༻♕༺

~ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐬
𝟏𝟐𝟖 𝐀𝐂

   By order of King Viserys Targaryen, First of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Prince Daeravor's exile from the Crownlands is henceforth disbanded and is hereby summoned to King's Landing.

  Lord Hand, Otto Hightower

____________________

You've been summoned to King's Landing.

The words of Lord Ormund Hightower ring through his head as the repetitive flapping of the Cannibal's wings breaks the silence of the night.

After six long years exiled away from the Crownlands, from his family, Daeravor Targaryen has been summoned home.

  Why? 'Tis obvious to the prince. To aid the Green fraction of his father's house against the Blacks.

Not because his mother misses him, longs for the son she did nothing for as he was sent away, simply for the reason her second son is now useful to his scheming leech for a grandfather.

The dragon beneath him grumbles, as if sensing his rider's resentment at his unjust upbringing. Daeravor rubs his dark scales–as dark as midnight seas, none could see him midst the night sky.

Despite the protests of Lord Ormund, Daeravor had flown to King's Landing.

Wishing to arrive at King's Landing within hours instead of the agreed upon fortnight spent dully sitting in a wheelhouse with nothing but his mind and the stink of horse to accompany him.

Daeravor shuddered at the thought.

  Then, after tiresome hours spent on dragonback with no breaks, the Cannibal drifts below the clouds and Daeravor finally sees the city he once called home after six years away. King's Landing. The shadow of the Red Keep looming over the city from it's perch atop Aegon's High Hill. The Dragonpit surmounted on Rhaenys' Hill with the Grand Sept on Visenya's Hill–connected by the Street of Sisters.

  'Twasn't nearly as impressive as Oldtown with it's Hightower and Citadel with twin statues of sphinxes, but still the King's Landing a younger Daeravor once knew.

  Eyes falling onto the smallfolk the size of ants traversing between the cramped buildings, across the cobbled streets and down narrow alleys, Daeravor smirks so dangerously.

"𝑺𝒚𝒏𝒈𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏."

  The Cannibal pitches downward, almost silently–a true apex predator–and when he extends his wings to avoid crashing into the buildings below, the dragon gives forth a roar. As loud and thundering as the breaking of the world.

  All of those within the capital scream in terror, fleeing to their homes–'tis the only proper response to the dragons–as the winged shadow of death soars over their heads, casting the night in pitch black darkness. The sheer force of his wings extinguishes every lit torch for miles on end as the city falls into darkness and mayhem at the Mad Prince's return.

  And Daeravor Targaryen laughs hysterically upon the Cannibal's back as chaos unfurls beneath him.

  "𝑺𝒚𝒓𝒊̄, 𝒏̃𝒖𝒉𝒐 𝑺ȳ𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒓. 𝑯𝒐𝒔𝒌𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏."

  The Cannibal circles the Red Keep thrice until he settles atop the ten-feet thick outer walls of the castle's entry courtyard, the old bricks trembling beneath his weight as small pebbles tumble to the ground.

  The guards all stumble away in fright as the mighty black dragon spreads his wings, displaying his full size to those below him–who only grow more fearful of the beast–and roars so fierce all within the Crownlands hear him that night.

The dragons in the pit begin to shriek, responding to the presence of the Cannibal.

  Daeravor rubs the onyx scales beneath him, then, dismounts his dragon. Gracefully sliding down the Cannibal's lowered wing to land on his boots with a huff–the arrows in his quiver shifting at the abrupt movement.

Ripping his leather gloves off with his teeth, Daeravor takes in the sight of the Red Keep looming above him like a foreboding mountain as he tucks them into his belt. He breathes a soft exhalation.

A hot gust of pale steam engulfs Daeravor's back, and he smirks. Turning around, Daeravor rubs those ebony scales in soothing caresses as the wild dragon purrs–low and guttural–at his touch.

"𝑲𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒗𝒐𝒔𝒆. 𝑺𝒊̄𝒓 𝒔𝒐̄𝒗𝒆̄𝒈𝒐𝒏. 𝑨𝒓𝒈𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒐𝒏. 𝑲𝒊𝒔𝒂̄𝒔, 𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒃𝒂𝒍."

Only when the Targaryen prince stepped away from his monstrous dragon, did the night guards dare to approach him. "My Prince Daeravor, welcome back to King's Landing. We had not thought to expect you at this late hour. Shall we summon the Dragonkeepers?" Daeravor narrows his dark violet eyes at the guard that'd spoken, the Cannibal's growls rattling the very ground beneath their feet. "If you go near him, I will burn you until you are dead."

A shrill screech from the Cannibal follows his words, a promise of fire and blood should anyone attempt to chain him again.

With that, Daeravor walks into the castle he once knew, fading from the guards' sight amid the shadows.

____________________

When the first light of dawn spills across the sleeping sky, slinking through the windows to chase away the shadows of the night, a knock from the doors below disrupts the silence of Prince Aemond Targaryen's bed chambers.

  "Come." He grants whomever 'twas entry as he sits upon one of the twin armchairs in the sitting area.

  The doors below the loft open and the clinking footsteps that ascend the stairs tell Aemond 'tis Ser Rickard Thorne before he sees the knight of the Kingsguard, himself.

Tilting his head back curiously as his shoulders rise with a breath, finger incessantly tapping the goblet of light wine in his grasp. Aemond found he could not sleep that night.

His thoughts filled with the brother he hadn't seen in six years finally returning home.

"My Prince." Ser Rickard bows his head in respect. "Your brother has arrived on dragonback."

Although Aemond's heart flutters madly within his chest at his words, he does not show it. "Does my mother know he's here?"

"No, my Prince."

"Good. That will be all, Ser Rickard." Says the prince as he stands, straightening the creases in his black leather doublet. The knight bows his head before returning to his post outside the door.

Leaving his chambers through the door connected to the loft, the third son of the Realm makes his way to the Great Hall, somehow just knowing Daeravor Targaryen would be found there.

  And there his older brother awaits, perched comfortably atop the Iron Throne.

  From the distance between the throne and the oak-and-bronze doors, Aemond could not see much of his brother cast in shadows. Little to no sunlight spilling through the high, narrow windows. Thus, Aemond crosses the stretch between them.

  "Mother would have your head for sitting there, brother." His smooth voice echoes hauntingly across the hall, like a whisper amidst the darkness.

  "Aye." Daeravor leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee. "But I grew rather curious all the way in Oldtown."

  Aemond stops at the foot of the Iron Throne, smirking up at his brother with his hands clasped behind his back and finally, he sees Daeravor Targaryen.

  The brother who avenged his stolen eye, and got exiled because of it.

And the tales of his inhumane beauty–common amongst the last Valyrians–were not exaggerated. Not that Aemond ever believed otherwise. Daeravor had always been the prettiest out of his brothers.

  "Why arrive so early?"

  "Welcome parties are so dreadfully dull, brother, I did not wish to be greeted with Mother and Grandfather's false courtesies."

  The younger prince tilts his head up at his brother, mirroring one anothers' smirks, as his one violet eye observes him. Daeravor certainly grew. More mature perhaps, or more beautiful.

  Both, Aemond declares to himself.

  But there was something else. Something wild and uncontrollable in his dark violet eyes–the Cannibal taking deep root within Daeravor.

  Daeravor then descends the throne, standing toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with his younger brother, certainly much more striking than he remembers. . . yet burdened by duty and guilt. 

  "I brought you something, brother."

  The older prince reveals his palm, where a dark steel necklace dangles. The bodies of two dragons slithering toward one another and between them a pendant with looping rings framing a sapphire.

  'Tis the finest and most beautiful piece of jewelry Aemond'd ever seen, lifting the pendant into his grasp as his thumb traces the intricate designs of dragon scales interwoven midst the steel.

  "Do you recognize it?"

  "Valyrian-steel."

  Daeravor snatches it from his brother's grasp, lips quirked with a deviant smirk. "Turn around."

  A brief moment of hesitation, more curious than hesitant, Aemond turns his back to his brother, sliding all of his velvety hair over his shoulder. He withholds a shiver as Daeravor's heat envelopes him as he stands behind him, feeling the every delicate rise and fall of Daeravor's chest against his back.

  It makes his heart flutter like a butterfly's wing yet sets his blood aflame with a desire he's never known before.

  Calloused yet gentle fingers enclose the necklace around the younger prince's neck, clasping the lock then Daeravor steps away. But only a single step.

  Aemond faces his older brother once again, tracing the steel, cold beneath his fingertips.

  "𝑵̃𝒖𝒉𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒒𝒂𝒓." The older prince whispers, dark eyes roaming his brother's lithe form, head filled with such unholy thoughts.

  Daeravor closes whatever distance separates him and Aemond until nothing is between them–not even air–to press his silken lips against his brother's scarred cheek, tasting his soft skin and jagged scar.

  All the breath within Aemond's lungs stills, black heart beating madly within it's cage of ribs, as time itself seems to stop for that moment where his brother's soft lips meet his skin.

  "𝑵̃𝒖𝒉𝒐𝒏."

  Daeravor growls against his ivory skin then turns and disappears amidst the shadows of the Great Hall as the sun rises beyond the walls, leaving his bewildered brother behind.

____________________

Morning found Daeravor lounging in the Royal Gardens with his sweet sister, Helaena, by his side on the grass soft like velvet beneath them. Stretched out on their backs as they gaze up at the glorious sky, pointing out the shapes the clouds took.

A floral breeze wafts through the gardens, soothing the summer's humidity as it carries with it the giggled gossip of the ladies of court and the shrill calls of regal peafowls roaming freely across the gravel pathways.

'Twas just as Daeravor remembered it to be. Light, airy, and perhaps the only place one could find peace and respite within the walls of the Red Keep.

With her hair, still stubborn with Hightower curls, a silvery halo around her head, Helaena fiddles with the golden brooch–molded into the shape of a spider, sprinkled with emerald fragments–her brother'd gifted to her that morrow when they reunited after years apart and points to another lazy cloud drifting across the bright blue canvas forever above them.

  "That one looks like an elephant."

  If Daeravor squinted enough, then yes the white blotch could certainly appear to be one of the elephants native to the land across the Narrow Sea he wished to venture to one day with his siblings at his side.

  "And that one looks like a butterfly."

  "Yes, it does, sweet sister. And that one looks like a dragon."

  Helaena giggles, a sound so full of life and love. "That's because it is a dragon." And spoke truth, his Helaena did, for just a second later, a roar that shook the very core of the earth beneath echoes across the bright sky.

  The Cannibal.

  A soft grin lifts the corners of Daeravor's lips at the sight of his wild dragon.

  The Cannibal is known as the omen of death, for wherever he goes destruction follows in his wake. He could never be bent to anothers will. All those before the prince who tried to mount him were killed, either by his fire or his ferocious nature.

It is known amongst the Targaryens that a dragon will bond with someone that mirrors them. So it 'twas said the prince's nature has. . . a similarity with the wild Cannibal's.

Daeravor doesn't feed on dragon–or human, for that matter. Mayhaps it was their fire, their uncontrollable aggression and insatiable rage boiling beneath the surface that connects him and the Cannibal.

  Or perhaps they felt like the only beings who weren't meant to be born. That their very existence was a mistake.

  That they were meant for another world, or another time.

  Daeravor remembers the night the Cannibal claimed him better than any moment of his life.

Smuggling himself to Dragonstone upon a fisherman's boat, not that the elderly man knew, and venturing into the depths of the ominous Dragonmont with pale smoke emitting from it's maw. Finding the nest of Arrax, Lucerys Velaryon's whelp, and bringing the young dragon to the Cannibal's cavern.

  The wild dragon feasted that night and, for the first time his lonely life, claimed a young boy of two-and-ten as his sole rider.

  An eye for a dragon, a dragon for an eye.

  Were the only words Daeravor spoke when he returned to King's Landing atop the mighty wild Cannibal. . . only to be exiled to Oldtown when 'twas discovered what he did upon Dragonstone.

  Though, tame the Mad Prince, the Hightowers tried but ultimately could not. No one had that power, not even the gods themselves.

  Now, six years later, Daeravor has returned home to aid his family against the Blacks–vicious vipers who sting and suck their prey dry.

  Or so Daeravor'd been told.

The rumbling bellow of the Cannibal's breaks his thoughts as the dragon's winged shadow engulfs him and Helaena as he soars overhead them.

Daeravor knows the Dragonkeepers will wish to chain his Cannibal beneath the pit to dissuade any of his. . . feeding habits, but Daeravor will burn them alive if they dare try.

  Despite being bonded to the prince for six years now, the Cannibal still were, and would always be, a wild dragon. Restless and chaotic.

  "Beware the tower that bleeds green. Wary of the dragon that consumes all."

  The prince's lashes flutter at his sweet sister's words, tilting his head to look at beautiful Helaena. She looks to him, as well, grinning as if nothing she just uttered mattered. "I've missed you, brother. We all have."

  We. Her other three brothers and herself, Daeravor knows she means. Not Mother. Not Grandfather. Just them, the only ones that matter.

  "As have I, sister."

  Footsteps that echo with a metallic ring disrupt the moment between brother and sister, the former sitting up only to see a member of the Kingsguard approaching the two of them.

  "My Prince," The knight bows his head. " – you have been summoned to the Queen's chamber by Her Grace, herself."

  And so Mother finally notices her second son has returned. Daeravor looks to Helaena, who just smiles so gently at him, reminding him of the pretty flowers spread amidst the gardens at Oldtown.

  "'Tis alright, brother. You can meet the children after."

  Daeravor plants a kiss to Helaena's temple–so gentle she wouldn't have known his lips touched her at all if she had not seen–before standing and trailing behind the Kingsguard to his mother's chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, where all the Royal Family's private apartments were.

Arriving, Daeravor stops outside the door–the oak intricately designed with regal dragons–and breathes the crisp morning air to steel himself then enters, greeted with the sight of both his mother and grandfather.

The rotten leech he calls Grandfather holds the air of an imposing force from where Otto Hightowers sits by the crackling hearth. Holding himself like a man who thinks himself more wise and greater than ten grand maesters of the Citadel combined, yet Daeravor knows never to underestimate the scheming Hand of the King.

  One of the most dangerous men in the Realm.

Whilst his mother, stood beside the armchair her father occupies, aside from her shredded cuticles and the faint lines of exhaustion beneath her green eyes, looks just as Daeravor remembers her.

Curls like autumn leaves, young and beautiful, with eyes full of torment. A wholly embodiment of a young and good queen.

  But Daeravor Targaryen learned long ago to never expect any love from Alicent Hightower, thus were not surprised when he found no heartfelt reunion awaited him. Alicent'd never shown the love she holds for his siblings to him, never enough that is, for the boy is her sin in the flesh, the striking reflection of the Rouge Prince.

  A bastard born from youthful desire, Daemon Targaryen's son.

Every time Alicent looks at the boy, she only ever saw a reflection of her worst self. But she has convinced herself she doesn't hate Daeravor, she could never loathe any of her darling children.

  You may not love the King, my daughter, but you will love his children.

The words of her father ring through her head.

  "Mother. Grandfather." Daeravor bows his head in a light nod.

  "We had not expected you for another fortnight."

  "My apologies for not sending a letter beforehand. But I could not stomach the thought of enduring the stench of horse shit for weeks on end."

  There he was again, the Rouge Prince, staring at her with dark violet eyes, and her veins turn cold like ice but Alicent blinks and remembers 'tis only her son, Daeravor. His spawn.

The Lord Hand breaks the silence laced with sudden tension overcoming the Queen's bed chamber, clearing his throat as he stands from the armchair. "Do you know why we summoned you here, Daeravor?"

Daeravor limply shrugs his shoulders, playing the ignorant grandson, "At first, I figured the capital had grown dull in my absence, but then I heard something about a mortal wound Lord Corlys has obtained in the Stepstones." A dangerous smirk curls his lips as he crosses his arms behind his back. "You hope to disinherit the Strong pup and name Ser Vaemond as Lord of the Tides underneath the Seasnake's nose."

  "'Tis time you returned home, Daeravor." Alicent attempts, but Daeravor only scoffs. He will never give in to her false love again. "Spare me, Mother. You only want my and the Cannibal's presence here to dissuade any violence from breaking out. But you seem to have forgotten, angry snakes lash out, which makes chopping off their heads that much easier."

  A dangerous young man, indeed, not a thing to be tamed nor angered.

  Alicent's breath trembles as she begins to tear her cuticles apart, beads of blood rising to the surface to slink down her slim fingers. This young man stood before her, her son, frightens her. For he is a stranger, not the boy she let slip through her fingers six years ago.

  Daeravor Targaryen, the Mad Prince and Beacon of Blood. The Cannibal's mirrored soul.

  "We should hope to strive away from violence and sure destruction, my son."

  Son. Spoken with a grimace. One that went noticed.

  "Of course, Mother. But remember this–should the viper strike first, the venom will spread and all will be lost before it has begun."

  Daeravor, then, takes his leave without another word, a smirk tilting the corner of his lips for he knows his words will haunt the minds of his mother and grandfather.

  'Twould be welcome if they heed to them and strike first. . . though, he somehow doubts so. Mayhaps he will, instead.

  Alicent expels a breath laden with unease when the doors close behind her second son, sinking into the armchair her father once occupied.

  "Perhaps," A breath. " – it was a mistake to summon him."

  "Nonsense, my daughter." The Queen's father assures. "The young are peacocks, all shrieking and feathers. We will yet prevail and bring forth peace, I believe it. As long as you and I hold fast. As for Daeravor..."

  Otto turns his gaze to the doors his grandson just left through. "We may yet tame him when my nephew could not."

  Alicent Hightower trusts her father, perhaps not wholly but enough, but the words he spoke about her rouge son. . . she finds it hard to convince herself to believe them.

  A wild youth like Daeravor Targaryen, she fears, will never be controlled.

  The prince, himself, wonders through the halls of the Red Keep, familiarizing himself with the winding and twisting corridors, when his older brother, named for the Conqueror, calls out to him. Almost unbelieving.

  "Daeravor?"

  The golden rays of sunlight trickling in through the open windows stretching the entire length of the wall, providing a pleasant view of Blackwater Bay, brings his skin and silver hair to an ethereal glow as Daeravor spins around to face Aegon II.

  His cold and stoic demeanor, perfected over the years, fade away, replaced by a softness rare to be shown by the Mad Prince, lest he were in the company of his brothers and sweet sister.

  "Brother."

The brothers meet halfway amidst the secluded hall, only the whispering breeze and brick walls that see all accompanying the young men, and Aegon wastes not the breath of a moment to bring Daeravor into an embrace.

Daeravor's breath hitches at the sudden feel of arms around him. . . but, then he remembers. This is Aegon, his dear older brother, and welcomes his embrace, resting his chin on his shoulder.

"I missed you, brother." Spoken with such painful longing.

Daeravor grins, neither dangerous nor lethal, but a thing that is genuine and full of love, pulling away from his brother's embrace to flatten his palms on Aegon's pink-tinted cheeks.

"As did I." He whispers tenderly, then, sweetly kisses Aegon's crown of starlit hair, breathing his brother in. Something sweet, like berried wine, with a trace of dragon smoke.

Laying the side of his head against Aegon's, Daeravor caresses Aegon's cheekbone with a grin burning with a love brighter than the stars upon his lips.

"𝑽𝒆̄𝒛𝒐𝒔 𝒒𝒆̄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒂̄𝒔 𝒏̃𝒖𝒉𝒐."

Aegon smiles, a love stick thing full of shimmering white teeth and desire blazing like an inferno, and holds his younger brother's cheek in his hand.

And by gods, Daeravor loved it. Loved the way his fingers wrapped around his cheek. Aegon's hands had always been so warm to the touch, as if sunlight rests beneath his flesh, and soft as if they were woven from the most expensive silk. One caressed his jaw so tenderly as if it was holding delicate glass that could shatter with but a single touch while the other ran through his silver locks.

It was a lovely way to burn. And oh, how Daeravor craved the fire as the dragon he was.

In their youth, more so before his brother had been exiled, Aegon often confided within his Daeravor. The sting of their mother's hate, and the weight of court duties. Daeravor despairs at the thought his delicate Aegon were left behind to suffer the sneer of their mother's disdain alone whilst he were far away.

Forbidden by the King from visiting one another, only ever able to send letters once every month of those six years apart.

But Daeravor is here now, no one will insult or harm his brothers and sister any longer–the other halves to his soul, his entire being.

The only ones who make him feel like he belongs in this world.

"I had something made for you." Daeravor reveals a ring that glitters beautifully in the sunlight–melted from gold, engraved with the mighty three-headed dragon dotted with fragments of emerald.

"𝑮𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒓𝒚."

Daeravor's violet eyes stare unblinking at the alluring movement as Aegon slides the ring–a symbol of the bond between them–down his finger, subtly wetting his lips. Bringing Aegon's hand into his, Daeravor lifts it to his lips to trace them along Aegon's knuckles–kissing, biting, then licking.

Their eyes meet, and everything goes silent.

"Let's meet tomorrow by Balerion's skull."

"Why?"

A dangerous smirk curls Daeravor's lips. "Isn't it obvious, dear brother? I wish to venture into the streets of King's Landing."

And Aegon mirrors his smirk. "As you wish, brother."

☙ •—• ༻♕༺ •—• ❧

𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 :

  • Syngagon. ~ Frighten them.
• Syrī, ñuho Sȳndor. Hoskagon. ~ Well done, my Shadow. Proud.
  • Kirimvose. Sīr sōvēgon. Arghugon. Kisās, issa gevie Cannibal. ~ Thank you. Now fly. Hunt. Eat, my beautiful Cannibal.
• Ñuho gevie valonqar. ~ My beautiful brother.
  • Ñuhon. ~ Mine.
• Vēzos qēlossās ñuho. ~ My sun and stars.
  • Geviry. ~ It's beautiful.