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ewanmitchelll · 11 months ago

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Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (IV): Say Don’t Go.

Imagine you are a peasant who rescues Aemond after he fought his uncle Daemon Targaryen—but in this universe he didn’t die drowned, but suffered a wound that you, with your simple knowledge of medicine, actually manage to heal you. What shall happen then?

Warnings: fluff, violence, drama, angst.

***

• A Dance With Dragons

In between fire and ashes, blood has never been thicker. The one-eyed prince, on behalf of his infamous brother, is ready to take leave. Unbeknownst to him, as he mounts Vhagar, destiny sets a worse fate than the assumption of victory for all parties.

Here he goes, a path of blood behind this man—who tasted frustration and rejection all his life, lusting for what was never his by any right, tied in a very suffocating loyalty to his family.

Here he goes, moved by agony and pain, he who is hated by his enemies and despised by those who support the charismatic Aegon.

Here he goes… mounted in an ancient beast, prompted to finally write his name in the pages of history. Aemond, the kinslayer, the embodiment of fire and blood, flies in roaring skies.

And not too long after he meets his mirror, the one he wanted to be in life—a better version, certainly—, the kin who inspired him despicable sentiments—if perhaps in another occasion he would be this man’s favourite nephew.

This is not the moment for words to be spoken out. Warriors like them feel no need to exchange offenses. War is coming in thunderous storms. Higher than men, above divine heavens, uncommon relatives fight one another.

“DRACARYS, VHAGAR!”

His scream dies unheard, as the wind blows away the anger in his throat. Believing to possess such an ancient dragon, warlord like him, he doesn’t foresee that years and size are not by his side.

Daemon Targaryen and his Caraxes are faster and better equipped for this battle. Experience is also an advantaged tool played by the aforementioned prince towards his rascal nephew.

The skies shake and many are misled to think this is a thunder. But this is hardly a thunderstorm. Later the chroniclers would report it as a dance of the dragons, where this deadly combat between two great warlords and their gigantic beasts collided in such a way that as frightening as it was to watch, it seemed so as the involved were…dancing.

But Vhagar’s flesh and blood provide difficulty to Caraxes. Bites here and there, sounds that roared through the air, producing sparks of electrons and fire all the whilst their riders try to dismount the other.

The heights pose an inevitably invitation for prompt death. It’s only a matter of time until one of them falls, if not both of them do.

Skies grow darker and rain eventually drops. Caraxes, fighting better under this environment, twists the scene to his favor, surprising Vhagar. What happpens next is too fast to describe. Later, peasants would recall how a great beast like Vhagar fell upon the sea… without Lord Aemond on her back.

A question would haunt Aegon’s twilight reign: where has Lord Aemond Targaryen gone to?

To worse Aegon III’s rise to the throne, a shadow is casted. No body was found. Therefore… should it be presumed the rogue prince died? If so, not in his former mistress’s arms.

Where is Aemond Targaryen? What happened to the one-eyed lord, famed for his kinslayer epithet?

• Blue skies, fields painted green•

I’ve known it from the very start. We’re a shot in the darkest dark. Oh, no. I’m unarmed…

By the time you rescue him, you think he’s been dead and gone. But for a long while you, a simple curious being who, however, learned to study thanks to your older brother’s connection with literate beings, suspected not all was like appearances led to.

You managed to carry this strange man, aware he was in his worst conditions, to your household. It’s a very simple, typical peasant house. And this was a man you’ve never seen in these surroundings… especially because of his fancy robes, a positive indicator of his nobility.

Unaware of the details of this civil war, you took care of him. Ignoring his handsomeness, you dedicated day and night until he eventually opens his eyes.

And when he does… it’s a scandal. Most of all because he is still hurting in his chest and to breathe requires some energy. Then comes the revolt upon seeing he’s nowhere he’s familiar with.

Before he starts to rage out his frustration, the prince is prevented from doing so at the sight of you. A peasant, certainly a damsel despite being closer to him in age, shows up.

“L-L-Lord, please”, you know you’ve been bold in keeping him with you, in weaving illusions to escape your life, all of which makes you blush and sink into his feet. “I only tried to help you.”

Something about your smooth voice eases him. When looking better at you, Aemond’s chest hurts for being reminded of his sweet sister Helaena. He knows he could never do any harm to you.

“Rise, creature who saved my life”, and when you do, the silver haired man looks enchanted at your y/c soft skin, the mystery behind your y/c eyes… “I demand to know your name.”

“Y/N Y/LN, lord”, you whisper, still avoiding his gaze.

But it’s for no effort you do so as he looks for yours, holding your chin as he lifts it up. You see danger right before you, posing threat as he stands in front of you. Nevertheless, he is so alluring that to resist is just… pointless.

“Don’t call me lord. I’m Aemond”, he softens to you, his hand slipping to your throat gently before letting go of you, leaving behind a sensation of void and cold where there had been warmth. “It appears that if I fell here, my uncle took the best of me.”

You nod your head partly.

“You need to be careful, lo… Aemond. Your wounds are still fresh”, you bring him to outside for the very first time since you rescued him.

The prince, shirtless and dressing an old pair of pants, follows you, reluctant somewhat as what to find. He is, however, surprised when seeing there is nothing but a careful mix of colors. Deep blue that paints these cloudless skies and a shade of green that colors the hills and the grasses nearby.

The air is clean and the prince finds peace. However, when spotting, from that distance, the sea, this peace is replaced by angst.

“Vhagar”, he remembers painfully. “Where is she?”

When seeing a puzzled look on your face, Aemond has to remember himself you are a peasant, who probably judged dragons as mythical creatures. But he underestimates you.

“Ser, I may be poor and obscure, but I am not illiterate”, you speak impatiently. “I know who Vhagar is. I must say, though, that you were already dismounted by the time I found you. If you fell from such a height, this only means you are lucky that you are still alive.”

Aemond’s good eye transmits such a depth of sadness that you feel remorse for speaking like that to him. The prince doesn’t notice it, though, so he decides to walk outdoors and there sit amidst the high grass as a way to cope with his loss.

At first, all you do is watch him. This tall, paled prince with long silver hair, involved in a bandage around his waist with a skin painted in deep scars, is now the embodiment of melancholy.

Your reason tells you to leave him there, the moon is too high to grasp it, but your feet don’t obey your sense. It doesn’t take too long before you sit next to him.

“I’m sorry for your loss”, you break the silence hesitantly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

He doesn’t respond you ar first, and you wonder whether he heard you or are ignoring you. But he turns his face at you eventually, still plagued by that shade of sadness few can be gladly dissociated from.

“You’ve done all you could, mistress Y/N. Thank you. You shall be rewarded.”

“My reward is your well being, lor… Aemond”, you offer him an understanding small smile.

These words prove to be the balsam he needs.

“I appreciate it, truly. In due time…” Aemond sighs, not willing to admit how lost he feels. “Do you have any news of what’s going on?”

By the looks of your face, the prince understands that what might come from you are not what he wants to hear. Even so, he must hear it. In this silent communication, though, there is little need to further comprehension.

Therefore you tell him about Lord Daemon’s victory. A short victory, however, as the common folk said that due to the gravity of his wounds eventually culminated in the said prince’s death.

What happened next was confused. You didn’t understand politics very well and you were too busy minding your own business to do so. Nevertheless, it’s common knowledge that the Seven Kingdoms have a new king.

“A new king?”, Aemond exclaims frustrated. “But Jaehaerys is just a boy!”

The embarrassment in your face only worsens his disappointment.

What, in seven hells, has happened in this short time I was unconscious?

“This is not his name, Ser. Our king is Aegon, Third of His Name.”

Aemond pales and for a moment you step back, fearful of his fury. But all the silver prince does is clench his jaw and turn his back on you for a moment. And you let him be all the time he needs.

***

• Healing…

I'm standin' on a tightrope alone. I hold my breath a little bit longer. Halfway out the door, but it won't close. I'm holdin' out hope for you…

A strange process it is to watch events unfold from the support ground. Witnessing from darkness the arrival of the Starks and then all the gathering leading to Aegon III’s ascension next to Rhaenyra, who, apparently, had transmitted her claim to the Iron Throne to her eldest son and heir, was too much for him to bear… especially now aware of the passing of every one he’d known and fought for.

But in due time, his silence and mourning become too much a burden for him to carry alone.

“I’m surprised you are still out here”, you tell him in one of these evenings you come home and find the prince there.

“Where else I’d go?”, Aemond shrugs his shoulders.

His eyes are glued in you, finding new expressions in your introspective features. You are different, a thought occurs him. What had happened outside to bring you more serious today? A question he does not dare to pose.

“To your mistress, perhaps”, a response that, albeit reluctant, transmits some grumpiness on your part.

For the first time in many moons, Aemond Targaryen smiles.

“Mistress?”, he repeats and you miss the amusement out of his voice.

“Mistress Rivers. Perhaps this is a name very familiar to you”, you don’t know why rolling the name of his former paramour sounds poisonous to your ears, inspiring a hearty agony and an inner despair.

As Aemond studies you, every piece comes to make sense when glued together. At first he says nothing, finding adorable how a creature so introspective like you, kept innocent and wild at the same time from mundane’s ill intentions, discovers new sentiments, obscured as jealousy and attachment might sound.

He could take the opportunity to write a new story, but even now… Aemond struggles to disassociate from the past.

“She was once attributed to many meanings, some of which had linkings to my personal affections”, Aemond admits, taking the opportunity to sip his ale. “But once we parted ways, I do not believe we are meant to mend it back.”

You cast him a long distrustful look, opting for the silence, even though there is so much being said in your body language. Aemond rises up and moves to where you stand, gently but firmly taking grip of your arm.

“Y/N, look at me”, he demands you gently. “Why have you brought her name out of the blue?”

You hesitate and Aemond can only be led to think there’s some bad news ahead. You take some breath and then look at him, as if struggling for courage.

“I cannot keep you here any longer, lord. I’ve been selfish, I see that now. But looking after my lord has given me purpose. All of this to say that people have been looking for you.”

“Looking for me”, he repeats. “Do not believe in what people say, my darling. My enemies are in power, the best we can do is hide for the moment. This means I must shave my head to keep the identity in secrecy.”

He surprises you, and even himself, with this new sense of resignation. But this is a wise move, considering no one had found his body, therefore the mystery must remain for his sake.

Nonetheless, he likes this life with you. Aemond smiles before holding you against him.

“I got used to you, dear one. Looks like I’m staying longer this time.”

That being said, he admires how wide you smile. No one had ever made him feel this sentiment before. He realizes now that what you two have is too sacred to let it be profaned.

• Pain & Blood

Why'd you have to lead me on? Why'd you have to twist the knife? Walk away and leave me bleedin', bleedin'? Why'd you whisper in the dark? Just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screamin', screamin'…

When he kisses you under moonlight in between the shadowy green fields, your mind goes blank and your heart races loud. When his tongue moves the way to your neck, your legs automatically spread to welcome his strong body; his arms now moving upper your back, caressing you slowly, aching in slow burn as you call out his name in sweet whispers.

“Mine lady”, his lips pursuit yours once more.

It’s past twilight. Silenced by the night, nature welcomes you in this wilderness out of the fancy troubles and the troublesome webs woven by the Black party.

You provide him home and security, the sweet taste of genuine love he’s been looking for. With him, likewise.

It’s free, intense and healing.

“We should better head inside”, he grumbles under his breath, struggling not to give free path for his desires.

You giggle softly, giving him a long look. As you straighten yourself, you hear him say:

“My lady, you bring the best of a beast like me.”

You spin around him, looking like a fairy with your simple white gown and y/c hair loose in your back.

“Is this you accusing me of witchcraft, lord? For I shall not tolerate such an accusation”, you put your hands around his neck.

“Nay. You are too pure for it”, and Aemond knows this must not be the result of bewitching, since the purity of your care and love inspires the same of a man like him.

Beneath the mask of a bad prince, there lies a wounded man who’s known neglect all his life. The concept of love Alys brought to him was more lustful, fleshy attachment than sentimental one.

But when the shadow of those three words comes behind your eyes, mirroring his own, Aemond fears to hear them. Kissing your lips once more, he prays to forget what he saw… for a recent, deep wound has come to open in surface.

As you lead him into your household again, precisely to what you call being your quarters—the result of the inheritance of your father—you give in your heart at every touch, every embrace this man provides you.

When you begin to picture the two of you actually living this life together, when you start to think possible that you could marry and be content in being a simple peasant… every dream dies when a knock on the door is heard urgently.

“Who on earth…”, you sigh impatiently, making him chuckle.

Aemond snakes his arms behind your waist, resting his chin over your shoulder.

“We should better see who’d be this unwanted visitor”, he laughs quietly, admiring the blush painting your cheeks.

As you reluctantly part of his arms, you move to open the door. Aemond leans against the wall, partly hidden under the shadows, waiting to see who’s the one behind the bloody door.

But when you open and see a dark-haired lady with a skin smooth as milk, your heart stops.

“Oh. So here’s the witch who captured my Aemond”, she speaks in a soft accusing voice, though in the lady’s eyes there is nothing but arrogance.

Aemond reluctantly comes to the scene.

“Alys?”

“My prince”, her voice and smile are as sweet as poison, inspiring in you nothing but disgust. “Your son and I have been waiting for you, believing to be dead and gone. But you have been kept a prisoner by this…”, and here comes the despise poorly masked.”…woman.”

You turn your head quickly to stare at Aemond. He sees pain in your y/c eyes, and the sound of heartbreaking reaches his ears when you say:

“You have a child with her, Aemond?”

“It’s Lord Aemond to you”, she corrects you, but is promptly ignored by all parts.

“She was… pregnant when I went to war”, Aemond admits, embarrassed. “I… Considering the recent events, I thought them to be gone like the rest of my family.”

“No. Your son waits for you. I’ve been looking for you”, insists Alys, much to your consternation. “Let me break this spell she’s casted on you, my prince. You shall be free and live with us as it’s your right.”

Part of you waits for his denial, hopes for it even. Despite the evident struggle in having yourself composed before such accusations, you expect he’d take your side.

You hope…

And I'm yours, but you're not mine. Oh no, oh no, you're not there. I'm standin' on the sidewalk alone. I wait for you to drive by. I'm tryna see the cards that you won't show. I'm about to fold unless you…

But Aemond knows not where his strength lies. This cannot be judged simply following his heart desires. When remembering everything his mother sacrificed for… and then he has a child.

A child of his own that should be on the throne. The mere idea awakes the flames of old vengeance.

Much to her annoyance, on the other hand, Alys watches as the events unfold in an impasse. She presses again the matter of their child, aware this is how she’ll take him away from your claws—or so she judges.

“Aemond?”, your voice comes out suffocated.

He sees those words in your eyes, but they fade out of his grasp like a star losing the shine, swallowed in a black hole.

Night comes and steals your bright, much to his atonement. Aemond wishes he could say something more, but no speech is enough to bring you back to life.

Your innocence is now agony and all he can say is:

“I must go. For my child.”

“I understand”, you speak cooly, surprising him for your reasonable behavior. “I pray you forgive me for any mistakes. I am but a peasant who knows nothing of life.”

That being said you curtsy and leave the way open. You watch as Alys smirks deviously at you, like a winner who takes it all. Aemond hesitates, but you don’t look at him.

Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) make me want you (make me want you)? Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) give me nothin' back? Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) make me love you (make me love you)? I said, "I love you" (I said, "I love you"). You say nothin' back.

And there your heart lies in open bleeding…

***

You occupy yourself delivering the rest of planting to the lord you owe fealty after spending months in working with the land. It’s easier to forget about the past when one occupies one’s mind with daily tasks.

This doesn’t mean the nights are easier, though. You are haunted by his face, by scenes where he laughs joyfully with Lady Rivers. She tells you that, as a lowborn woman, you could never be with a highborn man as Lord Aemond.

A truth sharp as knife that wakes you up in the breaking dawn, bleeding you again and again… It hurts and though you swallow salt in your mouth, no other sign is there that you have been in suffering.

In the meantime you carry on with your life, or try to, Aemond is rediscovering his life amongst nobility. The boy his former mistress claimed to be his son is not, by all means, a Targaryen. He could tell she painted his hair and by calculating his age, he was far more likely being a Strong boy than else his. Specially because by the time he took Alys Rivers as his mistress, she was already a Strong’s concubine.

With this disappointment ahead and collecting the testimonies of her witchcraft, Aemond is no fool to realize he’s been stuck in a trap and that he could be sent to the new government’s hand anytime.

I shall not have a death by treason.

The only reasonable solution is escaping. He is no coward, in fact the prince was once too prideful to embrace defeat. However, Aemond’s mind recollects your innocence, your simple ways of living and how you taught him so many good things.

The teachings that promised to make him a rightful man despite his wrongs. Is he too late to be redeemed, though?

Why'd you whisper in the dark just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screamin', screamin'…

I should have not let you go, Y/N.

In silence, like always, the prince leaves all that has profaned his soul to search after the only sacred path someone put him in.

And this someone is you.

• ‘I would stay forever if you say don’t go…’

You have cleaned your body in the river and now choose to sit right there over a towel, partly fearful of being seen in your nude state, partly pleased to be able to feel some degree of liberty.

Sun is ready to set and it’s last rays are set on your y/c skin, drying the last drops of the cold water you dived in. As you stand, you are ready to dress yourself when a noise scares you.

Quickly you put your white gown with black strips, unable to tie your long y/c hair when you spot him.

Head shaved still, pained eyes, dressed not like a nobleman but like a random, common peasant lad. So would he look like had he not been blessed with such deep purple eyes that are staring into your y/c ones.

“A-Aemond”, you gasp. Your body begins to tremble and you wish you could run away, but you are frozen.

“Y/Nickname”, he comes after you, hesitantly at first, confidently then. “Apologies are not enough for what I did to you, to us. I humble before my lady and come to ask you not to go.”

He is on his knees before you. He, the prideful prince.

“You are the one who left”, your voice betrays you.

“I had to”, Aemond dares to raise his chin as his hands grip tight your thighs. “I had to. I was misled to think the boy she had was my child.”

“And if he was”, you mutter, the echo of pain rolling out through your words, much like a sharpened blade. “Would you be embarrassed of my station to keep me in ignorance?”

“Fuck, Y/N, no!” He realizes no words are enough to make up for his poor doings. Nevertheless, he tries. Aemond is no quitter. “I am not embarrassed of my lady. I learned to love you out of my heart and soul, despising mundane affairs in order to pursuit the divine one. I was raised from the seven hells to taste the sweet flavor of your divine lips. I want you. Only you can redeem me.”

It’s the way his fingers dig into the cloth of the skirt of your gown that makes you feel fragile. The way he breaks before you, how his words are whispered in despair. Remorse is sincere, pain is evident in the two of you.

Why delaying it?

But then you hear a sound so strange to you. To both of you. When your hearts cry out, you slip, losing your strength.

“You are my weakness”, he says, exposing himself to you.

No sapphire. No embellishment. No pride. The prince the way he is, with his scars. And you expose yours.

Darkness rises by the time you are engulfed in his embrace.

“I’m sorry”, Aemond whispers, fearful of losing you. “I won’t leave you ever again. This I vow over my dead family.”

You are still sobbing when he vows this to you. And when his lips are colliding against yours, every angst dies at long last. And what is cold now is warm, and suddenly the weight of the clothes begins to be unbearable.

With only the moon as witness, vows are exchanged, consumed in one kind of fire that burns each part, prompted to spread in a strange kind of fever so unknown to you.

As tongue dances, bodies intertwine and pain is at long last overcome. The consequence of this redemption is to fruit nine moons later.

In the end, in between wars and peacemakings, two different lives found in each other what they needed. The destiny of Aemond Targaryen became a great “what if” in the history, a name so powerful to haunt crowned men but humbled before the kindest lady of the Seven Kingdoms.

Turned into a love song many years later, bards would give Aemond another name, calling you Jenny of the Oldstones.

Perhaps a truth hints behind it, is it not? But only your descendants would know it and smile often at such beautiful song.

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #house targaryen #taylor swift #say don’t go #1989 (taylor's version)

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