I’m so much happier now that I’m dead. Technically missing. Soon to be presumed dead. Gone. And my lazy lying shitting oblivious husband will go to the black cells for my murder. Rhaegar Targaryen took my pride and my dignity and my hope and my money. He took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder. Let the punishment fit the crime. To fake a convincing murder you have to have discipline. You befriend a local idiot. Harvest the details of her hundrum life and cram her with stories about your husband’s violent temper. Secretly create some money troubles: loans from Essos, perhaps gambling. With the help of the unwitting, bump up your life insurance. Purchase getaway vessel. Flaebottom. Generic. Cheap. Pay cash. You need to package yourself so that people will truly mourn your loss. And Westeros loves pregnant women. As if it’s so hard to spread your legs. You know what’s hard? Faking a pregnancy. First, drain your privy. Invite pregnant idiot into your chambers and ply her with lemonade. Steal pregnant idiot’s urine. Voilà! A pregnany is now part of the maesters’ records. Happy Aniversary. Wait for your clueless husband to start his day. Off he goes… and the clock is ticking. Meticulously stage your crime scene with just enough mistakes to raise the specter of doubt. You need to bleed. A lot. A lot, a lot. The head wound kind of bleed. A crime scene kind of bleed. You need to clean; poorly, like he would. Clean and bleed, bleed and clean. And leave a little something behind: a fire in the Long Summer? And because you’re you, you don’t stop there. You need a diary. Mínimum three hundred entries on the Rhaegar and Elia story. Start with the fairy-tale early days: those are true, and they’re crucial. You want Rhaegar and Elia to be likable. After that, you invent. The spending, the abuse, the fear, the threat of violence. And Rhaegar thought he was the writer… burn it, just the right amount. Make sure the guards will find it. Finally, honor tradition with a very special treasure hunt. And if I get everything right, the world will hate Rhaegar for killing his beautiful, pregnant wife. And after all the outrage, when I’m ready, I’ll go out on the water with a handful of poison and a pocket full of stones. And when they find my body, they’ll know: Rhaegar Targaryen dumped his beloved like garbage, and she floated past all the other abused, unwanted, inconvenient women. Then Rhaegar will die too. Rhaegar and Elia will be gone, but then we never really existed. Rhaegar loved a girl I was pretending to be. “Cool girl”. Men always use that, don’t they? As their defining compliment: “She’s a cool girl”. Cool girl is hot. Cool girl is game. Cool girl is fun. Cool girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrined, loving manner. And then presents her mouth for fucking. She likes what he likes, so evidently he’s a cultured sailor who loves Lyseni courtesans. If he likes local brothels, she’s a sassy kitchen wench who talks for swordplay and endures rabbit stew. When I met Rhaegar Targaryen I knew he wanted “Cool girl”. And for him, I’ll admit: I was willing to try. I wax-stripped my pussy raw. I drank cheap ale watching slapstick jesters. I ate cold pastry and remained a size two. I blew him, semi-regularly. I lived in the moment. I was fucking game. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy some of it. Rhaegar teased out in me things I didn’t know existed. A lightness, a humor, an ease. But I made him smarter. Sharper. I inspired him to rise to my level. I forged the man of my dreams. We were happy pretending to be other people. We were the happiest couple we knew. And what’s the point of being together if you’re not the happiest? But Rhaegar got lazy. He became someone I did not agree to marry. He actually expected me to love him unconditionally. Then he dragged me, penniless, to the Tourney of Harrenhal and found himself a newer, younger, bouncier cool girl. You think I’d let him destroy me and end up happier than ever? No fucking way. He doesn’t get to win. My cute, charming, salt-of-the-earth Dragonstone Prince. He needed to learn. Grown-ups work for things. Grown-ups pay. Grown-ups suffer consequences.
Any advice on how to write a heist story something like oceans Eleven?