talking about.â
Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. âYeah, youâre definitely 23.â
âI thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isnât that what gets you hard?â
âYouâre a fucking coward.â
âYouâre sweating on me, you pig.â
âYou want it so bad,â Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you donât reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. Youâre trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. Youâre breathing his rum and nicotine, youâre gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. Heâs already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: âTell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and itâs yours.â
Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. âI canât,â you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.
âIâm really fucked up right now,â he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears heâll lose track of them.
âIâm aware.â
âIâm sorry. I thinkâŚI think I wanted that to happen differently.â
âI canât trust you when youâre like this,â you say. I feel like I canât trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.
In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that wonât make you smell like too much of a drunk. Youâll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; youâll have to change your dress. Youâre painted with Aegonâs sweat and smoke. You canât risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.
âIf you donât wanna go to Fist City
Youâd better detour around my town
âCause Iâll grab you by the hair of your head
And Iâll lift you off of the ground
I'm not a-sayinâ my baby is a saint, âcause he ainât
And that he wonât cat around with a kitty
Iâm here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man
If you donât wanna go to Fist City.â
You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly whatâs written on the inside; itâs etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and thereâs an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blankâŚcongrats on the new calf!
You graze your thumbprint across Aegonâs scrawled signature. Itâs smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.
You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.
~~~~~~~~~~
âWhatâs going on between you and Aegon?â
Alarmed, you meet Aemondâs gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. Itâs the next morning, and youâre finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. âNothing.â There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. âHeâs been helpful, heâs beenâŚyou know. Ever since Mount Sinai.â
Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. Heâs still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. âHe was a comfort to you.â
âWell, he was there.â
âBecause I told him to be,â Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. âSomeone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but AegonâŚheâs not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. Iâd love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I donât think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.â
Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.
Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. âIâm glad youâre finally friends,â he says. âAegonâs not all bad. But donât let him get you in trouble.â
âI wouldnât.â What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.
âAnd watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. Theyâd kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.â He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. âGive this to someone today. You know how to do it, youâve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.â
âWhere am I going? Lunch with the mayorâs wife, thatâs this afternoon, isnât it?â
Aemond nods. âAnd a few other stops. Then weâre going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.â
âOkay.â
He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.
âHow can I help?â you ask Aemond, because itâs the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaenaâs garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.
âYou canât.â Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimiârelatively functional, as she hasnât been awake long enough to ruin herself yetâis dressed in delicate dove grey.
Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASAâs Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you canât stop smiling. You canât stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.
The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.
âAlright, letâs go,â Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. âWe are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.â
âI canât.â
Ludwika stares at you. âWhat?â
âI canât, I canât go in there.â
âWhat is she talking about?â Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.
âI canât,â you whimper.
Theyâve never seen you like this. They donât know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but itâs too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.
He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didnât tell me.
âIt will be okay,â Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. âWe are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.â
âOh,â Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwikaâs eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwikaâs face falls.
The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.
âDo not worry,â Ludwika tells you softly. âWe will talk, we will make it easier for you.â Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.
People are saying things to you, but you donât really hear them. You reply with words you wonât remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you canât do anything but accept it numbly. You canât look down at it, you canât allow yourself to feel the weight of some other womanâs child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.
Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemondâs blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you wonât remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.
Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. âMrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!â a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. âIâm from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?â
You are in a fog; you donât feel real, this moment and this city donât feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. âThe Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.â The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. âI lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.â
âThis was a friend?â the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: âIâm terribly sorry for your loss.â
âA boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.â
A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. âRest in peace, Cam,â someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!
In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if sheâll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.
âDio mio, what happened?â
âNothing,â you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.
âAre you sureâ?â
âFosco, please. I donât want to talk.â
âOkay,â he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isnât back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healedânot the loss, not the revelationsâbut only buried, and now itâs all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.
Itâs not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.
Thereâs nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You canât unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.
There are two knocks, quick and rough. âHey, itâs me.â And thereâs such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why Iâm here. âOpen the door.â
âIâm okay, just, just, just leave me aloneââ
âOpen the door,â Aegon says again. âOr Iâll get security up here to do it for you.â
Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. Heâs dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand itâs because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.
âWhatâs wrong?â Aegonâs eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. âWhat did he do?â
You canât answer, you canât breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.
âHey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please donât be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?â Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and youâre on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chestâbare skin, borrowed metalâand his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: âShh, shh, donât cry. Itâs okay.â
âNo itâs not.â
âWhatever it is, I can help.â
âI had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I canât now because heâs gone. Heâs locked in some fucking vault, heâs just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isnât, and itâs not fair.â
âYouâre right,â Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.
âNo one else knew him.â
âI did. I was there the whole time.â
âOnly because Aemond made you stay.â
âNo,â Aegon swears. âI was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.â
âYou did,â you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.
âAnd Iâm still here now.â
Your lungs arenât burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now youâre ashamed; you arenât in the habit of revealing to people how much youâre splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. âIâm, um, Iâm really sorry.â
âLook, I donât mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing Iâve seen you do.â
You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.
âCan I ask you something? Itâs very personal. Itâs offensive, honestly. But I have to know.â
âYou can ask.â
âDo you want more children?â
More children. Because Ari was real. âNot now. Not with Aemond.â
Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. âCan you do that sponge thing you told me about?â
âNo. I think heâd be able to feel it, heâsâŚâ You gesture vaguely. Itâs difficult to say. âHeâs big.â
Aegon didnât want to hear that. He didnât want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as heâd like to, he doesnât change the subject. âWhat about the pill?â
âNo doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husbandâs permission. Especially considering who my husband is.â
âI hate this fucking country,â Aegon hisses. âPuritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.â He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. âCome on. Letâs go smoke.â
âI canât do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.â
âOkay. No big deal. Weâll go to the roof.â
You stare at him. âThe roof?â
âYou really think I havenât already been up there?â He stands and offers you his hand. âYouâll love it. The view is fantastic.â
The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you itâs always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. Youâll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. Itâs interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.
Aegon asks: âWhere would you be right now if you werenât Mrs. Targaryen?â
âProbably married to someone worse.â
He raises an eyebrow. âOkay, but letâs say you werenât. Letâs say you can do whatever you want.â He points up at the lavender sky and acts like heâs moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. âThere, Iâve changed your fate. Who would you be?â
You ponder this. âI want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.â
Aegon cackles. âHell, sign me up.â He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. âThose are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.â
âYou donât think presidents and senators make a difference?â
âSure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. Theyâre addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now heâs planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while heâs at it to get the communistsâ supply lines. The manâs got no idea who he is anymore. Iâd feel sorry for him if I wasnât so terrified heâs gonna start World War III.â
I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. âWhat makes you feel important?â
âNothing,â Aegon says. âIâm not under any delusions that I matter.â
âI think you matter, old man.â
âReally?â
âA little bit. About this much.â You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.
âLetâs do it,â he says with sudden, forceful conviction. âIf Nixon wins in November, weâll get out of here. Iâll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. Weâll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make sâmores every night and look up at the stars. Iâll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.â
You peek over at him, intrigued. âIs that all weâre going to do?â
âWell weâll fuck, obviously.â
âOh, obviously.â You giggle; itâs ridiculous, itâs paradisical, itâs insane how good it sounds. But surely thatâs only because youâre high. âI donât know how Mimi would feel about that.â
âShe wonât care. She doesnât want me anymore, hasnât in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when sheâs wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. Weâll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.â
Now your voice is somber. âShe was supposed to fix you.â
âYeah,â Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. âI think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.â
You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.
He asks: âYou think I could make that?â
âNo.â
âShould I try?â
âYou definitely shouldnât.â
âA few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.â
You shrug. âYouâve proved yourself useful.â
âThatâs why you like me now? Because Iâm useful?â
âWho said I like you?â you tease, smiling.
âYou like me,â Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. âYou like me so much it scares you. But thereâs no need to panic. Itâs okay. I know the feeling.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â
You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like heâs a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.
~~~~~~~~~~
Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. Thereâs a brand new Jacuzzi that youâre looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.
âWho is it?â
âItâs Richard Nixon,â Aegon says through the door. âNaked. Horny. Please love me.â
You laugh and let him in. Heâs leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.
âFor you.â
âWhat is it, heroin?â Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. âNo way. You did not.â
âThatâs enough for six months,â Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. âIâll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I donât accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?â
âHow did you get these?â
âI told a doctor theyâre for one of my whores.â
âMaybe they are.â
Youâve surprised him, youâve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. âSo, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?â
âYeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in hereâŚ?â
âMm hmm,â Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.
In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.
âMimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,â you order.
âIâm fine!â she slurs, and you groan, knowing youâre going to have to drag her out.
Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. âWhat the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?â He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. âWhy would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. Theyâve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemeteryââ
âYou set me up,â you say. âYou didnât tell me about the hospital.â
Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. âHey, man,â he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. Itâs not a skill you knew he possessed. âShe was rattled, she wasnât thinking clearly. And thereâs nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, notâŚumâŚwhatever youâre thinking.â
âYou donât get it,â Aemond seethes. âJournalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixonâs newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheardââ
âWhat, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? Thatâs worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!â
âShe doesnât get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!â
âAnd what about your past?â Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if youâve ever seen that expression on his face before. You donât think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.
âWhat does that mean?â you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegonâtangled in a thorny, silent battle of willsâhe doesnât reply.
There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.
âI told you to take those out,â Otto says. âNow remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.â
You do something youâve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he canât get a grip on your swimsuit. âI will kill you!â you roar at Otto. âI will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, donât you ever touch him!â
Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegonâs damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegonâs bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemondâs reach just as heâs getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: âWhat did you do? Donât give me that, what did you do?!â
You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. Youâre trying to bolt out of Foscoâs grasp. You want to claw Ottoâs eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You donât see Mimi anymore.
âWait,â you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. âWhereâs Mimi?!â
Once he figures out what youâre trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. âNo!â he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.
Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.
âNo, no, no, she has to be alright!â Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If sheâs not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.
âOh my god,â Otto moans, pacing. âThis canât be happening, not this year, not nowâŚâ
Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.
âDonât watch, Helaena. Letâs go inside, Iâll walk with you, thereâs nothing more we can do here.â
âMimi?!â Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. âMimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!â Sheâs still motionless, sheâs still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. Heâs petrified, heâs in shock. âI think sheâsâŚsheâsâŚâ
âSheâs gone,â Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.
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1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]
Series Summary:Â Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemondâs chronically delinquent brother Aegon.
Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.
Word Count:Â 5.2k
Let me know if youâd like to be tagged! đĽ°
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Here at the midway point in our journeyâlike Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Infernoâwould it be the right moment to review whatâs at stake? Letâs begin.
Itâs the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the partyâs presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the endâin his death rattleâHumphrey begs to be Aemondâs running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.
Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriageâhis wife, JFKâs younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympicsâand has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the presidentâs âWar on Povertyâ before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemondâs commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.
Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communistsâ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Háťa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.
In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, theyâre rescued by a SWAT team.
The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASAâs Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedyâs 1962 promise to put a man on the moon âbefore the end of the decade.â If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.
The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiterâs gravity; to the casual observer, she doesnât exist at all.
~~~~~~~~~~
What was it like, that very first time? Itâs strange to remember. Youâre both different people now.
Itâs May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then itâs no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryensâminus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smokeâhave already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.
One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaenaâs garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatlesâ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.
Youâre giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. âWhere are we going?â
And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: âTo Olympus.â
In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like heâs proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. Itâs intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isnât just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond itâs a ritual; itâs something so overpowering it almost scares you.
âAphrodite,â Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.
Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think youâve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.
But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancĂŠâshrouded in just the right amount of mysteryâbut your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.
Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; youâve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that thereâs nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Ottoâs American Express.
That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwikaâs favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.
Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how youâve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasnât put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: âYou donât have something else to wear?â
~~~~~~~~~~
Itâs Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemondâs nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemondâs celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He wonât be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemondâin the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an assetâbut he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrixâs All Along The Watchtower.
When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?
Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suitâbeaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waistâand Aegon isnât smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.
Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimiâtrying very hard to act sober, blinking too oftenâare chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and âhelpâ you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.
As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedyâpresently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his familyâs compound in Massachusettsâapproaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.
âYou know, I was considering running,â Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. âBut when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe Iâll give it a go in â76, huh?â
âHey, kid, what a tough year youâve had,â Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You canât tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldnât keep one. What kind of sense does that make? âWeâre real sorry for your trouble, arenât we, Bobby?â
Now he is nodding somberly. âWe are. We sure are. Weâve been praying for you both.â
Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. âOh Lyndon, look, itâs just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.â Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. âIâll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!â
âYouâre so kind. Weâll see what happens in NovemberâŚâ
âGood evening, maâam,â President Johnson says, smiling warmly. Heâs an ugly man, but thereâs something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you havenât thought of yet. LBJ is 6â4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called âJohnson Treatmentâ; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget heâs not allowed to hit them. âI have to tell you frankly, I donât envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.â
âLyndon, donât frighten her,â Lady Bird scolds fondly.
âEveryone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,â LBJ plods onwards. âBut itâs a damned if you do, damned if you donât clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? Thereâs no easy answer. Itâs a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.â
Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I canât stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.
LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. âIt was so nice talking to you, dear,â she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.
The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isnât trying to intimidate you. Heâs just curious.
âDo you know what Aemondâs plan is for âNam?â LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. âIâm sure he has one. Heâs sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? Weâre trying to train the bastards, but if we left theyâd fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?â
âHe doesnât really discuss it with me.â Thatâs true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.
âWe canât let Nixon win,â LBJ continues. âItâs mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man canât hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in â60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. Heâs a paranoid little prick. Heâll surveille the American people. Heâll launch a nuke at Moscow.â
You honestly donât know what he expects you to say. âIâll pass the message along to Aemond.â
âPeople love you, Mrs. Targaryen.â LBJ watching you closely. âBelieve it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. Youâre the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And youâve had tragedies, and thatâs a damn shame. But donât you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.â
âPresident Johnson!â Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texanâs broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. âHow thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.â
âThe mayor of Trenton,â LBJ jabs.
âThe butcher of Saigon.â
Now the president is no longer amused. âYouâve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. Iâm looking forward to reading it someday soon.â He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.
You frown at Aegon, disapproving. Youâre dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. âThat was unnecessary.â
Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirtâhalf the buttons undoneâkhaki pants, and tan moccasins. âI just did you a favor.â
âWhat happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldnât she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.â
âYou know what he brags about?â Aegon says, meaning LBJ. âThat heâs fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.â
âThat soundsâŚlogistically challenging.â
âHeâs a lech. Heâs a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.â
âAnd thatâs all far less than admirable, but heâs not going to do something like that around me.â
âHow do you know?â
âBecause heâs not an idiot,â you say impatiently. âHe was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.â
Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. âYeah, okay, Iâm sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.â
âI guess you canât stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.â
âShut the fuck up,â Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now youâre both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. Heâs flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.
âAegon, wait, I didnât meanââ
He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. Youâre still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: âFollow me.â
Itâs not a question. Itâs a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. âAemond, youâll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said aboutââ
âLater.â And this is jarring; Aemond doesnât put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaenaâs garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.
Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I donât want him touching me. I donât want another child with him. âAemondâŚâ
He doesnât hear you, or acts like he doesnât, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesnât want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as heâs touching you, as heâs easing himself into you: He doesnât want to have to look at my scar.
You canât ignore him, you canât pretend itâs not happening. Heâs too big for that. Itâs a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.
âI love you,â Aemond says when itâs over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. âEverything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.â
You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.
âWhat did LBJ say?â
âCan I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.â
âOf course.â And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.
For a whileâten minutes, twenty minutesâyou lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldnât help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?
When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. Sheâs on her knees and retching into a rose bush; sheâs cut her face on the thorns, but she hasnât noticed yet. Sheâs groaning; she seems lost.
You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. âMimi, here, letâs get you upstairsâŚâ
âNo,â she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. âJust go away. Leave me.â
âMimiââ
âNo!â she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.
âYou donât have to be this way,â you tell her, distraught. âYou can give up drinking. Weâll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.â
Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. âMy husband hates me. My kids donât know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?â
You werenât expecting this. You donât know what to say. âWe can help make the world better.â
âThe world would be better without me in it.â
Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next afternoon, youâre lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you arenât looking at them. Youâre staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. Youâre envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; youâre thinking that itâs a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.
Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiterâs radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.
Aegon trots out of the houseâred swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flopsâand kicks your chair. âGet up. Weâre going sailing.â
âI donât want to talk to anybody.â
âGreat, because Iâm not asking you to talk. Iâm telling you to get in my boat.â
You donât reply. You donât think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.
âLetâs go,â Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.
Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegonâs sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. Heâs had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.
You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.
You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: âWhy did you bring me out here?â
âSo you can drown yourself,â Aegon says, and you both laugh. âNah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.â
You consider the math. âWow. You havenât been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.â
âItâs weird to think about. You donât seem that young.â
âThanks, I guess. You donât seem that old.â
âMaybe weâre meeting in the middle.â He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. âWhat do you think, should I get an earring?â
âYeah.â
âWhy?â
âIt might shock Otto so bad it kills him.â
âIâll get two.â And then Aegon says: âItâs not cool for you to mock me.â
You are dismayed; you didnât mean to hurt him. âI wasnât.â
âYes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. Iâm up for a lot of things, but I canât handle that. Okay?â
âOkay.â You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. âAegon?â
He looks over at you. âIo?â
âI donât want Aemond to touch me either.â
Heâs surprised; not by what you feel, but because youâve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. âWhat are we gonna do about it?â
If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe youâd know.
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Helaena sounds like "Exist for Love" by Aurora
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the high priestess - shera stark.
High Priestess is a card of mystery, stillness and passivity. This card suggests that it is time to retreat and reflect upon the situation and trust your inner instincts to guide you through it. Things around you are not what they appear to be right now.
art by me, 6hr on procreate, clip studio paint and canva. alt version + details below the cut.
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I really like Rigor Mortis! such a unique story I can't wait to read more
Aaaa thank you so much I'm so glad you like it!! I'm busy writing a few chapters ahead so I can post weekly but a new chapter is coming soon :)
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Itâs a shame smartphones werenât around back then just so OC could have taken a picture and pored over them later. Not going to judge her because I would have done the same haha but if youâre going to snoop, donât get caught, otherwise you might as well have asked permission hahahaha
But oh, wow. A revelation! Turns out Daeron Targaryen is already dead. That would explain why Aegon took her there, no one would think to look there. The plot thickens!! It seems the more MC spends time with them, the more mysteries unfold. Canât wait to read more!
Hi!!!
First I want to say that I absolutely love reading these!
The next few chapters the plot is finally going to pick up more pace now that I have set up most plot points! Tbh, I had a hard time debating if Daeron should be alive or death, but I eventually settled for dead lmao. But dw, Daeron's plot is very lore-filled and I can't wait to write it đŠđ
I hope you have a nice day!! <3
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Stress relieving purposes
ââşââââşââââşââââşâââŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘âŚâşââââşââ ââşââââşââ
For @targaryen-dynasty sleepover challenge, again thank you so much!!
Trope is friends with benefits and the AU is College AU. The prompts are 23: âthis is a one time thingâ and 129: âi canât hold back anymoreâ
Summary: Exam week is probably one of the worst things humankind has to experience in college, so you have a brilliant idea for you and your bestfriend; get laid. For that, a study group might help you get closer to those you wanna get with. but fate is always a funny thing
â§Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader
â§Warnings: MDNI 18+, p in v sex, masturbation (m), (kind of?) sex video, car sex, praising kink, degradation kink, dom/sub undertones, oral sex (m receiving),
â§Word Count: 10.5k
â§taglist: @qyburnsghost â§Ë°âšâĄ @cupidelocke ââşââ
â§Note: I am so happy and excited, because i loved the trope, au and prompt given to me. I spent days thinking how to make it perfect (i wrote like 4 versions of this, lol) and i am proud of the results. Yes, I went insane and wrote exactly 10529 words, but hey, who is counting?
Aemond Targaryen was always an unconventional man. Even so, an unconventional friend. Maybe you spoke too much, always an extrovert, and he was more reserved. You were always admired by many, and he was always repealing the simps.Â
âWhy didnât you tell me about Aegonâs party?â You ask almost offended by him, as she comes to sit by his side. He rolls his eye as he turns to look at you.Â
âI thought you were in Epistemology by nowâ
âI wasâ you say to him âBut do I care? no. I care more for why you didnât tell me, Cregan Stark was thereâ You say to him and patting his shoulder as if wanting him to realise the seriousness of the situation. âCregan Stark!â You repeat in a low tone.
âMaybe thatâs why I didnât tell you...â he says trying to refocus on the paper in front of him, both hands in his temple as he tries to ignore you, yet you appear in his good eye peripheral view.Â
âCome on, why didnât you invite me? I thought we were friendsâ you say looking at him like a wet puppy.
âDo not start-â
âIâll ask Aegon to do anotherâ you say quickly âHeâll let me goâ
âHeâll be the one to try to get in your pantsâ Aemond says, not looking at you. âAnd you need someone to present to you to Jace, so he can present Cregan to you. Aegon will do no best than to embarrass youâ
You hum, as he knows your intentions well. He was your best friend since the start of college, and you two⌠worked together. He had your back, and you had his; he heard you ramble about your weekly crush and you heard about the books he read. Of course a friendship between you both was good, as you have managed to get along and become close. Yet, Aemond could not deny the sexual tension sometimes.Â
As if you didnât catch him looking at your boobs. As if he didnât catch you looking at his body in the gym.
âSo go with me to convince himâ you beg him.Â
âI am not in mood for partiesâ
âBecause of Alys?â She asks, sighing and rolling her eyes âGet over her, itâs like the twentieth time you two broke up.âÂ
âSeventh time, and itâs not thatâ he corrects you, turning his head to look at you, and you roll your eyes.
âIt is that, I know youâ You say looking at him and she takes his right hand and she inspects it âAha!â You turned his hand to his face âThe body of the crime. You have been picking your fingernailsâ You expose him so easily.
âIt was one time, and it is because I have a damn exam Monday that my brain cannot seem to want to studyâ He says, sighing, and showing you the papers. He looks stressed, like the little eye bags under his eyes tell you enough.Â
You look at him, and you press your lips together. âThen you need a distraction, like.. Going to a party?â
âAbsolutely notâ he says, rolling his eyes. âUniversity is for study. Not for partiesâ He says, looking at you almost scolding you.
âCome on, what did you do when you needed to relieve stress from the last exam season?â
âAlysâ he responds with a smirk, which makes you gag. âAnd things with her that you donât wanna know.â
âFirst of all, ewâ You say looking at him as you are basically seated on the weirdest position by his side, your elbow resting on the table as you are turned to him, keeping the conversation alive. âSecond of all, Alys? Really? You could go to a party and..â
âNo partiesâ
You remain silent a bit as he starts to refocus his attention on his papers, but you canât just keep quiet, it seems.
âThen get laidâ
âI swear to the gods-â
âBut think about it!â You say, and you can hear the ´shhh´somewhere in the library, so you sigh âThink about itâ You repeat almost in a whisper âLetâs say, I present to you⌠Floris Baratheon, or anyone else from my friend group. You present me Cregan Stark, and we both get laid. You then, wake up tomorrow with a renewed energy to study to your political philosophy exam, and you get a perfect score as you always did⌠before herâ
âDo you truly think getting laid will help me study? You are so delusionalâ He shakes his head as he searches for his last essay to have something to study.
âOuch, rude.â You state âBut it will help. She broke your heart!â Your whisper is loud, as if scolding him. âAnd you are miserable for it, if you donât believe me, ask your fingers; if they are not too busy bleedingâ You add sarcastically.Â
He squints his eyes at you, and he sighs. You were insufferable, in more than one way. But most of the time, you were right. In an odd and annoying way, you were right. He wasnât concentrating, at all. No matter how hard he forced himself, it wasnât working.
âIt is clouding your mind. You have to get rid of the problem by root; you either let your frustrations go away, or we just gonna have to kill Alysâ You say shrugging.
âAbsolutely not.â He says and he rolls his eyes.
He looks at how you really want this, and he sighs. Maybe he could do something that could benefit you both.Â
âMaybe I could invite them to our study sessionâ He says, almost instantly regretting his choice, but you seem too excited to care.
âOh⌠Thatâs brilliant!â You say excited and you lean to kiss his cheek in excitement, and you lean back.Â
âIâll invite Jace, and tell him to bring his friend group. The northerner will be thereâ He added.
âThat is brilliant, truly brilliantâ You repeat, and he has to roll his eye at how amazed you seem by his ideas. âWe get to study, and then get laid.â
âItâs a study group, not an orgyâ He clarifies.
âI know, imbecile. I mean, study⌠and then after, Cregan and I go to your roomâŚâ
âABSOLUTELY NOTâ he clarifies very quickly, and someone also shushes him. âIt's going to be in Aegonâs house. I am not risking my own home for people to come, besides, Vhagar hates visitsâÂ
âWhatever, it is so exciting!â You say clapping happily as he collects all his papers and books, and the same student at your side tries to shush you again. âIâll invite Floris and you Creganâ
âYou just want to get laidâ Aemond says in a sigh.Â
âYou do tooâ You say, smirking. âFor stress relieving purposesâ
The thing that Aemond finds annoying, apart from your obnoxious talking, is how indecisive you were sometimes. You would worry and obsess over the smallest details out of control. And it probably bothered him because he was the same.
Much hours later, he was sitting on your bed, as he checked his phone. The photo of him and Alys was still one of the last things in his gallery, and he often looked at it, looking at her smile, at her eyes, and how her hand rested on his leather jacket. He looked happy; as happy as Aemond can look. She has her typical red lipstick, and her hands with the perfect manicure that he liked when scratched his hair.Â
He sighs, and he bites his lip without knowing what to feel, he hates her, he misses her. But he knows it is for the best to let her go.
âDo not tell me you are looking at her photosâ You say on the other side of your dorm, as you apply the last parts of your makeup.
âCanât I miss her?â He asks you.
âYou can, and you will. She was your girlfriend.â The little shrug and how you look away knows you are not teasing him as usual. âYou werenât on the same pageâ
âHow can someone⌠old can be so⌠indecisive and not know what they want?â
âOld but immatureâ You say, rolling your eyes. âI am not one to hate women, you know it is not my style, but I swear, that woman..:â
âI knowâ He says, turning off his phone, and he turns his head to look at you. âDo you think I'm over that so fast?" he sighs, feeling a little bit of relief as she is serious about the matter. Even if she always teased, she was a good listener when needed. "I don't know what is wrong with me. I miss her, and every time I see a woman I compare them to her" he mutters rubbing his eyes a bit.
âI have been thereâ You say as you keep applying some blush on your cheek, looking at yourself in the mirror as you keep the conversation flowing. âIt is not the end of the world. It sounds mean, but⌠Nobody died, the world didnât explodeâŚâ
âI knowâ he murmurs, and he sighs. âBut I miss herâ he insists.
âOh, yeahâ You roll your eyes as he clearly didnât hear anything you said at all, turning your head to face him. You smirk almost mischievously as your eyebrows raise a bit âPoor Aemond, missing his sugar mommyâ
âShe was not my sugar mommyâ
âShe was the grandma to your Aaron Taylor Joy. The Elvis to your Pricilla, the⌠Woody Allen to your⌠I donât know the name of his stepdaughter.â
Aemond has to laugh at that, because as ridiculous you were, you always made him laugh with your stupid things. It makes him feel better, because he is always serious, and you are so unserious.Â
âShut upâ he says laughing a bit, and he sighs, feeling slightly better.Â
âPoint is, she is much older and you are much⌠inexperienced in the field.â You say with a nod âAnd you are far better not having to live up to her expectationsâ His hum is the only thing he does, and at least you know he heard you.
âI thought you liked her. When we were together you always were friendly, sharing makeup and stuffâ He murmurs.Â
âI am always going to be a friend of your girlfriends, and a hater when they are your exes.â
You stand up after finishing your makeup, trying to look tidy and clean before the mirror, and you accommodate your hair so it looks fine. It is a bit endearing how you try to look as best as possible, as you reach for perfume before applying it from head to toe.Â
You look amazing, he has to admit. You wear a green skirt with a black tie front top, very revealing in his opinion, but it was still cute. You even took the time to search for a headband to match it all, which made him chuckle a bit. Even your makeup noted the effort you put into this outfit, and he knew very well what you wanted; to get laid.
âSo, I thought that maybe the heels were too much, but these boots are really..â
âWe are just going over to study⌠Wait, are you ovulating?â He asks, looking at the date on his phone, and he looks at you.
âMaybe? Are you asking me that because I wanna get laid?â You say unsure why he asks. âShut upâ you murmur amused at the idea.
He knows you are, for sure. He wasnât too sure what the effect of ovulation was on women, but for some reason, they were always hotter in those days. At least, you were right now; your figure was well defined, he could even swear your breasts were rounder and firmer. His fingers tap his own thigh as he thinks deep about it, as you ramble about your outfit.
âI can see your assâ He says, looking at you.
âThatâs the whole pointâ You add moving your top a little lower, so your boobs are practically spilling out. âTo make him drool for meâ
âIn a study groupâŚâ
âIf I like a man, I wanna see him hard just from the sight of meâ You clarify as you accommodate your hair.
Aemond is not listening to you. You move slightly as you look in the mirror, and the way you lean to make sure your tits look decent, tempting but not obscene. He has a good view of it, your tits are definitely different. Is it because you are ovulating?Â
Because you look absolutely gorgeous, showing skin yet it isnât so indecent. Suggestive? Yes. But it doesnât make you look bad. It is reasonable. Why do you look so good, though?
âI think I know what is missingâ You say as you walk to search for one of your favourite earrings.Â
As you lean to grab your earring, you quickly put them on and you nod at yourself; you look good. You like it, you feel confident enough to go to a man and flirt.
âWhy are you looking at me like that?â You ask, feeling Aemondâs eyes bore into your skin, and you look at his reflection in the mirror, and he looks back at you.
âLike what?â He asks in a raspy tone as he accommodates in the bed, sitting with open legs as he plays with his phone in his hands.Â
âI donât knowâ you shrug. âIs it so bad?â
âHorribly badâ he says, trying to tease you but it sounds strangled and you nod satisfied.Â
As you finish some touches on your outfit, you look at him and nod, â I am satisfied with thatâ
He hums, using his phone once again and seeing the image of Alys that was still there when he unlocked his own phone. She was radiant, of course. She was always so⌠Convincing. But for now, at least, it isn't her who he lusts after. It feels a bit like a betrayal, even if he wasnât hers and she wasnât his anymore. Yet⌠he does not feel guilty.
âOne would say that at the seventh time you would have learned somethingâ You say teasingly, and you are quick to move and grab his phone from your hands. âTo delete the picturesâ
âGive it backâ he says trying to grab his phone, quickly standing up and moving his hands, following yours as you try to dodge his attempts. âIt isnât funnyâ
âIt only hurts you, you look like a wet puppy-â
âI donât want to let her goâ
âYou mustâ you insist and he has both arms at the side of your waist, his hands trying to grab his phone behind your back. âLet me delete them. You clearly canâtâ
âNoâ
âYou need itâ
âIt is the only thing I have leftâ He insists, a bit defeated by it all, he was stubborn (As you also were)
âTrust meâ you say softly, looking at him with your kind eyes. Kinder than his ever were. âTrust meâ you repeat looking at him.
He sighs, his body against yours and his arms grabbing your wrists. He lets go of his firm grip, but he doesnât move. He looks at you, with deep eyes and lost in thought. Maybe too close, for your opinion, since his chest practically presses against yours and his breath hits your own face.
âI donât want to be here when it happensâ he murmurs.
âWait in the car thenâ you say looking at him. âIâll delete most of them. Wonât take me more than five minutesâÂ
âDonât inscribe me in a essosi gay porn site or something, my mum would kill me if she ever-â he says looking at her with slight worry.
âGoâ you insist, taking his phone in his hands.
His lockscreen was a picture of Vhagar, the little grumpy thing frowning as much as a cat can, even if it is adorable it was still just a quick change from the Alys wallpaper.Â
Aemond is probably the most organised person in your friend group,so when you enter his gallery you see all the carpets with photos.Â
Alys pops up first, as her name started with the first letter in the alphabet. You look at the photo in the cover of the file, and you roll your eyes at the photo. You press the file and it is all photos of her, some with him, some alone. You press one, of where he seems all smiles and she kisses his cheek, and then you select all of those and you sigh.
It was even hard for you, it felt a bit wrong. But you just press delete all the files, and then all 148 photos and videos are gone. You watch the album disappear and back the rest of the albums.Â
There was one of you.Â
You frown a bit confused, and there are a lot of moments with you that he organised. You can see some of the photos of the plates you eat together and you posing at the background, ruining his photos (as you like to call it)
There are some selfies, and some photos of you, totally unaware of his doing, you have to giggle a bit, because probably half of them you looked terribly, but you knew he was a gentleman enough to delete those ones
And there is the video.
You do not recognise what it could be at first, the photo of the preview was oddly just the ceiling and the top of his silver hair. You frown confused, because it was mildly recent and you do not remember a video. Aemond wasnât a fan of videos either, he preferred the immortality of photos.Â
You hesitantly press it, and the video starts as Aemond sat on his couch. Was it his apartment? Yes. By his clothes, you knew that he came right after the gym. He was wearing that tight black shirt and his sweatpants.Â
âTisâ stupidâ he murmurs as he sits, and he sighs. You see how he accommodates the camera on the coffee table in front of the couch, and he takes a bit to get it at the right angle. You donât understand much, as the angle only shows his lower body part, from his torso to his knees.Â
Once you understand, he is already lowering his sweatpants to his knees, and he sighs. You freeze in place as his very prominent erection comes to light, almost jumping once free from his pants, and he is quick to grab it with his hands, just taunting it softly.
âIâm really hornyâ he says and he chuckles a bit, embarrassed, you could tell. He was a bit awkward as he presented his erection to the camera. âFor you, reallyâŚâ He admits in a low murmur.Â
You really donât see what happens with his hand off camera, but he then starts to slowly caress his erection. That man, your best friend. And you are paralysed looking at that. As he whimpers and masturbates for a camera, his pale skin from his thighs and abdomen showing, and you could see the ring with dragon scales that he never takes off.Â
âThatâs itâ he murmurs in a low tone, almost muffled by the microphone as he leans back on the sofa, showing you more of his chest and part of his chin, as he licks his lips. His hands stroke his cock softly, as you can see his right hand goes down to fondle his balls, as the palm of his left hand moves to the tip of his dick and starts moving around it.
Itâs⌠weird, to say the least. You never saw, or thought about him this way. Okay. Scratch that. You never had entertained the idea of him doing this. The idea that Aemond⌠could be hot. Of course you knew he was hot, but it was different seeing him masturbate as he whimpers and fucks his hand for a camera. And it was⌠strange. The pleasure accumulating on your belly as you heard him curse. It felt⌠betraying. Somehow.Â
âFuck, Alys-â
You instantly pause the video at that. The name of her is like a bucket of cold water thrown at you, and you snap back into reality. You can feel your cheeks red, and embarrassment floods your senses. Almost trembling, you close all applications and then sigh.Â
He must have organised it wrongly. You are sure of that. Maybe he meant to delete it? And accidentally ended on your carpet? Weird, but somehow ended there. He must have not meant it, of course⌠It wasnât like a tribute to you, probably meant for Alys, since he obviously moaned her name and talked to the camera as if putting on a show.Â
Ew. Alys really managed to convince the reserved Aemond Targaryen to do this? You are actually quite intrigued and a bit impressed by her.Â
Once you enter the car, Aemond is resting his head back on his seat, and he barely opens his eyes to look at you, barely turning his head to watch you.
âAnd?â
âI successfully did the task. And now you joined the Nightâs Watch, so donât worry about thatâ
âHa haâ he says, taking his phone back, without more suspicion he just puts it in his pocket. You blink a bit looking at his arms and his lap, and you turn your head to the road.
You two stand in silence as the short drive to Aegonâs apartment, and since Aemond gets brotherâs privileges, he totally uses Aegonâs parking spot.
âAnd his car?â You ask, confused as he parks in the place that clearly has an â22Fâ and not the one for visits.
âYou think that he still has a car? He probably already crashed it while drunkâÂ
âTo be fair, I didnât know what I expectedâ you shrugged âAnd I suppose that his careerâŚâ
âYep. He dropped out of Graphic design.â Aemond says without much care, since everyone was used to Aegon just dropping out of college each week. He turned off the engine and looked at you. âSo⌠Cregan Starkâ
âYes, Cregan Starkâ you say, as it is your main goal for tonight.Â
âWhat is your plan?â He asks leaving the keys in his pocket as he turns to look at you still, the car was off but you two stayed there.Â
âWell, I go there and I greet himâ
âUh huhâŚâ
âNo, no, your nephew. Yeah, so you present me to Jace. And you ask him to present me to CreganâÂ
âBut⌠what about the impressions?â He looks at you expectantly âYou donât want to be the weird friend from my best friendâs uncleâ
âWell, I canât just⌠go there and throw myself at him.â
âOkayâ He says resting his hands on his thighs, and he taps them âPretend I am Creganâ
âThat is so lameâŚâ
âWe did that when I wanted to talk to Alys, remember that you pretended to be her?â He says with a smirk, and he looks at you with a nod.Â
âLook where it got usâ You murmur and he rolls his eyes âFine, okay, Iâll⌠stay thereâ
You step out of the car and sigh. Luckily, there was no one else in the parking lot to judge your weird tradition. You play with the door handle and pretend that you are truly going to talk to Cregan Stark.
âHeyâ You say sitting and looking at him.
âHeyâ Cregan would say. You move your hair a bit and you smile a bit.Â
You present yourself and extend your hand, and Cregan would shake it. He was surely very polite, you both knew. So you continue.
âI just saw you from afar and wanted to talk to youâ You start saying, as your fingers play with the edge of your skirt as you look at your lap. âLike, outside from the study session, of courseâŚâ
âYou have to look at himâ Aemond murmurs, stepping out of character.Â
Right. âYou surely have seen me in some of Jaceâs parties, and in some classesâ You add.Â
âOh, yeah. I remember his Sevenmas partyâ Cregan would say, and crossing his arms.Â
âYeah! You rememberâŚâ Your voice is more light, and you would look at Cregan. âI had a good first impression from youâ
âFrom accidentally throwing Jaceâs Sevenmas tree downstairs?â Aemond Cregan would laugh, and you laugh a bit as he leans back on his seat, his hands in his pockets. He is attractive, and you press your thighs together as you accommodate in your seat as well, your body turning to face him even more as your attraction increases.
âIt was a bit funny, but it wasnât⌠It was a human mistake. I thought it was cuteâ You say with a thin smile.
âYou helped to clean that mess, if I recallâ He would point out.
You nod. Even if the real Cregan doesnât know that, because he was not aware of what happened after he threw it, since he was very much intoxicated and they took him to another room. Aemond and you helped Jace to clean the place.Â
âI assure you it was nothing.â You insist âI saw you in the campus another times, and I never had the courage to get closer to youâÂ
âOh, why is that?â
âWell⌠You donâtâŚâ You hesitate to open your feelings, but fuck it. âYou donât seem the type of men that like girls like meâ
âGirls like you?â
You nod and smile a bit embarrassed, looking down at your lap. âWell, You are obviously out of my leagueâ
âI wouldnât say soâ His voice hesitates.Â
âI would. You are like a superstar in College. I am not.â You shrug a bit, and hum in deep thought.Â
âMaybeâ Cregan would say âDoesnât feel like itâ
âYou surely are after pretty girls, like⌠Cassandra Baratheon or.. Elinor Masseyâ
âI am looking at a pretty girlâ His hand reaches yours, and you look up. His hand is warm, much bigger than yours and very comforting as he squeezes your a bit. Not Cregan, but Aemond. âWhat makes you think that I donât like you?â
You blink, a bit unsure. âIâŚâ
âBecause I certainly like you very muchâ Aemond goes on, smiling very subtly, but it was very alluring to you, and his thumb caressed the back of your hand. âYou certainly are a beautiful woman. Who wouldnât want you?â He asks, leaning a bit closer to you and you look a bit hesitant.
âYou must be jesting with meâ You add, trying to remain confident, but Aemond was doing his doings.Â
âI certainly am notâ
âThen I must insist on kissing youâ You add reincorporating and also leaning close to him. âIt would be a waste if notâŚâÂ
Aemond smirks, and his breath hits your face. You knew that he smoked as he waited for you when you deleted his photos, because he smells like cigarettes. You look at his face, his eye looking at your lips and then at your eyes briefly. You both look at each other as your breath and his are practically merging.Â
âIsnât it logical?â You murmur, looking at his eyes, and tauntingly you move your chin closer.
You would kiss him right here and now. You remember the video, how you could see his pretty lips and the whimpers that came out of it. How his big and firm hand caressed his cock, up and down and how his abdomen tightened thanks to it. How his balls seem so full and ready to cumâŚ
 He smirks. âIt sounds like itâŚâ
His phone rings.Â
You two separated, breaking off the fantasy of it. You sit paralysed in your seat, looking at the other cars parked horrified.Â
It was your best friend. Yes,you knew he was hot, you knew he was attractive and you certainly know how perfect his cock is, in more than one way. But we are talking about your Aemond. The one who wiped your tears away and the one who would pass book summaries for classes, and his notes for shared classes when you fell asleep.Â
âAegon wants me to⌠uh, buy somethingâŚâ He says, a bit awkward as well, as he doesnât look at you, but just assumes you are hearing. âSo⌠Iâll go, you can go up and wait there, yeah..â
Once you step out, you would hope for something else, but he just closes the door as you step out and he leaves in his car.
Other times he would give you Aegonâs house keys, for you to enter normally and do whatever you wanted, since you get brotherâs best friend privileges. And Aegon never denied you hanging in his house.Â
So that is how you find yourself in the middle of the room with a terrified look as you look at the group of people seated in Aegon's living room.
âHey, Aemondâs shadowâ Aegon teases you as he stands up from the couches, and you look at him, a bit embarrassed since all of Jace friendâs
âMânot his shadowâ You say trying to defend your image in front of the group.Â
âYou definitely areâ He says amused âNothing to be ashamed of, darlingâ
âOh, shushâ you say hitting his shoulder âHave you started studying, anyways?â You ask him curiously.Â
âHe told me you wanted to meet Cregan Starkâ He whispers close to you, almost too nonchalantly to your taste.Â
âWhat, but⌠b-but Aegon, youâll embarrass me!â You whisper in panic, as he drags you along, but he shakes his head.
âAemond told me all âbout it. Donât worry, youâll be fucking him before you realise it. Iâll even let you fuck in my bedroomâ he whispers in your ear before practically pushing you into the living room.Â
You frown a bit disgusted at the idea, and you hit his shoulder again. He could be very charming and fun, but you knew Aegon and his weird fixations. Who knew, maybe he even had a camera in his bedroom and you certainly didnât want him to see that.Â
That reminds you of Aemondâs video. Gods be good, you say as you have to blush a bit at the memory.
âHere she isâ Aegon says amused, and you tense your shoulders. Jace greets his uncle and you look at Cregan more shyly than you anticipated.âYou sure met this lovely shy flower?â
You cringe at how he presents you, this is exactly why you wanted Aemond to do this job.
âOh, yeah, yeah you helped me clean my Sevenmas tree when Cregan threw it downstairsâ Jace recognizes you and you nod, giggling.
âYep, it was meâ
âUgh that was so embarrassingâ Cregan groans and you laugh a bit.
âit wasnât as terrible as you thinkâ you shrug.
âYou just broke the millennial seven pointed star from my great great great⌠great great great grandfather Jaehaerysâ Jace says, mocking him.
âIâm pretty sure you exaggerated the âgreat great greatâ grandfather partâ
âIt is old as fuckâ Aegon confirms with a nod.
âYou wouldnât know a relic even if it was in front of youâ Sara mocks him. Aegon rolls his eyes as he goes to open the door of his house, since his other cousin, Baela also was invited.
âOh, this is Sara, my sisterâ Cregan takes advantage of Aegonâs disappearance and introduces her to you, and you introduce yourself to her with a smile.
âLovely nameâ she says smiling to you.
âShe is my uncleâs best friendâ Jace adds and Sara knows in acknowledgement, she then looks at both and asks.
âWhich one, the hot one or the other?â
âThe hot oneâ you respond with a confident nod.
âThe other oneâ Jace contradicts you and you both look at each other blinking.
âOhhhâ Sara says a bit confused, amusedly as she looks between you both.
âWait, you find Aegon hot?â You ask to Jace with a face frown
âHandsome in comparisonâ He clarifies making room for his dignity âAnd you find Aemond hot?â
âIn comparisonâ You reply back with the same words. âHe is my best friendâ
Once you are all together, you think how silly this is. Studying together, how an awful excuse to get closer to Cregan. Aemond comes in some minutes later, sitting by your side on the couch. He doesnât talk much as he takes out his books and notes.
âFloris, you cameâ you say as she was the only stranger in the group, and you make a space between Aemond and you, after all, you were playing cupid too. âSit here!â
The thing with study groups is that everyone is on a different boat. You didnât have many complaints, you have the same class but on other days, so you just swallow information as Aemond, Jace, Baela and Cregan are the ones more interested in the concepts since their exam is earlier than yours.
You watch Cregan speak, and how he is a bit wrong in central ideas, which Aemond is quick to point out, but you try to correct him smoothly and without making him feel useless.
At one point, you all agree to give up and ask for a pizza in the break, and after it to keep study (Thatâs what all study groups say before doing the opposite)
In the break, you can hear how Aegon, Baela, Jace and Sara are in the kitchen. Fighting with Aegon as he makes the call for the pizza, screaming at him how they do not want any pineapple on it. Floris has gone to the bathroom, and Cregan went to the balcony to smoke in peace.
You look helplessly as he leaves, and soon Aemond is talking to you.
âAnd?â he asks curiously, looking at where Cregan disappeared.
âHe hates meâ You tell him, looking at him with a sigh âHe clearly has no interest in me, I didnât know what I expectedâ
âI told you Aegon would fuck thing upâ You roll your eyes and cross your arms.
âIt is not fucked upâ You add, stubbornly. âI still have a secret weaponâ
âShowing him your tits doesnât qualify as a secret weaponâ
You hum in annoyance and decide to subtly change the subject âAnd Floris?âÂ
âToo⌠perfectâ He murmurs, not looking at you âI should go back to her.â
You look at him incredulously and hit his chest âToo perfect?â You ask with a snark âJust⌠hook up. She wants toâ You shrug and pat his back
âFine. Iâll hook up with her. Do not ask for a ride, because Iâll be busyâÂ
âHopefully, I will tooâ You say, excited at the idea âI'll be with him. Can you handle me a fag?â You ask.
âYou donât smokeâ He says incredulously at the idea that you would fake smoking for a man.
âUgh, fine, Iâll have to ask Cregan, how badâ you say mockingly as you stand up with a smile and walk to the balcony to open it.
Cregan is there and he turns to look at you. He acknowledges you with a nod, and you smile shyly as you close the sliding door.
âHey. Care to share with a poor lady?â You say
He chuckles and handles you the cigarette, now minding to look at you as he leans on the balcony to look below at the ground. You put the cigarette in your mouth and before you can cough, you throw the air out. A pathetic attempt, but Cregan was not watching you anyways.
âI thought.. I thought you went to Winterfellâs Uniâ you say looking at him, leaning on the balcony too as you pass the fag back to him. âSince, well, your family basically founded the institutionâ
âOh, yeah, yeahâ He says in a raspy tone as he scratches his beard a bit, crossing arms as he leans against the balcony to face inside of the flat, watching how Floris comes back from the bathroom. âBut, Jace did two semesters there, and so as his best mate, itâs my turn to do the semesters⌠hereâ Cregan says with a nod.
âOooh, how fancyâ You say without really knowing what to say. With Aemond it had been easier, you just talked to him and flirted with him naturally (Because he was just acting as Crean, no other reason), but with the real Cregan it was awkward. âAnd⌠ehm, do you like it here?â
It was painfully and horribly awkward. You were tense, and more than attracted to him, you looked terrified.Â
âYeah, yeah, College is fine, I guessâ He shrugs, not really immersed in the talk as he smokes looking at the inside of Aegonâs flat.
âWe⌠We actually share another classâ You dare to speak again âLogical thinking, Wednesdays in the morningâ you say looking at him with a bright smile.Â
âDoes he always look at you like that?â He asks, pointing at the living room with his cigarette, before smoking another puff.
You turn your head to look where he pointed out, and you blink a bit. Aemond looks at you as Floris Baratheon is talking to him, she wears a pretty floral yellow dress and her long dark hair is loose. Floris has always been as beautiful as kind, and you know she has been interested in Aemond long enough. Not a crush, youâd say, maybe for a hookup. Â
âHe is just looking after meâ You clarify looking back at Cregan.Â
âHmâ he says, the cigarette on his lips, he lets out the smoke.
Cregan either didnât care about Aemond, or he just ignored him, as he passed his cigarette to you, not looking if you properly smoked it.Â
âThank you, you didnât have toâ You say smiling to him, and you hear how Jace and Aegon talk about drinking some vodka or tequila to âsuppress the stress in the roomâ
âIt was no problemâ He says, with a chuckle looking inside again âYou like vodka?â
âA little too strong for meâ You say with a laugh.
âOhâ He says looking at you âWell, in the North you can buy one basically in every corner. More when it is Winterâ
You blink a bit, and you nod. Did you just fucked up? Because you remember how offended Aemond was when you told him Dragons werenât that cool. Maybe it was the same for Cregan⌠You look at him, and he is inside once again, not really minding at you.
âI am sure in the north it is more tastyâ You try to save the situation, and you briefly look at where Floris is, but not at the sight of Aemond. âWhich is your favourite flav-â
âDo you know Alysanne Blackwood?â He asks suddenly, and your cheeks burn due to that.
âOh?â You ask confused.
âI do not mean to be rudeâ He adds, looking at you âYou are a lovely lady, but you see.. I am after another girl. Like Jaceâs uncle is after youâ
âAegon is not-â
âThe otherâ He says as if it was obvious. âAnd I have been wanting to get with Alysanne for a long time, do you know about her business with Frey's girlfriend?âÂ
You blink confused at him, and you shake your head slowly.
âNo, not reallyâŚâ
âOh, a pity. Jace and I have been dying to know about it, to know if she is single, I mean. And if she is interested in men as she is to women..â From the start of the conversation, this is the most he has talked about. And it didnât involve you. But his crush who he was after.Â
âI am pretty sure thatâŚâ You say looking at your hands, a bit nervous âThat Oscar Tully must know, he is into gossip and-â
âThank youâ Cregan says smiling to you, before patting your shoulder and leaving you alone at the balcony, as Jace calls his name from inside to decide between vodka or tequila. You remain confused, ashamed and a bit awkward.
You walk inside to spot Floris once again. She has a juice glass on her hand and she is talking to Baela, both sitting on the couch, but you didnât see Aemond.
âHey, Floâ You say, patting her shoulder, and she smiles as you join them. âHave you seen Aemond?â
âAemond?â She asks with a laugh, and she shakes her head âHe wasnât that interested in me, yâknow, like I even offered to go to one of Aegonâs rooms, but he wasnât in the mood.â She shrugs nonchalant, because that was Floris, she never made a deal if things didnât end up happening.Â
âOhâ You say, a bit confused. He said he was going to go with her. âAnd he didnât say..?â
âNopeâ She shrugs âMaybe Aegon knowsâ
âIf he is not too busy fighting with Jace about the drinks. ThanksâÂ
As you pull Aegon aside, you can see how Jace and Cregan take out the vodka drink from Aegonâs collection and they offer it to everyone (Which is only the other three girls, but it was a majority)
âNo idea. He said he was going to go to the gym, but I donât think so. He took his cigarettes, so probably smokingâ Aegon shrugs, as he makes himself a drink with tequila (You are very sure he got the measures wrong, because no drink has that much whisky) âMaybe he is in his car, texting Alys like the sad meow meow he claims to beâ
You roll your eyes, but you thank him. You leave the apartment, in a different way you thought you would be leaving. Hopefully, with Cregan it was your bet. Now, it was all alone and in search of Aemond.
Once the lift leaves you on the parking floor, you walk a bit to encounter Aemond, his back leaning against the copilot's seat by his car, his phone on his right hand and a cigarette in his mouth. He doesnât look like someone who was at a party, less someone who seems to be having fun.
âHeyâ You say softly, finally speaking in a normal tone after so much noise.
Aemond looks up, frowning to see you in front of him like a wet puppy. âWhat are you doing here? And Cregan?â
You sigh, and you look at the ground. You tried, so hard. You did all kinds of juggling, for nothing. He wasnât even interested in you, the whole time.Â
âHeyâ He says as he throws his cigarette to step on it, and he saves his phone from his pocket, two steps and his arms are all around you, hugging you safely in his chest as his chin is in the top of your head. âItâs okay, itâs okay..â He says soothingly, rubbing your back as if he knew you would cry.
And you normally wouldnât truly, but his soothing actions and caring nature makes you a bit more vulnerable than usual. Not crying, but you feel more disappointed as he tries to make it better.
âHe is an asshole, you will get over him..â He says softly âItâs fine, do notâŚ, Iâm sorryâ He says rubbing your back
âTis not your faultâ You murmur as you lean your head on his chest.
âI shouldâve been the one to pair you with him, not leave Aegon to itâÂ
âIt would have gone horribly anyways.â You say, passing your arms in his waist to hug him back. It was nice to have him close and hugging you. âHe is just⌠Not interested in meâ You add, a bit frustrated. âBecause I apparently suck and am the most boring girl everâ
âYou are notâ He says sternly, moving a bit back to look at you, and you look up at him âYou donât say that, you areâŚâ He looks at your face, as if finding words as he tries to remember each tiniest detail of your expression; how your eyes look up to him, how your mouth is like a pout, and how your cheeks are a slight shade of pink. âYou are incredibly amazing.â
You look at him for a moment, both of your faces so close and you look at his lips. He was so charmingly handsome, and the way he comforts you makes you feel secure enough to gain some confidence. And for him⌠he couldnât bear it any longer, he canât physically hold back.
The kiss you two share is maybe purely impulsive, or maybe it is the consequence of a long shared tension between you both. But at the moment, neither of you pay any mind to the fact.Â
In his arms, he has caged you and his hair briefly falls,touching the sides of your face and some of your cleavage. You squeeze him a bit in your embrace, kissing him back eagerly and it is slow, passionate and something that it was obviously longed for.Â
Aemond moves your hair to take it in his hands, his fist grabbing a handful of your hair as he moves his arms away from the hug, now holding you to stay as he deepens the kiss and his (and your) desire grow and grow.Â
Maybe you both didnât want to stop the kiss not to face the consequences, how kissing a friend would potentially ruin your friendship, and nothing will ever be the same. You certainly donât want the after talk about it afterwards.Â
âMhmâ Aemond says as you both separate. âThis is much better, Yeah?â He says nuzzling his nose in your cheek as his voice is like soft silk. You were a bit confused of this all, of this weird way of comforting you. âYou made sure to look so beautiful for a useless boy, mhm? Cregan Stark cannot call himself a man when he cannot appreciate a pretty girl like you.â He says softly, his hands caressing your back, and going down to the lower of your back, where your naked skin shows.Â
You are a bit confused, still leaning to his affections because damn  if they arenât nice. Your body practically craves it, part as to why you were so looking forward to getting laid.Â
âAemond, weâŚâ
âShh, I knowâŚâ he murmurs as he leans to leave a little kiss on your neck. âBut⌠we had a goal for tonight, hm? Didnât we?â His tone is soothing, almost hypnotic. âIt could do good for usâ He adds softly, moving your hair to plant another kiss on your neck.
âWe⌠we are best friendsâŚâ You say, a bit worried about ruining it. There was a clear difference between platonic and other feelings, romantic or sexual. And as clear as it came, it was also very thin.Â
âThis is only a one time thingâŚâ He murmurs, his hand still caressing your back and waist. His head slowly rises from your neck to look at you with his eye full of lust and starving desire. âFor stress relieving purposes, yeah?â
You are convinced by his words, because Aemond could always be convincing enough. You knew that, but you also knew that you longed for him. It was as if all the day was aimed up to this moment; the video, the small tease in the car and now this kiss.Â
You quickly realise that you want him, as much as he seems to want you. At the same time, you both need it. Alys, Cregan, the exams and all had you on your nerves. It was like walking in eggshells around the other, because your body and mind couldn't take a break after one thing, because in fact, life never waits for you to recover, just goes on and you are expected to go along on or get lost in the way.
âYeah. yeah, fuck meâ You murmur in his lips as now it is you who kisses him back, pressing boldly your body to his, as your hands move away the hair from his face. He still smells like cigarettes, and his scent is masculine, maybe the new cologne that he bought a few weeks ago. The way that he grabs your waist, pulling you closer to him was almost desperate, almost as if he never wanted this to end. He is craving it, he is starved.Â
He basically handles your body to the copilotâs seat, pushing it all the way back and lowering the backrest a bit lower, but not too much. He sits on it and practically drags you to his lap as he desires, closing the door behind you. You have to lower your head a bit, but he takes no time in passing his hands under your shirt and all the way in your back.
âYou are not wearing a braâ he notes looking at you raising his eyebrows.Â
âDoesnât the buildingâs parking lot have cameras?â You ask looking out the windows.
âAnswer meâ He says, looking at you. âYou are not wearing a braâ
âNo. The shirt is a bit tight on the chest area, it basically is like a push-up..â You murmur looking the other way âAre you sure that there arenât anyâŚ?â
âI donât careâ He murmurs, his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you against his chest, as he kisses and nibbles your neck. âI hope they do. We could have a sextape of this momentâ He says smiling as he moves lower to your collarbone.Â
âAemond!â You say a bit flustered, and his hot kisses feel so good in your skin, and you move your hands to grab his hair.
âYou make me so hard, I cannot hold back anymoreâ He says desperately, moving your chin to share another kiss between you both. You were as desperate as him, but you were more subtle, he thinks, because he knows you well.Â
He knew that you were cautious, following his lead. You might be confused, and a bit hesitant to ruin your friendship with him. But not doing this probably will do, he is sure of that.
He takes your hand and moves it to the bulge on his black pants, and you look down. Gods, even when clothed, his cock was huge. You had seen it in video, but touching it and looking at it, made you drool. You looked at him, and he was staring at your eyes, pink cheeks as he looked flustered.
âYou make me so hardâ he murmurs, looking at you âSo, so hard. Your slutty green skirt, and that shirt that barely hides your tits, Gods woman, you were right, you could make any man drool for youâ he says moving the hair out of your face.
âI wanna suck youâ you murmur, your eyes hesitant and almost innocently looking at him. Fuck, he could cum just at those words coming out of your mouth.
You accommodate as you can in the floor of the car, a bit awkward and your upper body forcefully is forward, right at the height of his cock. You look up at him as you unbuckle his belt, the little metallic sound makes your pussy more wet, as Aemond looks at you almost amazed.Â
He lifts his hips as you lower his pants and underwear, his dick jumping free, standing fully hard and leaking a bit of precum at the tip, which is a little red and it is a bit swollen. It was better in person.Â
You lean a bit, as you spit on the head of his cock, and pass your hand through it, as Aemond lets a low âFuckâ as his hips tense and hesitates, as if he was holding back.
âCregan Stark doesnât deserve youâ He says as your hand goes up and down on his cock, and you look up to him. He likes it, how powerless and innocent you look sitting between his legs and stroking his hard cock. It makes his ball tighten more. âLook at you, a needy girl for a cockâ He says moving his hand to caress your cheek, and his thumb caresses your lower lip.Â
Your lips encircle around his thumb, and suckle just a little bit, as your hand keeps stroking his dick, slowly but firmly. Your pussy is aching with need, one of your hands barely touches your pussy over your panties, and you melt a bit as you suckle his thumb.
âI love your cockâ You admit, looking at him with needy eyes, and he knows your words are sincere. âTis better in real lifeâ
Aemond frowns as he tilts his head, confused as to what you mean. âHm?â
You donât respond, as you stroke it and move to leave little kitten licks in the top, but he moves your chin away, as you forcefully try to get back to sucking his dick.
âNo, tell me what you meantâ His voice is like one when scolding a child, but you shake your head, trying to get your way. âDonât be a bratâ
âI saw it beforeâ you say, moving his hand away, and he doesnât make it go back. âIn a video, earlier. It was in your galleryâ
He realises what you mean, and he slaps your face slightly with his right hand. It wasnât harsh, but you realise two things. The power this man had over you, and how much you liked that fact.
âNeedy whoreâ he murmurs, looking at you, and you almost whine as he slaps your hand away from his cock. âIt was not meant for you to seeâ
âIt was on the carpet with my name!â You say to him.
âYou touched yourself while seeing that video, hm?â He asks, leaning a bit, sitting back as his face is over yours. You almost whine again. âYour pussy was always so needy for my cock, hm? You couldnât even get closer to Cregan tonight. If he was the one fucking you right now as you slutty brain wanted, you would still be thinking of my cockâ
You lick your lips as his eyes are penetrating on yours, and you don't respond to his words. It may be a harsh truth, but how it turned you on.
âLittle needy thing you areâ He murmurs, leaning back again so he can rest against the back of the seat. He takes his dick on his hands, and smirks mischievously as he slaps it on your check. âNeedy for this? This is what you want?â He mocks you as he slaps his cock in your cheek and closer to his mouth.
âYesâ you murmur blushing and trying to lick it as he does so, and he lets a shake breath at your naughty action.
âOpen your mouthâ
He grabs your hair again in his fist, the same hair he saw you so dedicatedly to make sure it was perfect, and he lowers your head to suck him off. Your throat takes his cock as he bobs your head, moaning breathlessly as he uses your mouth for his pleasure.
And you love it. His hips start to lowly thrust in your mouth, abusing your throat as he looks down at you. You looked so hot, so perfect. He didnât know how you two didnât do this before.
âYeah, just like thatâ he murmurs fucking your throat before he lets you breathe a bit after so much time without air. You feel as if those minutes were barely seconds as you sucked his dick. âCome here. Take off your pantiesâ
You donât have to be told twice.
He lifts up the end of your skirt, as he holds your waist a bit. He looks at you, and his thumb moves to clean the drool in your chin.Â
âThere is⌠there is a condom behind youâ he murmurs and you tilt your head âthere are condoms in the glove compartmentâÂ
You frown, but you take one off, and Aemond is the one to put it on himself, while you watch âHow optimistic to save condoms thereâ you say smirking a bit.Â
âOh shut up. Look, it serves for something nowâ he says smiling as his hand caresses your thigh. âI will prep youâ he murmurs, moving his fingers closer to your centre.
âNoâ You stop his hand and you look at him. He frowns, and of course you want his fingers on your pussy. âI want your cock betterâ
Now he doesnât have to be told twice.
You two accommodate as you can, he helps you lower your hips in his cock, and you hold from anywhere you can, really. The sting is pleasurable, and you donât mind it, not when Aemond has you so wet and aching for this. His hard cock fills you slowly, but it was so pleasurable feeling how it opens you to take it.
âI donât think this will workâ you murmur, and he opens his eye to look at you.
âWhatâŚ?â
âI cannot⌠My head hits the ceilingâ You say as you have to lean your head to the side to sit properly on his lap. He looks at you, and he chuckles amused. âIt is not funnyâ
âIt is!â He argues back, laughing as his hands rest on your thighs, and you slap his chest playfully. âCome here, Iâll manageâ he promises.
You sigh amused and you lean forward, pressing your chest to his as he wraps his arms around your waist. You pass your hands to his shoulders and look at his face that is so close to yours.
âNow, it is more comfortable?âÂ
âYeahâ you say looking at him âBut I also feel watched, since I can see the window by our sideâ
âGods, womanâ he says playfully slapping your ass, which makes you jump âJust ride the dickâ
It was your Aemond. You know, because you donât think you have ever been so comfortable having sex. It was natural, and you didnât feel judged by him. He was your best friend,
Your hips go up and down on his cock, and your little moans are right in his left ear, delighting him as your pussy stretches as you ride him. Your moans are more like sobs, and his hands go over to your ass to help you lower yourself on his cock.
One of his hands moves to the knot in front of your tie front top, and he grabs one end and once it is open, he moves his mouth to eagerly suck on your tits.
âAemondâ Your whimpers come as he starts nibbling on them, and your moans are more desperate, and your cunt squeezes his cock harder.Â
His hands go back to your ass, and he spanks you as you let a little whine in full pleasure. He made sure to stimulate you whenever he can, and he is succeeding.
âYou are a needy slutâ he murmurs looking up to you, and you nod.
âYeah, yeah, pleaseâŚâ
âOnly for my cockâ he adds, and he slaps your ass again, forcing your hip to stay still on his lap âNot Creganâ he adds âNot anyoneâÂ
âAemondâ you whine, winning another spank.
Now his hips start to thrust in you, making you whine and moan again, your body limp as you lay atop of his chest. He always knew you were a pillow princess.
âWho is making you feel this good?â His voice is a grunt, as he moves his hips up and pulls you down to meet his thrusts.Â
âYouâ you moan, and he groans as your pussy feels so warm, and perfect.Â
âAnd who am I?â
You hesitate to answer the philosophical question, unsure what his point was.
âWho am I to you?â He asks again.
âM-My best friendâ you answer as he spanks you once again, the slap stings in your ass, moaning as your head rests on his shoulder, moaning right on his ear.
âYeah, yeah, your best friend is making you cum, hm?â He says smugly, as he moans a bit more.
Again, hearing him moan and whimper on a video is one thing, but in real lifeâŚ
âFuck, fuckâŚâ He says as he starts to feel close, his head leaning back in the seat and he turns his head to his left to look at you, your face on his shoulder and your left hand grips on his right shoulder.
âI am going to cumâ you say almost submissively, he finds it so hot.
âI knowâ he says equally without breath.
âYou make me feel so goodâ you say, your breath hits his face as he does the same on yours.
âYou do too. So good, so perfect. You are nothing less butâ He starts to ramble a bit, and you whimper as you press your forehead on his shoulder, looking down a bit to see how his dick fucks you.
As you cum, moaning loudly, and your forehead almost nuzzling on his shoulder, he feels his balls tightening more and more, slapping your ass a few times more as you whine from it. Your body is almost limp, and you creaming on his cock has to be one of the best feelings ever.
His cum comes hard and intensely, just as Aemond was overall. You wish there wasnât a condom in between, but it was equally as good. You look at his profile as his mouth opens as he cums, his eyes closing shut as he spends on the condom.
You two fall into silence, still against each other, sweating and tired. The windows were all soggy and you giggle a bit without breath, at how insane this is.
âWhat are you laughing about?â
âNothingâ you say.
âLittle minxâ he says smiling as he looks at your face.
âSo, are you more clear of mind to study?â
âI am so going to fail that damn examâ he says with a chuckle, as he looks in front of him and moves some wet hairs out of his face. âGoing to be thinking of your pussy all testâ
You have to chuckle a bit, and you sigh. âMm. Maybe.â You say with a smirk.
âBut⌠if we go back to my place, and I fuck you properly on my bed, as you read to me all the concepts, I might pass the testâ
You sit straight up, and slap his chest playfully. âFine, but only because you are so stressedâ you say mockingly and he nods, as if he was miserable due to it.
âSo, so stressed. How lucky I have my best friend to help me with thatâ
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Chapter 4 | Aucades fortuna juvat
Fortune favours the bold
18+ fic, minors do not interact!
Chapter summary: Aemond needs your help with something that involves his doctorâs practice and sensitive information you are not allowed to look at.
(edited)
Chapter warnings/tags: Mentions of death, corpses, dead family members, mention of dead child, inaccurate medical procedures, blood, maybe ooc Aemond???, reader not being able to mind her own business
if any of these things are not to your liking/ are triggering i recommend not to read it!
Word count: 2.8k
Rigor Mortis Masterlist | Main Masterlist
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â
âI really donât understand why you would need me, my prince-â
âAemond, you should call me Aemond.â
âI really donât understand why you would need me, Aemond.âÂ
Honestly, he hadnât even told you why he needed you as an assistant. He was a surgeon, he should be able to do things himself. You followed him through the long winding hallways of the castle, he was walking rather quickly. It confused you to no end. What was he in such a hurry for?Â
âKingâs Landingâs first surgical theatre has opened and they have asked me to perform.âÂ
Gods, you really hoped it wouldnât be you who ended up on the operating table.Â
âThat sounds like an honour.â
âIt is.â
His body was so stiff as he walked. Could he beâŚno..
âYouâre nervous.â You pointed out before you could stop yourself from saying it. Aemond stopped dead in his tracks and turned to you. His body language was definitely stiffer than before. He didnât seem agitated but almost embarrassed that he got caught.
âI am not.âÂ
Oh, he definitely was.Â
You stopped yourself from saying more that could possibly agitate or embarrass him further. You were his future wife, you should start acting like it! You quickly gathered some confidence and spoke up.
âI think itâs normal to be nervous for such things-â
âI am not nervous.â He interrupted you with a small scoff. Gods, he was stubborn.Â
âRightâŚâÂ
Without a word Aemond continued to walk to his practice and of course, you followed you. You made a mental note not to point out his possible insecurities for a while.Â
The two of you arrived at his clean practice. You had seen it before but it still surprised you. It was less messy than that time you had seen it on his little tour. Except for his desk. He had a small adjacent office that was separated by a wall and a rather large window. Through the window you could see the books, files and letters scattered around as if he was desperately trying to figure out what to do with them.Â
âI need someone to organiseâŚthis.â He motioned at his office behind the glass window. He couldâve had a maid doing this but instead he wanted you to do it and you couldnât wrap your head around as to why.Â
âI have a last minute surgery planned for this afternoon. Your handmaidensâŚthey told me you kept your room organised, so I need yourâŚhelp.â It was very clear to you he absolutely despised the word âhelpâ. He said it in such a unique way that you had wondered if he had ever asked someone for help in the first place. You werenât surprised though. Aemond seemed like a person that wanted to do everything on his own. Still, his sudden request was suspicious. He barely knew you, let alone trust you. Â
Was he testing you?
âOf course, I would love to help.âÂ
He nodded and took off his long black coat. He hung it over the wooden coat rack in the corner of his practice and led you to his office. He wore a simple plain black vest with black buttons and a simple white shirt that puffed out at the bottom of the sleeves. His new short hair suited his choice of clothing well. His stature was straight and stable. His vest accentuated his back well and you and to mentally scold yourself to stop staring at it.Â
âThese cabinets are for patient files, you mustnât read them under any circumstances.â He told you as he showed you the half empty wooden drawers. The rest of the files were scattered around the offices on various surfaces. You still couldnât wrap your head around it. How could someone like Aemond, who kept his practice so incredibly clean, neat and organised make such a mess of his office? It simply did not make any sense.Â
He continued to explain where to put the books and other various things that were scattered around. You couldnât focus on his voice, you were too busy analysing the mess in his office. It didnât look like it was made in a fit of rage, Aemond clearly wasnât a slob either. The mess looked tooâŚstaged to be genuine.
This was a test.
What kind of test, you did not know. At least you knew it was one.Â
âMy patient will be here soon.â
You nodded and watched as he left the small office. You could see everything through the window of his office. The metal operating table shone brightly in the sunlight. His practice was an unique room. It had large, tall windows that overlooked the Blackwater Bay. The ceiling was made out of glass, you suspected it was modified so that the room would be bright enough for surgery. You had heard of it before. Hospitals all over the realm had their surgery rooms on the top floor so they could make a ceiling out of glass. Of course, in a castle as large as this one it would be quite difficult.
You watched as he laid a white sheet over the metal table, blocking the bright reflection of the sun. He took out his instruments and when he laid the bonesaw on the smaller table next to the operating table you glanced away, hoping he wouldnât have to use it on his patient. You instead, gazed at the âmessâ in the small office. The walls had a brown, plain wallpaper and you suspected the floor was made out of hardwood. All of his furniture matched and the space lacked any decorating if you did not count his degrees that hung framed on the wall behind his desk.Â
You gathered all the papers that were scattered around the floor on his dark hardwood desk. The desk seemed new and modern, it had drawers on both ends of the desk with gold coloured handles, though, judging the fortune of this family you wouldnât be surprised if it were actual gold. From the corner of your eye you could see the patient entering his practice. It was Ser Criston who escorted the man, they couldnât let a stranger wander around the castle of course.Â
Aemond talked to his patient, they even glanced at you a few times as you tried to get some structure in the mess. The patient changed into his scrubs and laid on the metal surgery table. Out of instinct you turned around so you wouldnât have to see the procedure, you could later claim you wanted to give the patient more privacy. You opened the drawers and started sorting the patient files like your father had taught you how to organise important factory files. On alphabetical order and from up to down. Once that was done you glanced at the other folders. Some were financials, others death reportsâŚlotâs of death reportsâŚ
Oh you knew you shouldnât look into those
But you really wanted to
He did say he didnât want you looking into the patient files, he never said anything about the death reportsâŚright?
You glanced out the window and immediately regretted it. Aemond had just made an incision across the entire chest of the patient. A few nurses had come in while you were working, they wore long white scrubs that were already stained with the blood of the patients. Some of the nurses giggled like schoolgirls when Aemond addressed them and a flare of jealousy soared through your body.Â
âDumb girlsâŚâ You thought in anger and let out a small huff. You gazed back at Aemond, he wasnât paying attention to you, neither did the nurses. You looked through a few death reports. You found Taylaâs certificate pretty quick, it was the one on top of the pile, the most recent one.
You glanced over your shoulder again but quickly turned your head around with regret. Of course your betrothed was pulling aside the skin of the patient.
You opened Taylaâs file, there wasnât much information. There was a small sketch of the human body with two black dots on the eyes. Aemondâs handwriting was difficult to read, doctorâs handwriting..classic, but the small drawing clearly indicated the injuries on the body.Â
It was strange, you knew it was always this way but it still seemed strange to you. How can someone die of just having their eyeballs taken out? That made absolutely no sense. You decided to read more but much was blacked out. The strangest thing was the cause of death being blacked out. To you, it would be loss of eyeballs or even drowning but if Aemond filled out something elseâŚ
Then he must know what happens to the victims.
After digging through some more death reports you had quickly realised the ones with a simple turquoise circle stamp were the victims of the Blackwater Bay. You started to put them aside and organised the normal files first. Thank the gods Aemond wrote dates on them all. You organised the normal files in alphabetical order and when that was finished you could finally tackle the Blackwater Bay reports.Â
You put them all by date first, longest ago on the bottom and the most recent one on top. While you were sorting it out you noticed a large gap in dates. There was a large gap that lasted from 1865-1969. A four year gap. The older death certificates before 1865 were written in a different handwriting than that of Aemond. Curiously you opened a file to see who it was signed by.
Name: Bor WatersAge: 40/41Date of birth: //?//?//1810Date of death: 30-09-1841
Cause of Death: blacked out
Signed by: Dr. Otto Hightower
Otto Hightower? Aemondâs grandfather?
You opened the drawer with the normal death reports and searched from one with a date before 1866. It was again signed by Otto Hightower. Perhaps Aemond took over the clinic from his grandfather?
It would certainly explain how the Hightowers had gotten to know the Targaryens. He mustâve been their personal physician. You wanted to ask Aemond about it, but then he would know you had looked through the reports. Perhaps you could ask Helaena, she was kind, even with her queer quirks. Then again, she might tell Aemond about it.
Aegon then?
You really didnât want to ask Aegon for help.Â
You sighed and glanced over your shoulder again. Aemond was stitching the patient back up, that meant he would be finished soon. At a rapid speed you organised the rest of the folders in the hardwood drawer. While you picked the last one up a name flashed by. A familiar name.
You halted your movement and looked at the folder with the light turquoise stamp on it. The date and name written with a shaky handwriting, but still readable, handwriting.
Daeron TargaryenYour heart started beating faster and faster. You knew you would be imposing on some very personal information but you had to know. Your curious nature couldnât be contained in that moment, even if you knew you really shouldnât look.Â
Name: Daeron TargaryenAge: 12
Date of birth: 23-03-1853
Date of death: 11-04-1865Cause of death: blacked outSigned by: Dr. Otto Hightower
You didnât know how long you were staring at the file but all you could think about was Daeron.
He was dead. He died when he was only twelve.
Gods, how old was Aemond back then? Fourteen?
Helaena mustâve been fifteen thenâŚand Aegon seventeen. That is too young to be losing a loved one, especially a youngest brother. Your hands were still trembling as you read it. You closed the folder again, you couldnât bear to look any longer at the human shape with its eyes crossed out. It was disturbing to think a grandfather had to fill out his grandsonâs own death report.
âWhat are you reading?â
Out of instinct you turned around and hid the file behind your back. There stood Aemond with a large scowl on his face and his white apron coloured red from his patientâs blood. You hadnât even heard him enter the room. You could feel the blood rushing to your face while you made eye contact with your betrothed.Â
âLook, I can explain-â
âI told you not to read the files.â
âI was only curious-â
âThose are confidential.â
Aemond kept interrupting you. You could see how hard he was trying to stay calm. His arms were stiff at his sides and his hands were trembling.
You really, really, really messed up.Â
âI know, I-.â You stammered awkwardly, there were no excuses you could make. Claiming you were curious would only worsen the situation.
âIâm sorry.â You replied and stopped hiding the file behind your back. You knew he would find out sooner than later and it would be best to be cooperative if you wanted to salvage any sort of bond the two of you previously had.
You held out the file to Aemond so he could take it from you. You felt sick in the stomach. You knew you shouldâve minded your own business. You shouldâve never looked, then maybe you couldâve prevented having to hand your betrothed the death report of his twelve year old brother.Â
Aemond snatched the file from your hand and walked around you to slam it on his desk. He took the apron off and threw it in the corner of the room and sat down in the leather desk chair.
âLook, Aemond-â
âYou have done enough.â
His words were cold and stern. He was really upset.
He harshly pulled one of his desk drawers open and pulled out a small box filled with a few glass eyes. All you could do was stare as he tried to take out the glass eye that matched his eye colour. His frustration only grew when it wasnât budging like he wanted to.
âFuck!â
He slammed his fist on the table, his breath was heavy from the anger and frustration that was only building up in his body. He hadnât dismissed you yet, that had to count for something, right? Your legs moved on their own while you slowly approached him. You made your way around the desk and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He didnât shrug it off, he didnât seem to get more angry. That was good.
âLet me help.â You offered kindly, your voice was soft and caring. You felt incredibly guilty, you were the one that put him into his mood after all.
âYou donât know how to do it.â He grumbled in anger.
âTeach me thenâŚâ
Aemond was silent for a moment. It seemed to last forever but he finally turned his head to face you. There was an evident frown on his face and he let out a deep sigh.
âYou shouldnât have been snooping through my files.â He told you sternly.
âI know, I am truly sorry.â
He paused again.
âAre you going to explain to me why you did it?âÂ
You nodded and told him. You told him about seeing Daeronâs name on a door. You told him about listening in on the conversation between Alicent and Ser Criston, about how Ser Criston had nearly caught you and how Aegon had basically saved you by pulling you into Daeronâs room unseen.Â
Aemond shook his head in frustration and pinched the bridge of his nose.Â
âYour curiosity is going to kill you one day.â
âI know-â
âListening in on my mother, the queen?â
âI know, it was a stupid idea and I wonât do it again.â
Aemond sighed again and glanced up at you.
âCuriosity kills the cat.â
âYou really donât have to remind me.â You awkwardly replied.
Aemond urged you to come closer so you did. He took your hand in his and gently squeezed it.Â
âNo more snooping around and no more reading any of my files, understood? Normally I would never make an exception like this but you are to be my wife and I suppose I can understand why you did what you did. Promise me you wonât do it again and we can start over.â He asked you sternly, though, there was a certain sense of softness in his voice that you hadnât heard before. It was a strange but welcome change.Â
You nodded in response. âI swear I wonât.â
Aemond nodded, he seemed not to fully trust you yet but he left it at that. He let go of your hand and you strangely missed the feeling of his much larger hand being wrapped around yours.Â
âI must admit, I have been quite secretive. I have kept you in the dark about important things that you should know if you become part of this family.â
WellâŚhe was right about that.Â
âI promise, I will tell you soon.â
Aemond sighed again and firmly nodded, you thought it was mostly to himself.
âNowâŚhelp me get this damned eye out.âÂ
â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â â
Taglist:
@helaenaluvr @saltedcaramelpretzel @certifiedhaters @imawhorecrux @jbaby2
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hockey aemond unfortunately he will never leave my mind
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