Cozened Indigo - Part One
Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader
Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes.
Word count: ~4k
Summary: Unhappy with the assignment she has been given to work on for the Duskendale Gazette, she opts to pursue her own story, not quite realising what she's getting herself into. Series masterlist.
Author's note: For @humanpurposes. I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.
Chewing the end of her pen, she leans closer to the computer monitor as her eyes scan the Reuters website almost frantically.
Aemond Targaryen, son of late billionaire, Viserys Targaryen, charged for the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Case pending trial.
Nervous excitement swirls in her gut, as she leans back in her uncomfortable, creaky office chair. This is the first mention she has seen of such a scandal, unsurprising considering how high profile the Targaryen family are in Westeros. They’ll have worked hard to cover this up, however, with a court case imminent, the news is now public knowledge.
She knows that every media outlet from Dorne to Eastwatch will be all over this, but it will be nothing beyond surface level detail, the most basic of coverage. None of them will be able to get the family to talk, but she can, that is her specialty – was her specialty.
Essos Fraudster Glorified by White Cloak Magazine.
The headline passes through her mind like a stormcloud, a dirty mark upon her career that she can never scrub out. She had been duped, it was an honest mistake, but it had cost her dearly.
When whisperings began regarding an oligarch from Essos having shady business dealings in King’s Landing, she had set out to investigate, feeling it was a story worth telling. To her surprise, he had agreed to an interview, and she had been spun a tale of a man born into tremendous wealth, who was now looking to give back by setting up charitable foundations across Westeros.
She had done her due diligence, followed up on all of the sources at her disposal. Every phone call she made checked out, verifying his claims, and so the glossy double page spread had run in White Cloak Magazine, painting a picture of a misunderstood, altruistic individual who just wanted to share his wealth.
It had been the crowning achievement of her journalistic career, until two days later when the Blackwater Post had run their own story, utterly destroying hers. The oligarch was in fact guilty of tax evasion and money laundering, the charities he had founded mere fronts, empty shell corporations and hedge funds used to hide large sums of money that were never intended to be donated. The sources he had provided to back his claims had all been disreputable business associates of his, posing as bankers, accountants and employees.
He was jailed for his crimes and White Cloak was made a laughing stock for the piece they had run. As the person who had written it, it was her head that was placed upon the chopping block, a blunder of such enormity could not be overlooked.
Her humiliation had felt as though it would swallow her whole. She ought to have been more thorough in her research, but hindsight always possesses more clarity than what is right in front of you. She had considered just giving up and pursuing a different career path entirely, yet despite the shame that shrouded her, she had known that the urge to write would never leave her, an insatiable itch that must be scratched.
For a year she had looked for another job, had applied to just about every magazine and newspaper that existed in Westeros. If she had to relocate to Dorne, The Reach, or even The North then she’d do it for the sake of her career. Unfortunately, the blemish on her record was well known, and nowhere reputable would touch her.
That was until the Duskendale Gazette had taken a chance on her. The pet project of Royce Baratheon, it is a small, localised publication, a far cry from the nationwide reach of the high end White Cloak, but they were willing to hire her, the salary covers her rent, and it means not having to move away from King’s Landing.
For the last eighteen months she has occupied a desk in a darkened corner of the Duskendale Gazette’s offices, lovingly nicknamed “The Wall” by those that sit there - a place where writers at the end of their careers or close to retirement are sent to die.
It has been a slow, painful death, covering everything from disputes over fishing permits in Blackwater Bay to the implementation of a one way traffic system in Rosby. Discovering the news regarding Aemond Targaryen feels like the shot of adrenaline that her career needs to bring it back to life, provided he’s willing to speak to her – provided she can get sign off to write the story in the first place.
She sets down the biro she has been gnawing on and looks at the time on her computer. 9.02am. Glancing over her shoulder towards the big, glass walled meeting room that sits at the centre of the newsroom, she can see that Royce, along with the other editors and department heads are settling around the table, preparing to plan the next round of commissions.
Anxiously biting her lip, she considers her options. It would look bad to just walk in uninvited, however, if she doesn’t ask now then she’ll never get to do it. This is a story worth writing, surely they’d see that? Abruptly, she stands up, drawing in a steadying breath.
Fuck it, I’m going in.
She knocks at the door, not awaiting an answer before pushing it open. The men around the table furrow their brows, falling silent as they turn to look at her.
Royce shuffles the papers in front of him, sighing in irritation. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”
Undeterred, in spite of the way her heart thunders in her chest, she steps further into the room towards the head of the table where he sits. “I know and that’s why I’m here. I saw on Reuters this morning that Aemond Targaryen has been charged with the murder of his nephew. I–”
“You won’t be covering that,” Royce interrupts, standing from his seat and lifting a sheet of paper from the pile. “I’m putting you on the upcoming curfew that’s to be implemented in Flea Bottom.”
“Royce, please, there’s something here, I know there is,” she presses, attempting to push down the anger that simmers hotly under her skin at his dismissal. “This could be huge for us.”
“You’ll write the story you’re assigned,” he insists, thrusting the paper towards her, “the last thing we need is a profile of some spoiled aristocrat, especially from someone with your track record.”
There it is. Someone with your track record.
“Just give me a chance–”
“You will write what I’ve commissioned, and be grateful you’re getting anything at all.”
“So you’re just going to ignore this?”
“We’ll place a court reporter on it once it goes to trial, but that is not your concern. Focus on your own assignment.”
She turns on her heel, storming back to her desk. Her skin burns with humiliation, tears blurring her vision as she sits down, slapping the commission sheet down next to her keyboard. Drawing in a steadying breath, she scrubs her hands over her face in an attempt to calm herself.
Scanning the assignment she’s been given, she scoffs. A curfew enforced by King’s Landing Constabulary as a means to curb the violent and drunken behaviour that’s rife in Flea Bottom. It's a soulless story, she knows she’ll be expected to simply present the facts, alongside a media ready quote from the police force, instead of addressing the rampant poverty in the area that is the catalyst for such problems. The final product will be better used as ad space.
It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and wanting to prove Royce wrong, she decides to press ahead with the story that she wants to write anyway. Opening her internet browser, she searches the Targaryen name, presented with hundreds of links and articles regarding the family.
There is nothing she doesn’t already know; they’re from old money, own most of the banking and legal services from here to Oldtown and there is a rift that divides Viserys’ second wife, Alicent, and her children from his first daughter, Rhaenyra, and her family.
The remaining patriarch of the family, Otto Hightower, owns a law firm called Red Keep Solicitors which is based in the centre of King’s Landing. A good enough place to start for her background research. Scanning the office to ensure no one’s looking, she stuffs her assignment sheet into her bag and slips out unnoticed.
As she steps out of the taxi that has pulled up outside of the high rise office block, she is surprised by the lack of media presence. She had assumed that with the information that leaked this morning, there would be a line of news station vans parked along the pavement, with journalists all clamouring to get a vox pop from someone from either the Hightower or Targaryen family. Besides a steady flow of traffic down the street, it’s dead. Whoever is working to keep the media away is doing an exceptional job. For once, she is thankful she works for a small, local newspaper; no notoriety means being able to fly under the radar.
The polished black marble of the foyer floor causes each of her footsteps to echo around the lofty reception. The space is modern and minimalist; the reception desk placed at the far wall, the motif of a castle with the company name emblazoned across the wall behind it. A forest green, crushed velvet sofa sits off to the side, serving as the waiting area.
“Good morning,” the young woman seated behind the desk greets her. “How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Otto Hightower,” she says, smiling politely. The less she gives away, the less likely she is to be turned away.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not. I was hoping he might be able to squeeze me in for a quick consultation?” She asks hopefully.
“Hmm,” the receptionist’s eyes narrow, regarding her with suspicion, before she taps delicately at the keyboard of her computer. “I’m afraid Mr. Hightower is fully booked for today. Can I take a message?”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait,” she replies, keeping her tone light, attempting to appear casual. She moves to the sofa, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other. She ignores the receptionist, who is now eyeing her intently.
Plucking her mobile out of her bag, she pretends to look busy as the woman behind the desk picks up the phone and speaks in a hushed tone into the receiver, clearly alerting whoever is on the other end to her presence.
Thirty minutes tick by in uncomfortable silence, during which she has checked just about every app on her smartphone and read through most of her emails. Her head snaps up upon hearing the elevator ding. As the doors slide open she sees a tall, much older, bearded man step out. There is no mistaking that this is Otto Hightower.
Jumping to her feet, she follows him as he walks quickly past her, out of the building.
“Mr. Hightower, might I have a moment of your time?”
He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even turn to look back at her, his tone clipped as he tells her “I have no interest in speaking to the press.”
Undeterred, she lengthens her strides to keep up with him. “I understand your concern, but I’m not here to drag anyone’s name through the mud. I’d just like to understand more about what happened with your grandson.”
“No comment,” he says flatly, pulling open the rear door of a sleek, black Mercedes that pulls up to the curb and climbing in.
Before she has the opportunity to say anything else, he’s slamming the door closed and the car is pulling away.
She groans in frustration, walking back towards the entrance of Red Keep solicitors and leaning against the wall. She isn’t ready to give up, not when she’s had a small taste of what it’s like to work on something she actually cares about again. This is just a minor setback, she’ll find someone willing to speak to her. For now, she just needs to get back to the office and plan what the next step of her strategy will be. Pulling out her phone, she opens the taxi app, preparing to head back.
“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”
The quiet voice pulls her attention away from her screen and she glances over her shoulder to be met by a dark, curly haired man, leaning heavily on a cane, an orthopedic shoe on his left foot.
“Excuse me?”
“You couldn’t really have believed that showing up here unannounced would get you an interview, surely?”
She scowls. “And who might you be?”
“Larys Strong,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers.
She turns fully to face him. “And how do you know what will or won’t get me an interview?”
His lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, eyes moving slowly from her head to her feet and back up again. It unnerves her and she can feel herself involuntarily shrinking away from him.
“It’s my job to know. The Hightowers are keen to prevent any unwanted…whispers from occurring, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“So, no one from the family would be willing to speak with me?”
“Absolutely not. But I might be.”
“You? How would you be able to help me?”
His eyes seem to glitter, almost malevolently, as he stares at her. It sends a shiver up her spine.
“Oh, I provide all kinds of help to all kinds of people.”
He produces a business card from his inside pocket, handing it to her.
Larys Strong, Harrenhal Associates.
She gives a quiet thanks, fishing around in her bag and handing him one of her own. He glances at it quickly, before slipping it into the pocket from which he’d taken his own.
“Come by my office around seven this evening,” he tells her. “I’m sure we have much to talk about.”
Watching in stunned silence as he turns and shuffles back inside the entrance of Red Keep Solicitors, she knows she should feel excited – she finally has her in, dubious as it may be – however, she cannot shake the feeling that she has just unwittingly stepped into the midst of something sinister.
She whiles away the remainder of the day back at the Duskendale Gazette, ensuring she knows everything there is to know about the Targaryen and Hightower families – at least everything that’s publicly available anyway. She also looks into Larys Strong; there’s little to be found about him, but what she is able to dig up is impressive. He’s a solicitor, and has seemingly never lost a case for any of the clients he’s defended. She has an eerie feeling that the means through which he achieves this are far from ethical.
By the time seven o’ clock rolls around, she’s stood outside of a dingy brick building, located off of the Street of Silk. It does not even come close to the grandiosity of Red Keep Solicitors, without even so much as a sign to indicate it’s a place of business.
Ignoring the voice at the back of her mind that screams at her to turn and run, she presses the buzzer, pulling the door open as it’s released and making her way up the rickety wooden staircase to the top floor.
The room is dimly lit, small and stuffy, worn out carpet lines the floor, complete with furnishings that are likely older than she is. What strikes her as most odd is the abundance of flowers, there’s a vase on every flat surface and they look strangely out of place, a lurid splash of brightness against their darkened surroundings. She wrinkles her nose, the cloying scent of patchouli is overpowering. It’s either being used to cover up the odour of something else or is a misguided attempt to suggest opulence, but instead comes across as tacky.
Larys hovers in the doorway to his own personal office, watching her as she takes in her surroundings.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” he eventually says. “I appreciate that an out of hours visit is less than ideal, but I’m sure you understand the need for discretion.”
She nods, nerves swirling in her gut at the sudden realisation that no one knows that she’s here.
“My secretary has left for the day, so please leave your phone and any recording devices on her desk. I trust you realise that anything discussed this evening is strictly off of the record?”
“Understood,” she replies, deciding to just leave her entire bag on the desk as she follows Larys into his office.
It’s even smaller and more cramped than the tiny space that serves as the reception area. Overstuffed shelves of books line the walls, and the room’s only illumination is a lamp which sits upon the desk.
Larys settles into a leather armchair behind it, gesturing for her to take the seat on the other side.
“Can I ask what your involvement with the Targaryen family is?” She finally asks, once settled across from him.
He sits back, fingers moving absentmindedly over the grip of his cane. “I provide counsel to them. I will be acting as Aemond’s legal defense in the upcoming trial.”
She raises her eyebrows in shock. It’s surprising to know a family as wealthy as the Targaryens would be willing to trust such a delicate matter with someone who operates their business out of a seedy back alley. “You? Why?”
He huffs a humourless laugh, upturning the palm of his free hand. “Who else would? No one from Red Keep Solicitors could represent him, it would be a conflict of interest. And besides, I get results, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes, I do, as I’m sure you know all about me. Which leads me to my next question, if the Targaryens don’t want the media involved in this then why have you agreed to speak with me?”
Larys is silent for a moment, fingers stroking delicately over the petals of a red flower that sits within a vase upon his desk. “My reasons are twofold,” he says, finally looking up at her. “First, both sides of the family have come to a mutual agreement that neither one will talk to the press. I feel that is a mistake. Aemond needs all the help he can get. I don’t necessarily mean starting a media circus to report upon his every move and dig into his past, just one reputable source to give him a leg up while he’s at a disadvantage. Second, I have chosen you because I’m aware of your past…indiscretions. The future of your career rests upon this, so I know you will treat it with the due diligence it deserves.”
She scoffs in disbelief, running a hand through her hair. “The guy’s been charged with murder, how much care could he possibly need?”
“The prosecution will be pushing for a sentence for murder, yes. I’ll be arguing for a lesser sentence of manslaughter.”
“So, he didn’t mean to do it?”
“I think it’s better said in his own words.”
“You can arrange an interview with him?”
“I can arrange a visit for you to speak with him where he’s currently being remanded in custody, at Dragonstone Prison, yes.”
She attempts to remain neutral as her excitement bubbles unrestrained internally. “When is the trial?”
“In three weeks, so we have to act swiftly. I believe this concludes our discussion. I shall be in touch regarding your visitation.”
She is taken aback by the abrupt ending to their conversation, rising slowly from her seat as she leaves his office and collects her bag. It’s unnerving that even as she descends the staircase she can still feel his presence, the sweet, heady aroma clinging to her clothes like an invisible fog.
True to his word, Larys gets her her visit, and two days later she sits in the ferry terminal for Dragonstone Prison. Having had her identification checked, and her details input onto the system, she is issued a number and has to wait for it to be called before she can board.
The wait is agonising, and a full hour passes before she is called forward, scrambling to her feet towards the boarding area. The grey waters are choppy, causing the ferry to rock slightly on its short journey across the Gullet, until the craggy isle that houses the criminals of Westeros comes into view. The high, cement walls of Dragonston Prison are imposing and bleak against the skyline.
Disembarking the ferry, she is guided through the visitors’ entrance and searched, her personal effects rifled through as she walks through a metal detector, and her electronic devices taken away, to be returned to her upon her departure. Her identification is checked once more, and her details input onto the system again. She is told to take a seat, her name will be called when it’s time for her visitation to begin.
The hard seat is uncomfortable, and without the distraction of her phone she is left to stare at the clock on the wall. Its relentless ticking is maddening, the minutes feeling as though they crawl past. So absorbed in watching it, she jumps when her name is finally called, struggling to compose herself as she’s ushered through into the visitation area.
A series of tables and plastic chairs make up the startling white windowless room, and she is led to one in the far corner. Unsure of what to do, she simply stands beside her seat, awaiting the man she is to meet.
From the photos she has seen, Aemond cuts an imposing figure, dressed all in black. She hopes that the softness of the grey prison uniform will render him less intimidating. However, those thoughts are dashed the moment she sees him walk slowly through the door on the opposite side of the room.
He is in no rush, his steps are methodical, unhurried, a predator stalking its prey as he moves towards her. The photographs do not do justice to his height, long and lithe, he towers over her, and she feels herself holding her breath as she takes in the sharpness of his features. His long, platinum hair is pulled back into an immaculately styled ponytail, giving her an unhindered view of his chiseled jaw, aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones, though spoiled slightly by the ragged, angry looking scar that runs the length of the left side of his face. The eye within the socket sits milky and lifeless, but it does little to lessen the intensity of the brilliant blue of his right.
She notices the slightest dilation of his pupil as he stares unblinkingly at her, making her heart race as the cold sweat of fear prickles the back of her neck. So preoccupied with simply getting her story, it has not occurred to her until now that she would be face to face with a killer.
Certain he senses her fright, she sees his lips twitch with the faintest of smirks. The fact that it does not reach his eye makes her blood run cold.
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Fishskin Robes of the Ethnic Tungusic People of China and Russia
Oroch woman’s festive robe made of fish skin, leather, and decorative fur trimmings [image source].
Nivkh woman’s fish-skin festival coats (hukht), late 19th century. Cloth: fish skin, sinew (reindeer), cotton thread; appliqué and embroidery. Promised gift of Thomas Murray L2019.66.2, Minneapolis Institute of Art, Minnesota, United States [image source].
Back view of a Nivkh woman’s robe [image source].
Front view of a Nivkh woman’s robe [image source].
Women’s clothing, collected from a Nivkh community in 1871, now in the National Museum of Denmark. Photo by Roberto Fortuna, courtesy Wikimedia Commons [image source].
The Hezhe people 赫哲族 (also known as Nanai 那乃) are one of the smallest recognized minority groups in China composed of around five thousand members. Most live in the Amur Basin, more specifically, around the Heilong 黑龙, Songhua 松花, and Wusuli 乌苏里 rivers. Their wet environment and diet, composed of almost exclusively fish, led them to develop impermeable clothing made out of fish skin. Since they are part of the Tungusic family, their clothing bears resemblance to that of other Tungusic people, including the Jurchen and Manchu.
They were nearly wiped out during the Imperial Japanese invasion of China but, slowly, their numbers have begun to recover. Due to mixing with other ethnic groups who introduced the Hezhen to cloth, the tradition of fish skin clothing is endangered but there are attempts of preserving this heritage.
Hezhen woman stitching together fish skins [image source].
Top to bottom left: You Wenfeng, 68, an ethnic Hezhen woman, poses with her fishskin clothes at her studio in Tongjiang, Heilongjiang province, China December 31, 2019. Picture taken December 31, 2019 by Aly Song for Reuters [image source].
Hezhen Fish skin craft workshop with Mrs. You Wen Fen in Tongjian, China. © Elisa Palomino and Joseph Boon [image source].
Hezhen woman showcasing her fishskin outfit [image source].
Hezhen fish skin jacket and pants, Hielongiang, China, mid 20th century. In the latter part of the 20th century only one or two families could still produce clothing like this made of joined pieces of fish skin, which makes even the later pieces extremely rare [image source].
Detail view of the stitching and material of a Hezhen fishskin jacket in the shape of a 大襟衣 dajinyi or dajin, contemporary. Ethnic Costume Museum of Beijing, China [image source].
Hezhen fishskin boots, contemporary. Ethnic Costume Museum of Beijing, China [image source].
Although Hezhen clothing is characterized by its practicality and ease of movement, it does not mean it’s devoid of complexity. Below are two examples of ornate female Hezhen fishskin robes. Although they may look like leather or cloth at first sight, they’re fully made of different fish skins stitched together. It shows an impressive technical command of the medium.
赫哲族鱼皮长袍 [Hezhen fishskin robe]. Taken July 13, 2017. © Huanokinhejo / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 4.0 [image source].
Image containing a set of Hezhen clothes including a woman’s fishskin robe [image source].
The Nivkh people of China and Russia also make clothing out of fish skin. Like the Hezhen, they also live in the Amur Basin but they are more concentrated on and nearby to Sakhalin Island in East Siberia.
Top to bottom left: Woman’s fish-skin festival coat (hukht) with detail views. Unknown Nivkh makers, late 19th century. Cloth: fish skin, sinew (reindeer), cotton thread; appliqué and embroidery. The John R. Van Derlip Fund and the Mary Griggs Burke Endowment Fund; purchase from the Thomas Murray Collection 2019.20.31 [image source].
Top to bottom right: detail view of the lower hem of the robe to the left after cleaning [image source].
Nivkh or Nanai fish skin boots from the collection of Musée du quai Branly -Jacques Chirac. © Marie-Lan Nguyen / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 4.0 [image source].
Detail view of the patterns at the back of a Hezhen robe [image source].
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