Chapter Text
Aemond stood in Olivia's kitchen, eyeing the strange contraption she referred to as a "microwave." The sleek, metal box was unlike anything he'd ever encountered in Westeros, and he couldn't help but feel a mix of skepticism and frustration. Olivia, sensing his unease, took a deep breath and smiled reassuringly.
"Okay, Aemond, we need to go over this quickly," she said, trying to keep her frustration in check. "The microwave is really simple to use. It's just a quicker way to heat food."
Aemond approached cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. The microwave's reflective surface glinted ominously in the light. He looked at Olivia with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "Why must I learn this?" he asked, his tone edged with irritation. "Why not have your servants do it?"
Olivia's patience frayed. "We've been over this. The Uber Eats deliveries aren't servants; they're just people delivering food. And it's too expensive to order food every day. You need to learn how to manage on your own when I'm not here."
She pointed to the microwave's digital display, which blinked with numbers. "This is where you set the time," she explained, pressing the buttons to demonstrate. "You choose how long you want to heat the food, then press 'start.'"
Aemond frowned, clearly confused. "Time? What do you mean by 'setting the time'?"
She grabbed the eggs Aemond was having from the counter and placed it inside the microwave. "What do you mean ‘what do you mean’? The time, Aemond, the time. Thought you were a very educated prince."
Aemond's brow furrowed deeply as he watched her press the buttons with practiced ease. "I am educated in the matters of state, of war, and of history, thank you very much, stupid peasant," he retorted. "By ‘setting the time’ do you mean that I must press that button when the sun is up at noon by midnoon?."
Olivia paused mid-motion, clutching the microwave door, her frustration simmering. “So you’re telling me that this whole ‘princely’ thing didn’t include learning how to count?”
His eye narrowed, his jaw tightening. “I can count, Olivia. Do not mock me.”
She sighed, turning to face him fully. “Fine. Let me explain. A minute is sixty seconds. An hour is sixty minutes. The microwave uses these to heat food precisely.”
Aemond’s gaze shifted to the digital display, skepticism etched into every line of his face. “And these… symbols? They represent this measurement?”
“Yes,” she said tightly, grabbing the bowl again. “See? Two minutes. Two. Zero. Zero.” She pressed the buttons to demonstrate. “Then, you press start.”
The microwave hummed to life, and Aemond stiffened at the sudden noise, his hand instinctively twitching toward his hip—where his sword would have been. Olivia bit her lip to keep from laughing, but the amusement quickly faded as her patience continued to erode.
“And this does not burn?” he asked cautiously, leaning closer to inspect the machine.
“No,” Olivia said, rubbing her temples. “It’s not fire. It’s electromagnetic waves.”
“Magic.”
“Not magic! Science!” she snapped, louder than she intended. “Look, it’s safe. Just don’t put metal in it, set the time right, and don’t walk away while it’s running. That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”
The microwave beeped, and Olivia pulled out the steaming plate. She placed it on the counter with a little more force than necessary and handed Aemond a fork. “Here. Eat. And maybe try not to overthink it for once.”
Aemond took a cautious bite, chewing slowly before nodding. “It is… efficient. Practical.”
“Exactly!” Olivia said, gesturing to the microwave. “And if you learn to use it, you won’t have to wait for me to come home or waste money on takeout.”
Aemond set the fork down deliberately, his expression shifting to something colder. “You speak as though I am dependent on you.”
Her patience snapped like a thread pulled too tight. “Because you are!” she shot back, slamming the microwave door closed. “You don’t know how to cook, how to use any of this stuff, and you don’t even know what a minute is! So yeah, you’re kind of dependent on me right now, My Prince .”
His eye darkened, and he rose to his full height, the tension in the room crackling like a storm about to break. “I did not ask for your help, Olivia.”
“Well, guess what?” she said, throwing up her hands. “You’ve got it anyway. And you’re welcome, by the way. For feeding you, clothing you, and teaching you how to survive in this world.”
“You call this survival?” he retorted, his voice cold and sharp. “You treat me like a child, ordering me about, mocking me for what I do not know.”
“Because you’re acting like a child!” she fired back. “God forbid the great Aemond Targaryen stoops low enough to learn something new.”
Aemond’s lips curled in a sneer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You would do well to watch your tongue.”
Olivia stepped closer, her frustration overriding her better judgment. “And you would do well to remember that I’m the only reason you’re not starving in some alley right now.”
For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension thick and suffocating. Then, as if realizing how ridiculous the argument had become, Olivia exhaled sharply and stepped back.
“You know what?” she said, grabbing her bag from the couch. “Figure it out yourself. I’m late for class, and I don’t have time to babysit you today.”
“Babysit?” Aemond repeated, his voice rising with incredulity. “You dare—”
“Yeah, I dare,” she said, cutting him off as she swung the door open. “Lunch is on you. And don’t break anything. Or set anything on fire. Or… whatever it is you do to ruin my day.”
She slammed the door behind her before he could respond, leaving Aemond alone in the kitchen.
Aemond stared at the closed door for a long moment, the echoes of their argument ringing in his ears. His gaze drifted back to the microwave, its quiet, glowing display daring him to try again.
“Babysit,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching.
Still, he moved toward the machine, his fingers hovering over the buttons. Reluctantly, he pressed them, the machine's hum starting up once again. It felt like a small victory—though the tension in his chest told him the true battle was far from over.
It was midday when he began to feel hungry. He opened the fridge, scanning its contents with his single eye until he found a plate of leftover chicken. It looked harmless enough.
Placing the plate inside the microwave, he pressed random buttons until the digital display blinked "45:00." Aemond frowned, unsure if this was the correct setting, but the buttons seemed responsive enough. He hit "start."
The machine hummed to life, its light flickering on. Aemond stepped back, folding his arms. "So, it begins," he muttered, watching the chicken spin lazily inside.
Minutes passed. The microwave’s hum grew louder, a faint burning smell wafting into the air. Aemond’s brow furrowed, and he approached the machine, leaning closer.
"Surely this is not how it should function..."
Without thinking, he opened the door mid-cycle. A wave of scalding steam surged out, enveloping his hand. He hissed in pain, jerking back as the plate slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor, shards scattering across the tiles.
Aemond stood frozen for a moment, his hand throbbing and a deep, charred scent filling the kitchen. Smoke curled lazily from the microwave, its interior splattered with remnants of what once was chicken.
"Seven hells," he muttered, inspecting his reddened hand.
The kitchen was a disaster zone by the time Olivia returned that afternoon. She opened the door, immediately greeted by the acrid smell of burnt food.
"Aemond!" she yelled, rushing in to find him sitting stiffly at the counter, his hand wrapped awkwardly in a dishtowel. Shards of the broken plate still littered the floor, and the microwave was streaked with greasy residue, even Lady turned up her nose at the mess.
"He glanced up at her, his expression unreadable. "It would seem," he began, his voice carefully measured, "that your 'microwave' is defective."
Olivia’s mouth fell open. "Defective? What did you do ?" She dropped her bag and marched over to the microwave, cringing at the mess inside. "Oh my god, Aemond, what happened ?"
"I followed your instructions," he said defensively, standing. "I placed the food inside, set the time, and started it. The machine... retaliated."
Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Retaliated? What time did you set it for?"
He hesitated. "Forty-five."
Her eyes widened. "Forty-five minutes?! Aemond, you’re supposed to heat things for, like, two minutes tops!"
He scowled. "You were unclear."
"I was very clear," she shot back, throwing her hands in the air. "And what were you doing opening it while it was running?"
"It was smoking," Aemond said flatly. "I thought it prudent to investigate."
Olivia let out an exasperated groan and grabbed a broom, sweeping up the shattered plate. "This isn’t Westeros, Aemond. You don’t just swing your sword at a problem and hope for the best! And if you make a disaster, you bloody clean it!"
Aemond stiffened. "I did not 'swing my sword.' I acted with precision and caution."
"Precision and caution," Olivia repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sure, that’s why there’s burnt chicken on the floor." She pointed downward, and Aemond’s eye followed, his lips tightening at the sight of a greasy splatter.
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Finally, Olivia sighed, her tone tense. "Are you okay?"
Aemond glanced at his bandaged hand. "It is nothing. A minor burn."
She shook her head, crossing her arms. "This is why I was trying to teach you. You can’t just muscle your way through every challenge, Aemond."
His expression shifted, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face before he masked it with indifference. "I will learn," he said simply.
Olivia grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and handed it to him. But she did not talk, she had no energy to do so.
After what felt like hours of scrubbing grease off the microwave and peeling charred chicken bits off the floor, Olivia finally dropped the sponge into the sink and let out an exhausted sigh. The faint smell of burnt food still lingered, but at least the kitchen no longer looked like a war zone.
She glanced at Aemond, who sat at the kitchen table like a disgruntled monarch surveying the wreckage of his kingdom. A book lay open before him, though his attention had long since wandered. His bandaged hand rested stiffly on the table, the ice pack she’d given him now a forgotten puddle of condensation.
Olivia wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned toward salvation: the brown paper bag of Burger King sitting on the counter. She opened it reverently, the greasy scent of fries and a cheeseburger rising like a promise of relief. Even cold, it was better than risking another kitchen disaster with the microwave.
“I’m eating this on the couch,” she announced, snatching up the bag and heading for the living room. “Do not bother me for two hours. Actually, act like you’re not here at all.”
Aemond said nothing, though his disapproving silence followed her to the couch.
She dropped onto the cushions with a groan, kicking off her shoes while Lady jumped up and cuddling her head on her lap, and grabbing the remote. All she wanted was to eat her burger in peace, zone out to some mindless TV, and forget, even for a little while, that her life now included a displaced prince with a knack for catastrophe.
The screen flickered to life, filling the room with the cheerful opening credits of Modern Family. Olivia leaned back, sinking into the cushions as she unwrapped her burger.
But before she could take a single bite, Aemond stormed into the room.
“What in the Seven Hells is that?” he demanded, his voice sharp as steel.
Olivia barely glanced at him. “It’s a TV show. Go away.”
Aemond didn’t move. His eye was fixed on the screen, his posture taut with tension. His hand dropped instinctively to Dark Sister’s hilt, a motion Olivia was starting to associate with every new piece of technology he encountered.
The TV blared upbeat music as colorful graphics danced across the screen. Aemond flinched, his shoulders tightening.
“By the gods,” he muttered, taking a cautious step back, drawing Dark Sister. “Is this… a portal? Are those people trapped within?”
Olivia froze, mid-bite. Slowly, she lowered her burger and turned to look at him. “Trapped? What are you talking about?”
He gestured sharply at the television, his voice rising. “The people! They are within this… device. How did you capture them? Is this some cruel punishment of your realm?”
It took every ounce of restraint not to burst out laughing. Olivia set her food aside, wiping her hands on a napkin as she tried to keep her tone even. “Aemond,” she said carefully, “they’re not trapped. They’re actors. People who filmed this ahead of time. The TV just… plays the recording.”
He didn’t look convinced. His eye darted back to the screen, narrowing as he scrutinized the scene. A smiling family sat in their brightly lit living room, completely oblivious to the two very different kinds of chaos watching them.
“You expect me to believe that these people are not real?” he asked, suspicion dripping from his tone. “That they do not see us now?”
“Yes!” Olivia exclaimed, her patience fraying. “It’s like… “It’s like… like a painting that moves,” She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to summon the energy, pausing to find a better comparison. “Have you ever watched a play?”
Aemond’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “Of course. My father– and then brother, often had bards perform at court.”
“Right,” Olivia said, latching onto the comparison. “So think of the TV like a play that’s already happened. The actors perform, someone records it, and then it gets shown to people later. This,” she pointed at the screen, “is just a way to watch the performance from anywhere. They can’t see us because they’re not really here.”
Aemond tilted his head, considering her words. His gaze returned to the screen, his eye narrowing as he studied the vibrant living room and its oblivious inhabitants.
“And people in your realm… enjoy this?” he asked, his tone laden with judgment.
“Not this specifically,” Olivia muttered, leaning back against the couch. “It’s just… relaxing. Okay? After a week of dealing with all of this,” she waved vaguely in his direction, “I need something that doesn’t require thinking.”
Aemond’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked back at the screen, then at her, then back again. His shoulders slowly relaxed, though his expression remained skeptical.
“This world of yours…” he said quietly, “is stranger than I ever imagined.”
“You’re telling me,” Olivia muttered, picking up her burger again. She bit into it with renewed determination, her gaze firmly fixed on the screen.
For a moment, Aemond lingered, his eye flickering between her and the television. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he moved to the armchair across from her and sat down.
“Just sit,” Olivia said without looking at him. “Don’t ask questions. Just… sit.”
He obeyed, his posture stiff but his hand finally leaving Dark Sister’s hilt. For a long while, they sat in silence, the cheerful chaos of Modern Family playing on the screen.
And though Olivia couldn’t say why, she felt, for the first time in days, that they’d reached a kind of truce.
Olivia woke to the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps—far too early for a Saturday morning. She groaned, burying her face deeper into her pillow, hoping the stomper would take the hint. She didn’t even need to guess who it was.
No such luck.
“Olivia,” came Aemond’s clipped voice from the kitchen. “Are you unwell? You’ve slept past the sunrise.”
Her eyes snapped open. Of course. Prince Punctuality couldn’t fathom the concept of sleeping in.
“It’s Saturday,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“What?”
She rolled onto her back, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window. “I said it’s Saturday! A day off. People sleep in. ”
Aemond appeared in her doorway, tall, rigid, and impossibly immaculate, his silver hair catching the morning light. He still wore his Westerosi garb, refusing the casual clothes she’d tried to nudge him into. His single eye narrowed as she’d just declared she intended to raze the apartment.
“A day off?” he repeated, incredulous.
“Yes,” she said, sitting up and pushing her tangled hair out of her face. “A day off. No school, no work. A time to rest. You know, relax?”
“Slothfulness,” he muttered under his breath.
“Oh, for the love of—” Olivia flung off the blanket and stomped past him toward the kitchen. Lady sprawled lazily on the bed, barely lifted her head.
“You’re worse than my father,” Olivia grumbled as she pulled a mug from the cabinet and slammed it onto the counter.
The coffee machine whirred to life, its familiar hum a balm to her frayed nerves. She leaned against the counter, letting the aroma of fresh coffee work its magic. Aemond hovered nearby, arms crossed, his penetrating gaze fixed on the machine like it might summon a demon.
“What are you staring at?” she asked, pouring herself a cup.
“You rely too much on these... contraptions,” he said, the word practically dripping with disdain.
“It’s called coffee,” she replied, pulling oat milk from the fridge. “It’s what keeps me from murdering you before noon.”
His lips thinned into a line. “Perhaps you should forgo it and strengthen your fortitude instead.”
Olivia shot him a glare over her mug. “How about you fortify yourself with toast while I caffeinate?”
He muttered something in Valyrian that didn’t sound complimentary.
Breakfast passed in strained silence, and by the time Olivia had cleaned the kitchen, folded up Aemond’s bedding, and set up her workspace at the counter, her patience was hanging by a thread.
“Okay,” she said, glancing at him as she opened her laptop. “I need to work. You need to entertain yourself. Explore the TV or something. But don’t bother me unless it’s an actual emergency.”
He turned his head slightly, his expression skeptical. “An emergency?”
“Yeah. Like the building’s on fire, the dog’s choking, or you’ve somehow stabbed yourself with a butter knife. Otherwise, let me concentrate.”
He held her gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning away without a word.
Finally, some peace.
The first twenty minutes were blissfully quiet, the sound of her typing filling the apartment. Aemond moved around silently, his presence more shadow than a distraction. Olivia lost herself in her child development notes, her mind slipping into the comforting rhythm of research.
Then the whispers started.
She froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. The sound was faint, like wind threading through cracks in the walls, but it carried a strange, unnatural quality. She glanced toward the window, half-expecting it to be open, but it was shut tight.
“Aemond?” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
No response.
She turned to find him standing near the couch, rigid and alert. His single eye was wide, fixed on something she couldn’t see.
“What is it?” she asked, standing slowly.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he raised a hand and pointed toward the counter, his movements deliberate. “There.”
Her gaze followed his finger, and her breath hitched.
Sitting next to her laptop was a tarnished silver ring, its surface etched with intricate, unsettling symbols.
“That... wasn’t there before,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Do not touch it,” Aemond commanded sharply, his tone brooking no argument.
She hesitated, her pulse quickening. “What is it?”
He moved forward, his steps careful, as though approaching a coiled viper. When he reached the counter, he picked up the ring, his jaw tightening as his fingers traced the markings.
“This is mine,” he said, his voice low and distant.
“What?”
“It belonged to me.” He turned the ring over in his hand, his eye dark with recognition. “I carried it in Westeros.”
Olivia felt a chill creep up her spine. “How is that possible? You didn’t have that when you got here, did you?”
“No,” he said tersely, “but now it is here.”
Her mind raced. “Maybe you... I don’t know, misplaced it? Maybe it was with your stuff, and I didn’t—”
“Do not insult my intelligence,” he snapped, his gaze cutting to hers. “This is no coincidence.”
“Then what is it?”
His jaw clenched as he searched for the words. His eye darted from the ring to the apartment around them, as though expecting something—or someone—to materialize.
“It’s her,” he said finally, his voice cold with barely restrained fury.
“Who?”
“The witch,” he said, venom lacing his tone. “She cursed me. She’s still watching.”
The air grew heavy, the apartment unnervingly still. Olivia opened her mouth to respond, but movement at the edge of her vision made her snap her head around. A shadow flickered along the wall—quick, fleeting, and utterly real.
Lady bolted upright, barking furiously at the corner.
Olivia’s throat tightened. “Fine,” she said shakily, edging toward the coffee pot. “We’ll figure this out. But first, I need more caffeine.”
Before she could pour the coffee, the lights flickered once, twice, and then dimmed. Olivia and Aemond froze, their gazes locking in the dim light.
“She’s here,” Aemond said, his voice a low growl.
The air felt colder. Olivia clutched the counter, her pulse thundering in her ears. Lady barked again, but the sound felt distant, like it was coming from underwater.
“Right,” Olivia whispered, her voice almost inaudible. “Definitely going to need that coffee.”