#aegon ii targaryen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceoofglytchell · 3 days ago

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To be the Thorn to a Rose

Summary: Aegon knows only that he will marry a lady of great beauty, a flower of House Tyrell. He is certain that he will find nothing but misery in this union, until he finally meets his betrothed and everything changes.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Tyrell!betrothed!Reader

Word count: 3144 words

Warnings: fluff, a bit of humor, Reader has Tyrell features, longing, aegon’s mommy issues, alicent being mean, brief talks of abuse (from otto and alicent), hurt/comfort, soft!Aegon, no mention of Y/N

Notes: This is based on this request. I changed a thing or two, but I hope you’ll like it! Likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy ��

Aegon always knew he would marry a lady his mother would choose for him, not because he fell in love.

Love was a rare concept among couples these days. Did his mother love his father? Probably. Yet they hadn’t loved each other when he had taken her as his wife twenty years ago.

He knew such marriage alliances were forged to merge great houses and their bloodlines and to show strength, but it still didn't seem fair to him.

Yes, he enjoyed having a lot of sex with all sorts of women, be they were ladies in waiting, maids or the whores out in Flea Bottom.

But the thought of a future bride he didn't know, with whom he would spend his entire life, who would give him heirs, and who would most likely hate him, was more than a little frightening to him.

"Who is she?" Aegon asked his mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, after she told him of the marriage plans one sunny afternoon.

"Lady Tyrell of Highgarden. She is said to be beautiful, kind, and loving. Also very popular with her people. They say she goes out every Sunday to deliver bread to the townspeople."

Gods, have mercy on him...

His promised wife was apparently everything he was not. He was neither kind nor loving, and he certainly wasn't popular with the people.

Aegon was a drunkard, quick to anger and rebellious.

He could still remember the day he cut off his then-long, wavy hair. After Driftmark, he had simply needed a change, and it came in the form of copious amounts of wine and many nights out in the taverns and brothels with his companions.

When he had returned to the Red Keep the first thing in the morning and greeted his family at breakfast, Alicent had slapped him in the face, and Otto had dragged him back to his chambers by the collar.

They had called him a rabid dog. Chaotic, restless, and out of control.

And now someone like him was supposed to marry such a beautiful flower as Lady Tyrell?

No. Out of the question.

He couldn’t and he wouldn’t.

That thought had firmly settled in Aegon's mind... until the day finally came when he was allowed to meet you. And from then on, everything changed.

Your father, Lord Lambert Tyrell, rode a white horse in front of the carriage containing you, your Lady Mother, and your two sisters. You had no brother. Or rather, not yet, because rumor had it that your mother was with child again, even if she was past her prime.

Prince Aegon stood with his family in the courtyard of the Red Keep. His mother and grandfather had forced him to dress up, which is why he now wore his finest green doublet, his boots were polished, and his silver hair was neatly combed.

Queen Alicent stood beside him with her head held high, and every now and then he could feel her scrutinizing gaze on him. A gaze that made him feel small. Her dress was as green as the leaves of the King's Wood, and her fox-red hair was tied back in an elaborate hairstyle. A necklace with the seven-pointed star of the Faith of the Seven also adorned her neck.

At her side stood his younger sister Helaena, who was examining a small blue butterfly that had just landed on her hand, and his younger brother Aemond, who was staring fixedly at the ground and looked as if he wanted to murder someone.

His father, King Viserys, was, of course, absent in his condition. His old man often stayed in bed these days, where the maesters cared for him.

Oh, he loved this family.

The carriage doors opened, and suddenly it felt like the sun was shining brighter.

You were breathtaking.

In a pink gown with floral embroidery and long, wavy hair, you stood between your sisters and your mother. Like a brilliant red rose amidst pesky weeds.

He swallowed.

Aegon had considered so many possibilities beforehand. If you had been ugly, he would have simply told you, and you would have hated him, and everything would have been fine. But you are not ugly.

Apparently the gods were punishing him, for you were by far the most beautiful lady he had ever seen.

He hated it.

"The Lady Tyrell!" announced one of the bannermen of your house.

You stepped forward, and with every step you took toward him, the prince could feel his throat tighten. He couldn't breathe. He hadn't expected you to have such an effect on him.

If you had been any of the ladies he had a glimpse of in the castle, he wouldn't have hesitated to try to woo you and lure you into his bed, just so he could find someone else the next day.

But you weren't just any lady.

You were his future wife, the future mother of his children.

He couldn’t use you like that.

When you finally came to a stop in front of him, you bowed deeply and smiled at him with a warm, inviting look in your eyes. His heart leaped, and he didn't know how to react. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, and he knew she already believed he would ruin this marriage.

"My lady," he finally greeted you, giving you a small bow of his own.

There was no kiss on the hand, as expected. He had forgotten.

"My prince," you replied in a sweet voice, and in that moment he realized that you were indeed not untrue.

You were not like the others with their feigned smiles, their bold touches, or their provocatively low necklines. You were genuine.

But above all, you were kind, and that wasn't something you often found within the walls of the Red Keep.

"I hope your journey was pleasant?" he asked you, trying to sound polite. The perfect son and husband, just like his mother had always wanted.

Your smile widened, and there was a sparkle in your eyes that he had never seen before in any woman he spoke to. Joy.

"Yes, very much. But I must say, I already miss the gardens of my home. The scent, the colors... Nevertheless, I believe I can find my place at your court," you answered him gently.

Immediately, an idea planted itself in his mind. You missed the flowers? He would give you some.

He needed to prove to you that he wasn't just a drunkard and a disappointment. Perhaps then, once you were husband and wife, you wouldn't hate him completely.

"We have gardens as well. Sure, they will never get close to the beauty of the gardens in Highgarden, but I would still offer to show them to you?" he suggested with a shrug, as if it were no big deal and just something mentioned in passing.

"You would show me the gardens?" you asked him, blinking as if you couldn't believe it.

You had been told so many bad things about the prince beforehand. You were told that he was constantly drunk, that he always carried a glass of wine in his hand, that his hair was never combed, his clothes were never clean, and that he was always chasing the nearest skirt.

But the image you just got of him was a contrast to that.

You didn't see the prodigal son or the drunken prince, just a man like any other. A man you would like to get to know better.

"Perhaps you could let the lady inspect her new chambers first?" Queen Alicent suddenly interjected. "I am sure her journey has tired her out, and some rest would do her good."

Aegon and you were both about to object, but your father suddenly chimed in: "An excellent idea, Your Grace. We will rest first, and then we can break bread together."

You nodded obediently and curtsied again, this time to the queen, before disappearing into the castle with your mother, father and sisters.

Aegon sighed and was about to go back inside, when a hand suddenly turned around his arm.

"You are too hasty, Aegon," his mother reprimanded him.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What had he done wrong now?

"I just wanted to show her the gardens?" he replied questioningly.

"Which is something you can do after breakfast, too. She will be resting today, and in the evening we will have dinner together. Until then, behave yourself, do you hear me?"

He stared down at the ground beneath his feet. The biting edge of his mother's voice cut him as deeply as the sharpest dagger.

"Yes, Mother," he finally replied.

The Green Queen turned and disappeared into the castle corridors, whereupon Aemond followed her, and finally Helaena turned away as well. But not before muttering one last sentence:

"Flowers take time to bloom."

At dinner, he was drunk. How could he be otherwise? His mother's words had cut him deeply, and he couldn't help but devour one cup of Arbor Red after another.

You were sitting right next to him, and he just knew you were disappointed in him, too. You had to be. What lady so beautiful, pure, and kind would ever want a man like him? A drunkard and one that was useless.

You deserved better than this. Better than him.

Your sisters often whispered in your ear, and he knew it was about him. His terrible manners, his behavior, everything. You whispered back, and he knew you hated him. What else could it be?

What Aegon didn't know, however, was that you constantly contradicted your annoying sisters.

"He is drinking again," Flora whispered to you, rolling her eyes. She clearly didn't like your betrothed.

"With this family, I probably would too," you defended him, looking at her with eyes as piercing as if they were daggers.

Flora pursed her lips and shook her head. "I cannot understand why you like him."

For a moment, you looked at your future prince-husband. The expression on his handsome face was blank, and his gaze was distant, even as he stared into the dark red liquid in his bronze cup. The circles under his eyes were deep and dark, and his shoulder-length silver hair seemed uncombed, with a few strands falling wildly across his forehead.

He seemed sad. Lost.

You wanted to see him when he was happy.

You would tend him like one of your beloved roses in the garden your father had planted especially for you at home, and which your sisters would hopefully take care of in the future. And maybe, just maybe, he too would finally bloom under your care.

After dinner, the prince stumbled down the corridors toward his chambers. His vision was blurry, the world was spinning, and he felt so sick he was afraid he might empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest flower vase.

His hand stroked the cold, stone wall of the castle, which now felt more like a cage to him than anything else. He needed some form of support, because without it, he would probably fall to the floor without being able to stand up on his own.

It wasn't the first time this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last.

Suddenly, the wall he was holding on to ended next to him, and he could make out the outline of stairs on the floor in front of him. He took a step forward, but before he could stumble and fall down the grand staircase, a gentle hand wrapped around his arm, and he felt someone gently pull him back.

"You must be careful, my prince," you said gently, and he could feel a shiver run down his spine.

You were being gentle with him. So loving. Almost... motherly.

"I need to—my chambers," he stammered drunkenly, about to move on, but you gently pulled him back. You certainly didn't want your betrothed to fall down the stairs and die.

"I will accompany you, my prince. Let me help you."

Before he could even say a word for or against—although he would never have objected—you took him by the hand and led him down each step one by one. You kept telling him he was doing well and not to rush, as you would still need him. It made his heart race.

No one had ever cared for him like this.

At some point, you reached his chambers and you slowly led him inside. His rooms were messy and unclean, but that didn't bother you at the time. You could guess why he was doing this.

His family had placed a chain around him from which he couldn't escape.

The alcohol didn't help, but it seemed as if he still needed it to numb his senses. You hoped that one day he wouldn't need the bottle to escape his duties.

You hoped that one day you could take on that role.

You gently led him to his bed and chuckled as he flopped onto the mattress like a sack being tossed onto the pantry floor. He mumbled something, and you understood.

First, you slowly removed his boots and placed them beside his bed. Then you helped him slip out of his doublet, which you folded and laid on a chair. You placed his tunic right next to them, as well as his belt. You left his trousers on, not knowing how he would react, if you would touch him this way.

"Do you need anything else, my prince?" you asked him solicitously, but you received no answer. Not even a murmur.

Instead, you heard a soft snore, and you sighed.

With quiet steps, you approached the bed and looked down at the sleeping Targaryen. His features were relaxed, and he seemed to be sleeping calmly and peacefully. It suited him well.

You would love to see him so relaxed during the day.

You leaned forward carefully and stroked a silver strand of hair from his forehead ever so gently. He had his demons, but he was admittedly so very beautiful.

An angel in the sheets.

With a sigh, you finally got up and left his chambers so you could go to bed yourself. The day had been long, and you, too, were exhausted.

Aegon awoke the next morning with a throbbing behind his forehead and a great deal of confusion spreading within him.

He didn't know how he got to his chambers, nor who had undressed him. For a moment, he thought he had shared a bed with someone, but no woman lay beside him, and the sheets weren't dirty either. So he hadn't had a rendezvous.

Sitting up, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and let out a long, hearty yawn. But then his gaze fell on the small table that stood beside his bed. Instead of a bucket of wine, which should have been prepared, there was a cup of water and a small pink flower lay beside it.

It was you. You, his future wife. You, the woman he had thought would hate him.

You had cared for him in a way his mother never had. Your sweet, gentle nature was something he had never encountered before, but he wanted to experience it anew every day.

He barely knew you, and yet he was now certain that he loved you. He couldn't help it. Who could not love such a wonderful being as you?

And so he set out to find you.

He found you in the gardens of the Red Keep. The sky was clear, and the sun fell in soft rays onto your face, giving you an ethereal glow. Your hands stroked some of the rose petals, and you leaned closer to the bush to smell them. The smile that then formed on your face made his knees go weak.

What had he done to deserve a woman like you?

He approached you with slow steps, holding the flower you had left on his nightstand. The crack of a branch under his boot finally betrayed him.

"My prince," you said happily, beaming at him.

"My betrothed," he replied, giving you a small, uncharacteristic bow. He held out the flower for you to take.

A blush bloomed on your soft cheeks as you took the flower from him and tucked it behind your ear. The petals were the same color as your dress, which framed your body in such a way that he wished to worship you like a goddess.

"I wanted to apologize to you for last night," he began slowly, careful with each word. "I acted like a fool."

"Yes, you did," you replied in your soft, almost melodic voice. You expected something more.

"I have embarrassed and disgraced myself. I beg your pardon, my lady. Sincerely. From the bottom of my heart," he tried, holding his breath.

It was only a few seconds of silence, but to him it felt like an eternity.

But then you took a step toward him. And then another, and then another, until you had to tilt your head back slightly so you could still look into his eyes. Although not much, you were still a little shorter than him.

"I wish to be a good wife to you, Aegon," you began. "But in return, I would like to call you a husband I love and enjoy being around."

For a moment, Aegon didn’t know how to react. He wanted to jump in pure joy, take you in his arms, kiss you, push you against the nearest wall to show you how much you already meant to him, but instead he just stared at you.

"Aegon?" you asked carefully, placing one of your delicate hands on his arm. The gesture sent a spark through his entire body, a flame that would never go out.

"What do I have to do?" he asked instead. "Please, I want to be good. I want your love, your trust. I want you."

Your hand slid gently down his arm, and Aegon felt as if he had reached the arms of heaven. Finally, you intertwined your fingers with his and squeezed lovingly.

"If you declare me worthy of your love and affection, then I would gladly have it," you answered with a smile that melted his heart.

He nodded immediately and brought your clasped hands to his face, where he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. After all, he had missed it during your first meeting.

You, too, leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to the back of his hand.

He smiled at you, and you smiled back.

And when he leaned in and his lips brushed against yours in a feather light kiss, you and he both knew that your marriage would not be a disappointment.

He would prove it to his mother. He would prove it to you.

And he would be the best husband you could possibly have.

For you.

His love, his beautiful rose.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x female reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #tom glynn carney

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 days ago

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A Curse [Chapter 11: Westchester]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death/hospital stuff, a Targ family gathering!

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

In the darkness of your nightscape bedroom—plumes of neon and incandescence floating beyond the window like man-made stars—you read Becca’s Instagram posts and blog entries about how brave Aegon has been in the wake of his diagnosis, and between the lines of course is her courage too: the caretaker, the self-sacrificial curator, the saintly hands his demise has been entrusted into, his long slow disintegration until only the bones are left, no memories, no dreams, no future and no past.

The last weeks of August float away like a balloon, carried high and quick into a sky that is dizzyingly hot and so bright it stings the eyes. On sidewalks, you hide under the shade of palm trees. On lunch dates with Chloe—running lines, trying perplexing new foods like escargot and sea urchin, giggling over celebrity gossip—you ask for tables inside or under the refuge of patio umbrellas. Each night in your apartment that Aegon now pays your half of the rent for, religiously deposited in your bank account by Brandon at a least one full week before it’s due, you lie in the bathtub reading the movie script or books on the Gilded Age until the water turns lukewarm and steam glistens on your skin; and into these infinitesimal black-ink worlds you disappear, a new name, a distant time, a different man who has stitched himself to you with dissolving threads.

Now you are in Chinatown with Aegon, and the ember-colored oscars are murderous and darting back and forth as he skims his fingers across the top of the tank, and you have devoured your moo goo gai pan but Aegon has barely touched his boneless spare ribs. His is listless and distracted. Strands of sandy blonde hair are falling out of their gel to rest across his forehead. There are dark shadows like smudges of ash under his eyes. Your own eyes are adorned with shimmering dusty rose powder to match your sundress, three shades blended together, all by Urban Decay: Liar, Stolen, Right Time.

“I really think you should see a doctor,” you tell Aegon, not for the first time.

“I might,” he says absently, still tormenting the oscars.

“It can only help at this point. They could confirm the diagnosis and get you on a treatment plan. I’ve been researching it and there are drugs that suppress tremors, and physical therapy, and antidepressants...and oh, these things called ‘dopamine agonists’ that are good for motor functions...and they even have Huntington’s support groups!”

Aegon sighs.

“If you make an appointment, I’ll go with you,” you say. “Any day, any time, I don’t care, I’ll go. I’ll reschedule whatever else I have on my calendar.” Workouts with your personal trainer, meetings with your dialect coach, calls with Dusty or Santi or anyone else from the film, outings with Chloe, a life that is growing abundant and bright like a full moon.

“Maybe.” Then Aegon studies his Chinese zodiac calendar, an attempt to change the subject. And you’ll let him; you don’t want to spend the time you have left arguing. “What year were you born?” he asks, as if you’ve never had this conversation before. “Which animals is yours?”

And instead of being offended, frustrated, startled, you just force a smile and hold up your hands in the shape of claws. “I’m a dragon, Aegon.”

He leans in close to read the description: You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Then he laughs. “Oh yeah, of course you are. Sounds just like you.”

“And you’re a horse.”

“Do you like horses?”

“I like one,” you say, and Aegon grins and offers you a forkful of his boneless spare ribs, dripping viscous red sauce like bad blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, August 30th, and the wedding is exactly one week away. The Targaryens are throwing a bon voyage party for Aegon at their Malibu beach house, something planned a month in advance, although it has a certain somberness to it now. Alicent keeps dabbing at her large dark eyes with a green handkerchief, collecting herself, crumpling into tears again. Guests are murmuring gravely about their vague, archaic memories of Viserys: Saw him in a wheelchair a few times...then he just disappeared...never really asked...a Hollywood legend like that...wanted to respect his privacy...such a lovely family...how awful they’re going through this all over again.

Aegon has dispatched Becca to ready the new house in Houston, a project that she is posting about on Instagram with great frequency and euphoric triumph; she has been given a vital task. If she suspects his true motivations for wanting her two time zones and 1,500 miles away, she gives no indications of it. In Becca’s absence—and much to your own surprise—you are Aegon’s plus one on this hot, golden afternoon as salt-smelling wind blows in off the Pacific Ocean and children splash in the pool.

As your floral yellow sundress billows and the breeze tangles your hair, you smile and chat with the series of guests that Aegon introduces you to, distant relatives, industry people, the new agent he keeps trying to offload you onto, a bookish young woman named Kristen who is perfectly polite and surely very knowledgeable and yet not the one you want. Kristen didn’t agree to sign you when no one else would. Kristen didn’t put her knuckles into the wall of a Beverly Hills mansion for you.

Several of the party guests recognize you from the Maroon 5 music video and congratulate you on your starring role in your upcoming indie movie, which has just been publicly announced. Each time the conversation drifts towards Aegon—his misfortunate diagnosis, his exodus to Texas—he steers it back to you. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, of course, or his situation, or the fate that awaits him in Houston, and that’s part of it; but he’s also proud of you. He’s taking full advantage of one of his last chances to advocate for you. He’s going down swinging.

Now Aegon is eating hors d’oeuvres with his other recent clients, Steve, Fatima, and Angus, all of whom have found new agents with Aegon’s assistance, and you are sitting on the ledge of the swimming pool with the hem of your dress tucked under your thighs and your legs submerged to the knees. Helaena has children, which isn’t something Aegon ever mentioned before; there are four of them, wreaking havoc in the pool as they play volleyball with their friends, hurling a beach ball back and forth over a miniature net. You are keeping score for them and serving as the cheerleader, which is much preferrable to making small talk with self-important industry executives or listening to people sigh over how selfless Becca is for assuming this burden.

Aemond wanders over to you, dressed in his version of casual: a full suit, but beige instead of black or navy. He doesn’t say anything. He observes the kids playing for a while, though you have the sense he isn’t really seeing them. You peek covertly at the scar that cuts down the left side of his grim face, and you remember what Aegon told you about Viserys: He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye.

“You’ll watch out for him, right?” you say anxiously to Aemond. “Even when he’s in Texas?”

He gives you an impatient look, like you’re stupid for asking. “I’ll always make sure he’s taken care of. There’s nowhere he could run that would be far enough to keep me away.”

You are relieved. “Good.” You glance over at Aegon to check on him; he is still mingling with his former clients, and he seems happy. Then you find Alicent in the crowd. She is ever-encircled by Helaena and Daeron, who appear to be trying to distract her. The beach house is besieged by blue balloons. A DJ is playing artists that you recognize from Aegon’s extensive Spotify playlist: Alanis Morissette, Pearl Jam, Third Eye Blind, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“I really wish he’d see a doctor,” Aemond says after a while, his voice low to be discrete. “We have great specialists here at Cedars-Sinai.”

“He has an appointment on Wednesday morning. I finally got him to make one.”

Aemond stares down at you, mystified, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m a client.”

“Yes, I know that,” Aemond says; again, like you might be a little slow. “Why do you always know what he’s up to? Why does he care what you think? He doesn’t care what anybody thinks.”

You aren’t sure how to answer. You avoid the question by lobbing away the beach ball when a child’s spike sends it hurtling at you.

“He talks about you a lot,” Aemond says. “He insists that you’re a good actress. He asks me to help you. And then he forgets that he asked, and he asks again.”

“I don’t know why he cares what I think.”

“Sure you don’t.” Aemond’s brow is furrowed and his eyes narrowed: one real, one eternally unseeing. “Are you going with him on Wednesday?”

“I am,” you admit.

“Give me your phone.”

You comply immediately, digging it out of your floral Patricia Nash purse. Aemond Targaryen is not an easy man to refuse. He types something quickly as he stands beside the pool. One of the children giggles as they swim up to the edge and splash him with chlorinated water, wetting his beige suit and brown leather Gucci shoes. Aemond sighs irritably.

“I put myself in as a contact,” Aemond says when he returns your phone. “After his appointment, call me and tell me everything the doctor said.”

“Okay.” Aegon probably wouldn’t approve of that, but it’s good for him.

Then Aemond does something unexpected. He reaches out to you, and for a second you instinctively flinch away, but his hand is gentle; Aemond’s palm settles on the back of your neck, and you blink up at him, bewildered. “I’m sorry you’re losing him too,” Aemond says, soft and strangely tender. Then he swipes something off his right cheek and leaves, weaving through the crowd to join his mother, who is pretending to fret over a rapidly melting ice sculpture—a Texas Longhorn—so she won’t have to think about Aegon instead.

A child is tugging at you, grappling for your hand with slippery, dripping fingers and then trying to drag you into the pool. “Come swimming!” a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, is crowing with a missing-baby-teeth grin. “We’re going to play Marco Polo. You can be the person who shouts Marco! and tries to find us.”

You laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit. I didn’t know this was a pool party.” Aegon neglected to mention that part.

“Please?” she begs, and now the other children are joining in, a chorus of reckless encouragement. You have the impression they aren’t often able to cajole the adults into playing with them. And the little girl looks so much like Aegon—same eyes, same hair—that you find yourself thinking: When he’s gone, will there really be nothing left of him? Is that possible?

“Alright, I’m coming in!” you announce, and the kids cheer. You shove your purse far enough away from the pool that your phone should be safe, and then you slide off the ledge and into the water: brisk blue currents that thrash as the children flee away from you, giggling as they hug the curved cement corners, poised to bolt again if you venture towards them.

“Now close your eyes,” the little girl demands, and you cover them with your palms. You feel her shoving you and it takes you a few seconds to realize what she wants: for you to spin around. You do this as quickly as you can until you are completely disoriented, stumbling, blind, laughing as you reach out with your eyes squeezed shut, your yellow sundress flowing around you in the cool water like the fanlike fins of a koi fish.

“Marco,” you say.

“Polo!” the children yell, and then squeal as you lunge for them. Waves swell through the pool, water droplets from their kicking feet spray across your face. There’s sun on your bare shoulders as your legs traverse the rough concrete floor in slow motion, your steps heavy and silent. You can hear adults muttering in scandalized disapproval: Who is that? What’s wrong with her?

“Marco?” you call out again.

“Polo!” a gaggle of children hurl back, too many; the voices seem to come from everywhere. You can’t pinpoint a direction, so you choose one at random and dive.

“Marco!” you shout, then yelp as you bump into the side of the pool and stun yourself.

Someone grabs your outstretched hands. “Polo,” Aegon says, and you open your eyes to see him kneeling at the edge of the water. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, but he’s smiling; he helps you scramble back up onto the ledge of the pool.

“They wanted me to play with them.”

“You could have said no.”

“I can never say no to kids. They walk all over me.”

“You’re too nice.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Though it doesn’t sound so much like a criticism when Aegon says it. He sits down beside you on the ledge of the pool and lets his legs dangle in the water; he has kicked off his flip-flops to rest haphazardly beside your tan wedges. He is wearing white cargo shorts and a powder blue short-sleeve Oxford that is at least a size too big for him. He’s losing weight, you think, forlorn. He’s disappearing.

Helaena arrives with a towel—very thick and soft, doubtlessly expensive—and gives it to you. She is one of the few party guests who do not seem horrified by your antics; instead, she titters and tells the children not to entrap you again, that you’ll play with them later. They resume their game of Marco Polo with a new blind explorer. As you wrap the towel around your shoulders, Aegon takes a corner and uses it to dry your face. Then he gazes out over the patio towards the Pacific Ocean, ignoring the children. He never really interacts with kids, you’ve noticed; even when he watches them with a transfixed sort of wonder, he keeps an expanse of space between them like an alcoholic trying to stay away from the drink.

“You could have done IVF,” you say, and Aegon looks at you, eyebrows raised, a how did you know what I was thinking? sort of expression. “They can screen the embryos for chromosomal defects and only implant the ones that are healthy. So you’d know the baby wouldn’t have Huntington’s.”

Aegon shrugs, kicking his feet beneath the rippling crystalline line of the water. “I think that takes a lot of trust, you know?”

You aren’t sure what he means. “To do IVF?”

“To leave a kid with someone,” he clarifies. “If I’m going to be out of the picture in a few years, I’d have to feel really confident that the mother would be the kind of person I’d trust to raise the child the right way. Not use them as a prop or something. Not raise them to be fucked up like I am.” Or like Becca is, he leaves unsaid.

And although it is ludicrous and forbidden and impossible, instantly you are doing math in your head: I’ll be done filming by winter, we could start trying in the spring. You always envisioned doing it the other way around, chasing dreams in your twenties, settling down in your thirties, but if Aegon doesn’t have much time left...

You turn to him, searching. But Aegon is in his own world, oblivious to your uninvited machinations. Of course he wouldn’t expect any discussions of the two of you staying together. You’ve already offered. He’s already declined. Now the song on the stereo is Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me, and Aegon’s oceanic blue eyes begin to glisten. Everyone is crying today, you think.

“This was your dad’s favorite song,” you say gently.

Aegon nods. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

He chuckles bleakly. “Fuck, I don’t even remember.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of one hand, and you wish you could touch him; but everyone at this party knows he’s getting married in a week, and to a woman who definitely isn’t you. “When I was really young, my dad was always telling us: You are Targaryens. You have to be extraordinary. You have to be extraordinary. And to me, that meant inhuman, or unnatural, or something else that I would always be incapable of. What about the real people? What about all the people like me, we were just supposed to vanish into cubicles somewhere, or hate ourselves enough to change our bodies, our faces, our souls? No, I couldn’t stomach that. Then my dad got sick, and for the first time he tried to understand us, and we had a few good years. Then he was gone again. But it was so goddamn slow.”

You are desperate to touch him, to console him. “Just because Viserys became a monster doesn’t mean you will. Just because he was a curse to your family doesn’t mean that’s how I’d feel about you.”

Aegon swipes at his eyes again, then brightens. He pretends he hasn’t heard you. “You’re coming to the wedding, right? I told Brando to send you money for the plane ticket.”

You spent it on eyeshadow palettes and books about the Gilded Age. “I don’t think so.”

“I really want you to be there.”

“You want me to watch you standing at the end of the aisle, and then Becca frolicking to meet you in her perfect Instagram-worthy dress, and then you exchanging adorable vows and kissing while people whistle and applaud, and then I’ll endure a whole night of celebrating your wedded bliss on the beach, all so you can get a glimpse of me in the crowd and maybe talk to me for five minutes before I fly back here alone, devastated that I’ll never get to see you again?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says.

“That’s an insane idea.”

Aegon throws his arms wide, exasperated. “It might be! I have a brain disease!”

“And why would I do that?” you demand. “Because I’m so happy for you and Becca?”

“No, because I’m doing you a favor,” he hisses, sudden hushed vitriol. “Because I am sparing you from everything that will happen next.”

I want to be there. I want it to be me. You shake your head, your throat burning. “I can’t watch you marry her.”

“Okay,” Aegon relents. “It’s fine. Sunshine, it’s fine. I don’t want to fight with you.” What he means is: I don’t want to waste the time we have left.

And for a moment he rests his head on your shoulder—your pulse thudding hot and red and feverish, pool water dripping from your hair—not caring who sees.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to be here,” he says.

“I know, Aegon.” The exam room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills is sunlit but cold, curtains drawn back from the glass walls, frigid air conditioning gusting through the vents. Your eyeshadow is a dark blue to match your sundress: Equilibrium by Natasha Denona, Madness by Urban Decay. You take Aegon’s hand and hold it tightly. He is perched restlessly on the edge of the exam table; you are standing beside him, too anxious to sit in the requisite chair for a spouse or a parent, and of course you are neither of these things.

The doctor returns, knocking politely before opening the door. He closes it behind him as he enters the room. He’s in his early-fifties, pudgy, receding reddish hair and pale skin that has been turned pink by too much time spent in the sun. He is a family man—he’s already mentioned his wife and kids several times, you imagine the desk in his office must be adorned with their ever-smiling photographs—and an unassuming, slightly nervous disposition. He’s one of the best neurologists on the West Coast. When he heard Aegon’s last name, he fit him in immediately.

Dr. Gallagher turns the computer screen towards you and brings up images from the MRI scan. He takes his pen out of the pocket of his white coat and uses it to point at the bluish specter of Aegon’s brain. His voice is soothing, sympathetic, practiced in delivering bad news. “Unfortunately, what we’re seeing here is consistent with what I would expect to find in a patient with Huntington’s disease that has progressed to the moderate stage.” His pen leaps between pertinent locations. “There is already some striatal atrophy visible, and slight frontal horn dilatation as the brain matter around it shrinks. A lot of the time, we can’t even see that on scans in people who’ve been recently diagnosed. But you...” He looks at Aegon, gives him a soft subtle nod, casual catastrophic confirmation. “You’ve had symptoms for a while, as we discussed.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says quietly. You’re still clasping his hand, like he’ll vanish if you let go.

“I’m very sorry,” Dr. Gallagher tells him.

“Not your fault, doc.”

“But there is some good news,” Dr. Gallagher says. “Now that you’re in treatment, we can get you set up with a regimen that will alleviate your symptoms as much as possible. There are prescriptions—and I’ll go over each of those with you, so you understand what they are and the possible side effects—and also excellent therapists who have experience working with patients like you, Aegon. We want to keep your quality of life intact for as long as we possibly can.”

“I’m moving to Houston,” Aegon replies, and for some reason every time he says this you feel the loss of it all over again, as if you don’t already know, as if he’s not almost gone.

“Texas, huh?” Dr. Gallagher says, like he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend their final years there but is determined not to be judgmental about it. “Well, best wishes to you! I have some very capable colleagues at Houston Methodist, I’ll reach out to them and transfer your records over so you won’t have to worry about any of that once you get settled in.”

“Thank you,” Aegon says, quiet, distant. Dr. Gallagher glances at you curiously; he keeps doing that. Aegon didn’t introduce you. You didn’t introduce yourself. What are you supposed to say? You aren’t his wife. You aren’t even his fiancée or his girlfriend. You’re a mistress, and soon you’ll be nobody. Better to let the gaps remain unfilled. “How long?” Aegon asks after a while. “I mean, I know it can be unpredictable, but...”

Dr. Gallagher sighs and contemplates the MRI results again. “It really is impossible to say for sure. You said your father passed away at fifty-five?”

Aegon nods. “Ten years after he was diagnosed. And he must have gotten it from his dad. My grandmother lived to be really old and was healthy up until the last few months, but my grandfather died in a car accident, and that would have been before any symptoms were obvious.”

Dr. Gallagher considers this. “So we have multiple generations of the gene being passed down patrilineally, which does exacerbate anticipation. And with these MRI results and the symptoms you’re already experiencing...memory loss, involuntary movements, difficulty working and driving, problems with sleep, loss of appetite...” He shrugs, an acknowledgement of fate’s unknowable design. Then he looks at Aegon with eyes that are deeply apologetic. “I do suspect it will be relatively quick. You’ll probably have another year or two that are decent. And then...”

“And then,” Aegon echoes bitterly, not a question but an agreement. No one knows this better than he does.

“I think you’ll see forty.” Dr. Gallagher steals another glimpse of the MRI results. “But not much beyond that.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, trying to be stoic. And then, gingerly but very deliberately, he untangles his hand from yours.

At an In-N-Out Burger down the street, Aegon pays in cash, a habit he got into not just so Becca can’t track where he is; it’s so that if she asks where he’s been and he can’t remember, she won’t think he’s purposefully lying when he tells her the wrong places. You sit together in a quiet corner booth slurping your Cherry Cokes and picking at your burgers and Animal-Style fries, the silence both heavy and weak, anemic, listless, immovable. Aegon is typing around on his phone. You are trying to imagine what the world will feel like without him in it.

“Forty is good,” Aegon says abruptly. “You know, Becca will still be in her thirties. She’ll definitely be able to marry some other guy and have kids.”

“Aegon,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I wouldn’t want to waste away for a long time anyway. I hope I don’t make it past forty.”

“Aegon,” you plead. “The doctor said you could have a few good years left, so shouldn’t you spend those here with your family?” And with me?

Aegon stands up and slides his iPhone into the pocket of his shorts. “My Uber is outside.”

“Your what?” You are alarmed. “I can drive you back to your office, it’s not that out of the way for me—”

“No, I should go.” He gathers up his barely-touched food and stuffs it in a trashcan.

“Aegon...”

“I’ve been really selfish,” he says hurriedly, like if he doesn’t get it out now he might not ever. “I’ve been holding on to you because you make me feel better, and because I didn’t want it to be over, but I...now I have to do the right thing. And this is definitely the right thing.”

“You don’t have to go yet—”

“You’ll be taken care of,” Aegon says. “The people working on your movie...they’re legit. They’re trustworthy. And you can always call Brando or Aemond, they know they’re supposed to take care of you, they’ll get you anything you need, money, a place to live, help navigating the industry, whatever. And Kristen will be your new agent.”

“I don’t want another agent.”

“I set you up as well as I possibly could have,” Aegon tells you, curt, clinical. “And now it’s September, and I’m leaving Los Angeles. That was the deal. I never promised you more than that. I explicitly warned you there would never be more than that.”

“But...” But I didn’t love you then.

“Don’t make this any harder. Say goodbye and move on.”

“Goodbye, Aegon,” you reply, unconvincingly, not meaning it. But it must be enough; he walks out of the In-N-Out Burger, and through the clear glass of the windows you watch him climb into a stranger’s car, and you think numbly, because it seems so impossible: I’ll never see him again?

You stay in the booth for a long time, sipping your Cherry Coke as tears well up in your eyes and spill over, ceaseless rivulets you dab away with napkins that your eyeshadow turns from pure white to a smudged watery blue. Then when you leave and start your shimmering gold Honda Accord, you call Aemond. He listens intently, asks a number of highly technical medical questions you can’t answer, and gets impatient. You apologize, your voice breaking. Aemond sighs, says he’s sorry, tells you with a strangled tension in his own words that he has to go and will call back in a few days to check on you. You’re his new pet, after all; Aegon has assigned you to a different Targaryen, a new agent, a life still orbiting his gravity even in his absence.

At home, your apartment is empty. Jace is at one of his PhD classes. You don’t turn the tv on, you don’t listen to any music. You lie down on the living room couch as afternoon light slants in through the windows and the muffled sounds of Harbor Gateway bleed in through the walls: car horns, shrieking sirens, pedestrians’ shouts, revving engines, stereos and their rumbling bass beats. You can’t stand this, the knowledge that life continues on uninterrupted for everyone else. Becca will get to keep Aegon for years. His family can fly east to Houston to visit him. He is only dead to you.

You pick up your phone and call him. Aegon answers after a few rings; he is startled, like he hadn’t expected to ever hear from you again, like something bad must have happened: your car broke down and you’re stranded on the side of the freeway, you got heat sickness and are trapped in a store somewhere. He says: “Hey, are you alright?”

“I miss you so much and you’re not even gone yet.”

There’s a pause that feels much longer than it is. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a quivering whisper.

“Okay,” Aegon says, gentle, warm, like you’re friends again and always will be. Due north in his office in Elysian Park where there is no more work left to be done, you can hear his chair scrape against the scuffed hardwood floor as he pushes it out from his desk. “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“Okay. Bye.” You hang up, mop the tears from your face, and begin getting ready.

When Aegon knocks, you answer the door in your pajamas, no illusions of propriety: just a L.A. Dodgers t-shirt, black sweatpants, and nothing underneath. Aegon does not pretend to be any more noble. He is through the doorway—swiftly, soundlessly, like a shadow—and then he’s here in the sunlit living room lifting away your shirt and kissing you, deep and wordless, as you stumble together towards your bedroom, you staggering out of your sweatpants as he yanks them down to the floor, you fumbling with the buttons of his green short-sleeve Oxford shirt, and you wonder: Did Becca fasten these buttons this morning? Is that why he didn’t miss one?

“Oh, thank God,” Aegon sighs when he knows he’ll be able to do it, that his body is not yet a stranger to him entirely, and as you sink into the mattress his weight settles on top of you, opening you, filling you, not disappeared yet, not long-lost like a childhood dream that turns to cynicism, only warm and sweet and real. And just like the times before, when you believe you won’t be able to finish with him, you’re wrong. Your eyes brim with tears, like Aegon knows happens when it’s good, and as he whisks them away he murmurs: “Find somebody who does this for you.”

“There’s no one else.”

“Find somebody you love.”

“I love you, Aegon.”

“You can’t, you can’t,” he moans, like he knows it’s hopeless, like he’s already lost the same war.

Not just once, but twice, and then you are exhausted—your muscles unraveled from your bones, your resistance crumbling like eons-old earth—and the world is quiet and fading, used condoms in the trashcan beside your nightstand, the sheets damp with sweat, and you’ll never have him like this again. You’ll never have anything like this again. Daylight, weakening from yellow to gold to amber to blood, pours in through the window and cascades across your bed.

“Remember me like this, okay?” Aegon whispers, kissing you one last time: lips, forehead, the apple of your cheek. “Now look away.”

You turn to the window where sunlight beckons, leaving him in darkness. You hear the bedroom door click shut as he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, September 6th, the wedding day. You have nothing planned. This is a mistake, although it isn’t exactly your fault; filming starts on Monday so everyone has this weekend off as one last respite, Chloe’s parents are in town for a visit, Baela is wrapping up the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie in Paris. You wake up ridiculously early, groggy and miserable. You wander aimlessly around the apartment. You glower at the red-ink note in the box on the calendar: Aegon’s wedding. You stare at the vase of dried sunflowers and feel like crying.

You open Instagram and scroll blindly; the blue-white glow hurts your bloodshot eyes. Becca has posted numerous stories in the past twenty-four hours, which is typical: Pinterest-worthy plates of food, teasing glimpses of her dress and shoes, selfies with her friends and family. There is a wheezing Pekingese in the background of one of her videos from the luxurious hotel suite, and you think, rather disparagingly: She flew her dogs to the Caribbean?

What’s not-so-typical is that Aegon has posted an Instagram story too, something he doesn’t do often. After several minutes of deliberation, and against your better judgment, you click on superstargaryen’s story. It’s 4 a.m. here, so 7 a.m. on Turks and Caicos. The sun has already risen there. And Aegon’s story is a simple photo of the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, as if taken from a balcony. There is no caption and no frivolous emojis: a ring, a bouquet, toasting champagne glasses, a cartoonish yellow couple. Instead, there is only a song added, a fifteen-second snippet that plays on a loop each time you re-watch the story, which you do about ten times. The song is Hard To Concentrate by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And instantly, you are there again, the night after you shot the music video in Beverly Hills, the night after Aegon saved you: flying in his convertible southbound on the 110, streetlights and headlights and neon that cut through the indigo ink of the world, Aegon’s hair flying, his right hand on the steering wheel, bruises on his knuckles, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he keeps looking over at you, as if he’s feeling the same things you are: This is right, this is real, I want this forever.

I have to be there, you realize abruptly, like a lightning strike or the jolt of an earthquake. I have to try to change his mind.

You close Instagram, open Google, search for flights from LAX to Turks and Caicos. You find one with two seats left, both in First Class. My parents are going to kill me, you think, and then put them on your credit card. You get Jace’s full name and date of birth from the driver’s license in his wallet, which he left on the kitchen counter.

You go to Baela’s bedroom and shake Jace awake. He glares at you blearily from beneath chaotic dark curls. “What do you want?” he groans.

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yeah...?”

“I have to fly to Turks and Caicos.”

“What? Where...?”

“It’s for a wedding. I don’t want to go alone. Will you go with me?”

You wait for him to say no. Instead, Jace mulls it over and then drags himself upright, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Turks and Caicos...that’s in the Caribbean, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a long flight. When are you leaving?”

“In twenty minutes. I already called the Uber.”

Jace blinks a few times, then stands up. “Island vibes,” he mutters in a Jamaican accent as he shuffles off towards the bathroom.

You throw some essentials in a carry-on bag: toiletries, makeup, clothes, TOMS wedges. The only wedding-appropriate dress you have that’s clean is the electric yellow gown you wore to the Maroon 5 music video red carpet premiere. You yank it off the hanger and stuff it in your suitcase. Jace rolls his luggage into the living room just as the Uber is pulling up outside. You urge the driver to hurry as you glide northwest on the 405 towards Westchester, home to Los Angeles International Airport. It’s early enough that traffic is thin, and the lines are short at the TSA security checkpoint. Jace is momentarily stopped for further inspection; he accidentally left a vape pen in his pocket.

Will we make it there before the wedding starts?

At the gate, passengers are already lining up to board the plane. You check the time on your phone and do some quick math. It’s currently 5:30 a.m. here in California. If your flight leaves on time, you’ll be in the air at 6:00. Turks and Caicos is three hours ahead in Eastern Standard Time, so that would be 9:00 a.m. The flight is almost nine hours long, including a brief layover in Atlanta, which means—if everything goes perfectly—you’ll touch down at Providenciales International Airport shortly before 6:00 p.m. The wedding ceremony begins at 6:30, sunset on the beach, very romantic.

“It’s going to be close,” you tell Jace as he slurps on a venti-sized Lavender Crème Frappuccino from an airport Starbucks.

It’s going to be very close.

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