Bab 76: The Jorah-Man Cumeth
120
I find this new life disturbing. I remember being this age before. I remember the struggle against the darkness and cold of an unforgiving world, huddled up next to a fireplace in a cave I'd carved out with my own two hands and furnished with wood I personally felled, seasoned, and shaped. I remember feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders with the necromancer cryomancer edgelords scheduled to march on the world of men within my lifetime. I remember poverty so crushing that my aunt scorned my father's expensive taste for lemons. Being poor truly sucks, and that was my second go around of it.
There's no pressure in this new life. No problems of any appreciable scale. No stakes. Sure, there's a civil war brewing, but I made my bid to head that off years ago and I still remember my sister's sneer when she rejected my marriage proposal with all the audacity and entitlement of someone who has no idea what happened to the last woman who denied me her hand. At least this time I'm not in love with the bitch, so I won't have to go through the whole feefees thing when this all blows up in her face. Never again will I look out over a body of water and wonder 'Feelings, why do you feel so feel?' Heart of stone, cock of steel.
Not only are the local conditions an eternal vacation, but this third life is so naturally gifted and talented that it almost feels like a mockery of everything I went through in my last life, all the hard work and suffering that built me into the most feared man in the world. Putting all that experience into this new high spec man-meat suit makes me feel like the old me was some blind and def child held up at the top only by incredible psyker might. I earned every ounce of skill and might in that body. Now it just feels like its was all handed to me on a silver platter, not even an awkward, 'oh no I'm used to being a big strong man and now I'm a kid again' phase.
Let's not even get into the beyond belief gifts that came to me during my childhood, like each year my Name Day party was the confluence of wisemen arriving to buy off Christ. Magisters and wizards from Essos, sorcerers from Yi Ti, and princes from the Summer Islands arrived each year their various gods and magics realized that Daddy' home and they came in force with all I could ever want of them as if to convince me not to gather some of my like minded friends and take from them all that I desire. I accept their tribute, though I do not trust it. I've been cursed before and though I rose again harder and stronger, it's a state of being I'll gladly pass on.
Apotheosis, been there, done that. Never again.
"Oh-oooohhh! It's like you're so many boys all in one!" a woman cried out in ecstasy and I turned my head down to find myself gripping a pair of pale hips and my cock stretching out a hairy cunt beyond its limit.
Life is so easy even the pussy comes to me without trying any more. I used to have to sail a boat through freezing sea and icy shores to hunt down some strange. Strange was a matter of blood, sweat, and tears, or Dornishness. At this point in time the latter will require the former, so perhaps there is grand purpose to be found in Westeros even now. Man was not meant to lay about all day, and needs a man's tasks to affirm his soul.
I reached over the moaning woman's back and grabbed her mousy brown hair to turn her head and confirm that yes, I have no idea who this is. Looking around the room, I confirm it to be one of the many guest apartments within the Red Keep, meaning that perhaps I've the chance to -
"Aegon Targaryen!" my mother screeched as she came through the door to the chamber.
Whoever gave her the keys to every lock in the palace well deserves my enmity. Likely my father.
She thought to shame me with this intrude, her disdain plain on her very judgy face. Jokes on her, it just makes me nut harder and faster. She thinks the stilling of my thrusting hips is some subservience to her scorn, but it is a great act of testicle clenching defiance. My scrotum, seat of my innate magic pulled tight as I used my wizardry upon this nameless woman, and upon finishing my spell I unsheathed my brutal wand from her reddened depths. And kept unsheathing, and unsheathing, and unsheathing like a street magician pulling handkerchiefs from his sleeve for a comical amount of time.
This new Targaryen body possessed a greater mystical potency than my old Mormont flesh, and my natural nut magic extended at some point to my new ridiculous phallus, now capable of stretching a woman's orifices beyond their native limits without violently destroying her flesh, the currently wide gaping cunt slowly shrunk back down to its normal resting state a little more at a time with each of her ragged breaths. Every contraction of her hairy hole pushed out more pearly white seed forming a sticky and slow moving white waterfall down to the marble floor.
I pulled the woman by her hair, startling her as her eyes rolled about trying to reorient her post cock reality while my mother continued her rant about dishonoring the House, debasing myself, and most of all shaming my little sister. My betrothed. We doing it a little Targaryen style in this life.
"There are starving children in the North." I informed the dick-delirious woman before pushing her head into the pool of discharged seed.
She may not know where she is right now, but she understood the assignment and began slurping up, hesitant before the first hit, but vigorously after that first taste. Though I've performed no scholarly trials, anecdotal results point to a miraculous nutritional value to my nut milk, possibly on the level with legendary showings like lembas bread, perhaps beyond in some ways, though it's hard to tell if the chest development observed came from diet improvement or pregnancy hormones. Magic works in such mysterious ways. I have on tap a genuine organic locally sourced hand crafted gluten free superfood and I give it away freely, hoarding none for myself. People once thought me a heartless and selfish man, if only they could see me now.
I cocked an eyebrow up when my mother's hand latched on to my mouth and she pulled herself into the center of my gaze after failing to pull my gaze to center on her. Her toady, Ser Criston, pulled the ravished woman out the chamber. Another one for the Hightower shuffle, the process in which serving women are carted off to Old Town and replaced with servants trained by my mother's House before they start showing. The seed is strong, especially to a nut wizard, and abortion is not an option. You can pour a whole kettle of moon tea down the bitch's throat then get her kicked in the tummy by a donkey. That fetus will survive.
"How can you not see how your every indiscretion endangers this family?" my mother hissed full of parental disappointment, the sweet summer child unable to know that I grew up with Maege Mormont, and thus spent an entire childhood ignoring maximal familial shaming attempts, my armor is contempt woman and I am garbed in the finest plate in world, "If Rhaenyra ascends the throne, your life may be forfeit-"
I broke both her roll and her grip when I threw my head back and laughed uproariously. My mother of course maintained her displeased demeanor despite making two ridiculous statements in one sentence. Her talents might go a fair way to explaining the freakish genius of this third incarnation. After laughing long and hard I was left in the poor position of still being in same room as my irate mother, and while most of life's problems are only ever a brief bout of murderous violence from being solved, and life's greater issues just require a more dedicated and conscientious application of slaughter, even I - a great enactor of final solutions - know better than to slay my own mother, despite the convenience of such an escape. Yee pitiless gods, I must entreat with the woman.
Even the sweetest of dreams turn to nightmares on occasion.
"Do you think my life a jape? Your brothers'? Your sister's?" My mother wielded scorn and self-righteousness like a cudgel, "Make a laughing stalk and a wretch of yourself, and watch as everything is taken away from you. As long as you live you are a threat to your sister's authority. No amount of demeaning yourself will ever make you anything else to her."
I nodded in acceptance of my mother's wisdom, she understood the executive, but she fundamentally misunderstood Targaryen executive authority.
"Though you are half right mother, your Andal is showing." I poked my poleaxed mother in the sternum, "The opinions of your kind are just smoke. It may swirl into pretty shapes from a distance, or release a rich aroma, try to grab onto it and watch it slip through your fingers, try to sustain yourself on it and feel it choke you to death. That is not the Targaryen way." I shook my head to emphasize this, my mother's jaw dropped after hearing me string together more words in one go than ever before in this life, "I'm not given to the mental illness of zoomorphism that so grips Westeros, you'll never hear me unironically claim to be a 'dragon', and I don't hold a simple slogan as if its some kind of profound wisdom, but 'Fire and Blood' is not something cute to scream while charging into glorious melee combat, and it sure as hell isn't some magic formula for hatching dragon eggs. 'Fire and Blood' is the answer to the question, 'By what right?' Five generations ago, my namesake looked out over Westeros and saw a continent full of dumb cunts and thought to himself, 'I could be commander and chief of those dumb cunts' and so he did as he did and put together a stupid looking chair for he who is first and foremost of dumb cunts to sit upon.-"
Swoosh-crack! A wide swinging slap interrupted my hitherto unprecedented monologue, my mother's eyes wide as she followed the cheek stinger up with two more, one from the left hand and one more from the right, exclaiming, "Language, Aegon!"
"Hahahaha!" I laughed and smiled widely, fondly remembering slapping my own monkey scrotum brained sons around.
My mother grit her teeth to hide the pain in her hands. Queen Alicent has people for corporal punishment, and we her children have other children to receive it for us. It is all quite formal and ineffective, and I'm glad to have aggravated her enough to get some real parenting out of her.
"You get it mother." I encouraged the woman, "All this talking and plotting. So droll and unworthy. Real power comes from the hands, and since my hands hold the reins to a dragon the future is up to me."
"Maegor the Cruel thought his dragon made him untouchable, and look what happened to him." Alicent so rudely countered with the typical but-muh-Meagor!
"You say that like it was one of you Andal's that killed him." I felt a smirk creep across my face, "Maegor killed himself after realizing that even if he marched onto Storm's End and annihilated the last holdouts of his enemies, all he would have achieved after a lifetime of disappointment and strife, was to take over a country full of people he hates and looks down on, and nothing would ever get better for him. His death was his last curse, giving his enemies exactly what they wanted, but never the chance to avenge themselves upon him. I admire that spite."
My mom tried fixing me with that bug eyed constipated look of concern, trying to express with disappointed silence her raging emotions. I live for moments like this, and together we rode the silence out until she broke and changed subjects.
"While you've been in here swiving scullery maids and composing theses of how great Meagor the Cruel was, your brother has been at the mercy of your sister's spawn." She pivoted and advanced like a woman undefeated.
"Neat." I shrugged and frowned.
"Neat!" she repeated in a shriek, "Neat! I found your brother in tears and that is all you have to say for yourself."
I raised an eyebrow at her, "Have you seen me lately woman?" I gestured to my bigger than a man teen bod, realizing that my mom is a freak.
This conversation could have waited long enough for me to find my pants.
My mother tilted her head and frowned, keeping her big brown eyes locked on mine as if summoning up a psychic attack.
"If Daeron is getting picked on by the Strong boys during lessons, then hire another maester from Old Town to come handle his lessons." I dismissed the falsely laid blame then the smirk returned to me, "Unless you want me to take it out on their father in the yard. Just remember one is too thick to understand the message, and the other would enjoy the pounding far too much. Who could blame him?"
Alicent Hightower sucked her teeth then hissed, "Make no such japes, Aegon. Speak not of such disgusting acts."
"Just smoke, mother." I grinned at the round about, then stood up and looked about the room, finding my pants and putting them on myself, one leg at a time just like everyone else.
"They were not harassing Daeron." my mother explained, her nails dug into her palms.
"Aemond is ten." I frowned and found my socks and boots, fine boots indeed, "Jace is six. If Aemond can't slap him around himself, he needs the bullying to toughen up. This world is no place for a sensitive soul."
I felt for my dragonless brother. I grew up so fast that I might as well be the boys father, but he lacked my testicle magic. Daeron did too, but Daeron is Daeron. Little guy is daring and has his own dragon already. Thus lacking, I'm not sure how to handle the boys. I can't just trust that they will grow up big and strong enough to handle their business, and only need me to grind off their rough edges.
"Prince Jacaerys is in line for the Iron Throne." Alicent grit her teeth in frustration, "He can't just slap the boy around!"
"If anyone has a problem with it, tell them I'll burn down their family keep for interfering with the matter." I grinned as I finished lacing up my soft calfskin boots.
Classy.
I turned my head to see my mother palming her face.
"You father is the one who would meet out any punishment." she sighed, seemingly resigned to talking to an idiot.
"Funny you think I wouldn't burn down the Red Keep." I chuckled and rolled my neck before grabbing the door and stepping out to confront the rest of my day with a big smile.
Things are getting fun at last!
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