༻♕༺

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠
~ 𝟏𝟐𝟖 𝐀𝐂

Not wanting to provoke their mother's wrath, the three brothers swiftly dressed then made their way to the Queen's solar. Where they now sit with Helaena and Daeron, their parents, and grandsire for early breakfast.

Apparently Father awoke with what little strength remained in him and joined them–hence why Mother was so adamant on all of her children attending that morrow, Daeravor concluded.

Since the moment his older brothers took their seats across from him, Daeron had been subtly smirking at them. They only scowled and glared at him in silent warning. Whilst Helaena were fiddling with the hair pin Aegon had gifted to her for their upcoming wedding anniversary.

He may not love her like a husband, but Helaena is still his sweet sister and as her brother, he loves her.

Twirling the dragon shaped pin in her palm–it reminds her of her beloved Dreamfyre–the topaz-embedded silver reflecting the pale beams of sunlight spilling through the windows, Helaena beams then leans acros the table to show it to her grandfather, Otto.

The cunning and deceiving Hand of the King listens to his only granddaughter with keen interest. Otto had a reserved place in his cold heart for dear Helaena, the light of the Red Keep and the smallfolk.

"Why don't we make the announcement, my love?" Alicent speaks softly to her husband beside her, and Viserys smiles. "Yes. Yes, that would be good."

And so, Alicent taps the edge of her goblet with her cutlery, gaining her children's attention. "My darlings, your father wishes to speak."

The sons and daughter of the King look to the pathetic waste of space that is their father expectantly, wondering whatever 'twas he found so important to say that he left his bed. "I have decided.. that we should celebrate Aegon's.. and Helaena's sixth year of marriage.. with a royal hunt."

Like the days when the Realm was happiest. A dying king desperately attempting to save his collapsing kingdoms... all because Viserys Targaryen could not love his family equally. Daeravor scoffs beneath his breath. His father would only be remembered as House Targaryens most worthless and feeble king. He will never forget the night Viserys deemed an insult more important than his own son loosing a fucking eye.

   But the children nod their agreements nonetheless, neither loathing nor loving the idea, until their father continues, "And I want.. the whole of my family.. to celebrate.. together."

   The whole of my family. Together. Viserys means Rhaenyra and her litter. 'Twould mean having to spend more time in the insufferable presence of those Strong pups.

   Fuck. Daeravor huffs, switching his water for wine and downing the entire goblet in a single gulp.

   Alicent only smiles, holding her husband's hand, "Won't that be fun, my darlings?"

   The young Targaryens mumble their false agreement to please their mother. It sounded anything but fun to the Green siblings.

____________________

     After the distressing news they received at breakfast, the Green siblings had immediately left the Red Keep. Their dragons flying far beyond the walls of the capital and none had been seen since.

Where they went, the royal court and smallfolk could only guess. Their mother fretted as the hours came and went, knowing it would displease her ailing husband if they decided to run away for the Royal Hunt.

The siblings, themselves, had flown far across the Kingswood, over hills and shimmering lakes, until only green land could be seen on the horizon. No keeps, no boundary stones, nothing made by man, just nature's soft and gentle caress across the Crownlands.

Within a plain shadowed by mountainous hills–capped by evergreen and oak trees–and blanketed in patches of the most wondrous of flowers, the children of the Queen found respite away from the weight of obligations. Sunlight drips from the cloudless sky and casts it's pale warmth on the Targaryens below and their dragons.

Winged shadows float over them as Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, and Tessarion dance, singing. The Cannibal and Vhagar having since left to hunt together. Morghul and Shrykos had been brought along, as well, lounging midst the flowers spread across the bright green grass–basking whilst the young twins, their riders, and Maelor play.

On the assortment of blankets they'd brought, along with a basket of sweets, fruits, cider and tea, sit Helaena and Daeron.

Helaena sorting through her gathered collection of numerous flowers beside her to weave into crowns as Daeron munches on sour olive-green grapes, watching Aegon chase his little ones around as laughter spills from their smiling lips.

They were playing "Dragons"–one would be the infamous Cannibal and chase the others, whom were other dragons fleeing from his insatiable hunger. Mostly 'twas Aegon playing the Cannibal, barring his teeth and growling as he chases his children in circles, but Jaehaerys had wanted a turn and now his giggles echo across the glowing field as his father flees from him, exaggerating pleas for mercy.

"Oh, fearsome Cannibal, please, spare me from your hunger." Aegon pleads, plopping onto the ground with much dramaticism. Jaehaerys did not waste a second, pouncing onto his father, who flops onto his back.

"But dragons show no mercy, 𝑲𝒆𝒑𝒂! Especially the Cannibal." Then his little six-fingered hands were attacking his father with merciless tickles.

All while, Daeravor and Aemond were sat on their own bundle of blankets, deep in a game of Cyvasse. A game of strategy and warcraft Daeravor oft played with the maester at Oldtown–a cunning opponent, but he made the mistake of teaching Daeravor all of his moves and secrets. The princes were worthy opponents of each other as they removed pawn after pawn to get to their "kings".

Daeravor swoops in with his last dragon and "kills" Aemond's "king", ending the game as he plucks the piece off the board with a smirk. "I win."

Aemond's eye only stares at his brother's lips before he lunges onto him, the pieces of the board shoved aside with a clatter. Daeravor's back meets the soft ground as he groans into the intense kiss, holding Aemond's lithe waist. His brother's hands supporting his weight on either side of his head. 'Tis a heated kiss of tongue and fiery dominance. Aemond's knee slides up until it touches the older prince's hardening cock and they fucking moan. Daeravor hooks his leg around Aemond's in response to keep him close. When their lungs beg for air, do they finally part with heavy breaths.

Another smirk curls Daeravor's lips when the necklace he'd given to him dangles above him, winking in the sunlight. He takes it between two fingers, tracing the intricate Valyrian steel. "𝑮𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆." He, then, looks into Aemond's desire widened pupil. "If it weren't for the presence of the little ones, I'd take you here and now, 𝒏̃𝒖𝒉𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒒𝒂𝒓."

   Aemond's chest rumbles with a hum of delight at the delicious thought. He kisses Daeravor's cheek before rolling off of him, plopping onto the ground with a breath.

   A silence overcomes the brothers, born only a year apart, as they gaze up at the sky and dancing dragons miles above them, the laughter of the young ones ringing through the floral air.

   Daeravor wishes they could stay here forever. "We should just stay here." Aemond sighs, wishing that too. "We should... but we couldn't."

   "Why not?"

   "You know why, Daeravor."

   He just scoffs, "No, I'm afraid I don't." With another sigh, Aemond turns his head to look at Daeravor, who meets his stare. "A war is brewing."

   "Only because those leeches at the council wish so vindictively to sit Aegon's ass on the throne. If we weren't around to challenge anything, there would be no war."

   "You are right in this, Daeravor. But seven dragons, mayhaps eight, will be difficult to hide. Not to mention, us, as well."

   Daeravor sighs in defeat, only because he knows Aemond is right. There is no place in this world they could go where none would recognize them and their dragons. They would be hunted for the rest of their lives. They couldn't run away and it hurts. It hurts because that is all he wishes to do. Take his family and fly somewhere so far away no one even knows what a Targaryen is. . . but that place doesn't exist. Not in Westeros, and certainly not in the east.

   "I know."

   "'Tisn't that I don't want too, Daer... I just know we can't."

   With sorrow roaming his dark eyes, Daeravor just silently nods, not meeting his brother's eye. Aemond slides his arm around the older prince's waist to tug him into his side. Daeravor doesn't resist. Melting into his brother's touch as he rests his head on Aemond's chest, letting the soft beat of his heart and the steady rhythm of his breath lull him into tranqulity.

   'Tis peaceful, laying here like this in Aemond's arms with his siblings around him. Listening to the songs of the dragons, the gleeful laughter and squeals tumbling from the little ones, and Aegon's laughs as he plays with his children–his treasures.

   He closes his eyes and imagines they are somewhere else, someplace without the weight of courtly duties and looming war crushing them.

   Someplace where they are free.

   Winged shadows, darker than any passing cloud, eclipse the sun and Daeravor peeks open an eye to see that his Sȳndor and Vhagar have returned from their hunt.

   Ever so slowly, his siblings dragons were becoming more accustomed to the Cannibal's presence. Enough so that they didn't shriek when they saw him any longer. He sees that as progress.

   Vhagar's hulking form looms above the basking whelps then something drops from her snout and tumbles through the whispering wind.

   Daeravor hums, wondering what it was, sitting up on one elbow to see the charred corpse of a mountain goat land in front of the whelps with a thump. He softly chuckles, the elder taking care of the young. 'Twas sweet, truly.

   "Your war dragon has grown soft, I dare say, brother." Without opening his eye, Aemond just pinches his ribs. Daeravor snickers.

   Morghul and Shrykos dive for the meat, tearing it apart viciously as they trill in glee. He grunts, laying back down again as the ground quakes beneath the sheer weight of his Sȳndor and Vhagar when they land a short distance from their riders. Laying side by side, they bask beneath the bright sun, their tails coiling.

   Daeron looks to Helaena and suddenly voices the question nagging at his mind for hours now. Since they received the news that morrow. "Do you think Mother will allow us to fly to the Kingswood?"

   Continuing to braid flowers into crowns, Helaena shrugs her shoulders, "Why not?"

   "She might make the argument of "family bonding" and force us to sit with our cousins the entire ride."

   "I doubt so. I don't think Mother will risk sitting Daeravor and Aemond together with Rhaenyra's sons."

   Daeron hums, silently agreeing, and looks over his shoulder at his brothers in question. Lounging now, seems they finished their Cyvasse match.

   'Tis then, he remembers what he saw that morning and snorts beneath his breath. It didn't surprise him. His three older brothers were attached at the hip. It was rare to see the children of the Queen apart, whether it was within the walls of the Red Keep, the training grounds, or even the skies. Especially the eldest brothers. For they all knew the cold truth–the entire world was against them, and all they had was each other.

Daeron dreads to think about the mayhem that would ensue if Mother ever found them together like that. Alicent may even send Daeravor away again. He shivers in fright, because he knows she would. Mother has never loved Daeravor as she does him and his siblings.

It wasn't fair. What isn't there to love about his older brother? So loyal and so loving, in his own way.

Expelling a breath, Daeron curls up on the spot beside Helaena, resting his cheek on her knee. Still weaving her crowns of flowers, she occasionally strokes a hand through his hair.

After hours of running around, the children tire themselves out, exhausting their father as well, and trot off to their mother and uncle to munch on the array of sweets.

Aegon makes his way over to his brothers, plopping down beside them with a tired grunt, laying against Aemond's other side, whose entire body stiffens upon instinct. But, albeit slowly and stiffly, he begins to welcome his brother's sunlit warmth. Even daring to coil his arm around Aegon's waist.

Surprise ripples through Aegon at his younger brother's acceptance. Aemond certainly wouldn't have been so accepting before–he would've just shoved him off. Especially after the incident several months ago when he whacked Aemond's ass after supper one night, having mistaken him for Helaena in his inebriated state. With his cheeks pink, Aemond had raised his brow–the scarred one–before kicking his feet out from under him and shoving Aegon to the floor. But Aegon weren't complaining as he nuzzles himself into Aemond's warmth, like the dragons'.

Aemond was the true blood of the dragon, the warrior Aegon wishes he could've been.

Daeravor hums in content, reaching his arm across Aem's belly to clasp Aeg's, weaving their fingers as he twists and turns the ring he'd gifted to him upon his return.

"At least the little ones will get some fresh air." Aegon offers. Aemond grunts. "That may be the only good thing to come of this hunt." He turns his head to look at his little nephews and niece, lips lifting into a soft grin at the sight he's met with.

Daeron, sprawled on his back, were holding Maelor high in the air above him as he mimics him flying like a dragon, the little one squealing and giggling in delight. Morghul and Shrykos had joined their riders–well, soon to be–on the pile of blankets and the little princess were rubbing her dragon's scales as Morghul lays his head on her lap.

Morghul had been hatched small and frail, like Jaehaera when she was born–tiny and slow to grow–and yet was still placed in the Dragonpit with the other dragons. The whelp was a slender he-dragon of onyx-black scales interwoven with bronze -and-gold with molten gold eyes. Morghul was the Old Valyrian word for "death", a rather ominous but fitting name for a dragon, Aemond supposes.

Jaehaerys sits on his mother's lap, throwing blueberries into his mouth and bursting into fits of giggles whenever he misses. Helaena smiles at her sweet boy, laying a crown of roses and daisies on his head of silver-gold hair, and Aemond softly grins at her. Shrykos, curled up by Helaena's bare feet, was curiously watching the little boy. The young prince throws her a blueberry, only for it to bounce off the dragon's snout. Shrykos sniffs the fruit then looks at Jaehaerys, tilting her head with a chirp. He just giggles.

Dragons only ever ate meat, charred meat.

The name 'Shrykos' was inspired by the Shrykes–green-scaled lizard men from eastern Essos–when the little boy learned about them from a fictional tale of Jaehaerys I battling fantastical creatures beyond the Wall his father told him. The she-dragon's scales were a beautiful jade green with apricot accents and pale peach eyes.

The children's father shifts slightly beside him, and Aemond's eye flicks down to him and the events of last night flit back into his mind. The sheer lust and desire that coursed through him as he fucked both of his brothers.

He never would've imagined it six years ago, but Aemond will admit, Aegon had been better since Daeravor's exile, excluding that one incident.

An understanding had dawned upon them and connected the children of the Queen as they realized the only ones in the world they could truly, wholly, trust is each other. And so, they were there for each other, more than they had ever been.

Whenever the whispers of gossip reached his ears, calling his sister odd or his brother ugly because of his scar, Aegon was there to defend their names.

Aemond knew this, because he had witnessed Aegon doing so many a time from the shadows of the halls. His heart fluttered so rapidly he thought it might burst the first time he saw his brother, the very one who used to mock him about being without a dragon, defend him. Growling to the ladies, "If I hear any of you utter another word against my brother again, I will cut out your tongues and feed it to the fucking dogs." Beneath his sheets, Aemond cried that night. Not in sorrow, but because he felt so loved by the brother he thought loathed him.

Although Aegon was still a drunk and shirked many of his duties, their relationship wasn't so tense as it'd been in their youth, and Aemond thinks to himself, he wouldn't be opposed to repeating last night. Aegon certainly knew his way around their bodies, making them feel the most unholy of pleasures they never thought possible.

His brother was a hard thing to love and Aemond doesn't, not like a husband, but they are Targaryens. There is something between them. . . Aemond could not put a word to it. They were two sides of the same coin, one couldn't exist without the other–a half cannot hate that which makes it whole.

His violet eye falls to Daeravor, ear above his fluttering heart as his floral scent wafts through his nose. What wasn't his dear Daeravor to him? His mad love, the brother who avenged his stolen eye. 'Twasn't just Vhagar who claimed him six years ago. Aemond may have the power to inflict a killing blow to his enemies, but Daeravor has the power to fucking destroy him, and he doesn't even know it.

   Or maybe he does.

   Daeravor was. . . Daeravor was like his gravity. Nothing works without him. Life has no meaning beyond Daeravor Targaryen. The day the Stranger takes him, Aemond will be at his side, holding his hand. And he won't blink.

   He wants for nothing more than to fly so far away, to leave Westeros behind him, with his brothers and sister, to escape the chains of their duties and obligations.

   But they couldn't, and he doesn't want to abandon Mother. She begged for retribution for his stolen eye, Aemond wouldn't forget that.

   Aemond has known that motherly side of Alicent Hightower that can love, he knows it exists and that she loves all of her children, even Daeravor. Not always equally, but he knows her love is there, even if they can't see it.

   He just wishes they could, then maybe Daeravor and Aegon wouldn't be so insistent on running away.

   Sighing beneath his breath, Aemond begins to caress Daeravor's long hair, the pearlescent strands dripping between his fingers like starlit silk. Daeravor hums, content, falling into that state that lies between oblivion and slight awareness.

   The uncertainty of the coming war and the fates of his siblings scares him, but if Aemond is certain in one thing, it's that he will defend his family with his blood and life, no matter the cost, without hesitation.

   He became the warrior through the years, and he intends to keep that title.

   The hours pass the Targaryens by through peaceful moments that are just them until their stomachs growl in hunger and the brothers stand to join the others upon their bundle of fur -and-silk blankets.

   When her brothers join them, Helaena's ethereal face glows with a smile. She loves her brothers very dearly, for neither of them shun her because of her visions and they respect her discomfort at sudden touches–unlike Mother. They especially seem to love spoiling her with gifts–jewelry, threadings for the clothes she loved to sew, or insects they found during the day. Although their protectiveness for her could be overbearing at times, Helaena wouldn't have it any other way. She always felt safe, seen and heard, around them. And for that, she would be eternally grateful for them.

   Those at court often mistook Helaena for a strange and daft girl, lost in her head, but she was perhaps the most intelligent of the Queen's children. She knew a war was coming, she could see it, and during the nights when her visions kept her awake, or frightened her, she would climb into one of her brothers beds and let their warmth envelope her as they slept and wish she was brave like them. Wishing she could fly into battle astride Dreamfyre alongside her brothers so she could protect them too. But she wasn't a soldier of battle. That just wasn't her.

   Patting the spot in front of her, Helaena beckons her beloved brothers over to her as she picks through her pile of flower-crowns to lay one each on her brothers' heads before pouring them a cup of warm tea or cider. Adding three spoonfuls of honey to Aemond's cup after crowning him with a circlet of blue dusk roses and poppy-pink tulips, sprinkled with little white daisies and thin blades of grass, naming him the Sapphire Prince. Daeravor was the Emerald Prince, his a crown of green gladiolus' and blackish-plum lily bulbs. Aegon the Golden Prince with pale-yellow marigolds and pink dahlia bulbs and roses woven into his flower crown. And Daeron the Amethyst Prince when she laid the circlet of blue morning glories and cornflowers with lavender braided midst the stem forming the crown atop his head. Something only very few people knew about Aemond the Fierce is the prince had a sweet tooth, one he never lost even as the years turned.

   Tea sweetened with honey or sugar, cream-filled strawberry tarts, lemon cakes, honeyed wine, star fruit with sugar layered on top, and any other desert dish, Aemond Targaryen had a weakness for. 'Tis adorable, honestly, and his siblings loved to playfully tease him about it whenever they ate together for midday or supper meals.

   Beneath the sunlight, Daeravor lays on his side, leaning on his elbow as he sips on his tea and eats a handful of lemon cakes when Jaehaera with her whelp curl up against his chest. His lips bloom with a smile, tucking a silver tendril from her plump cheek as she slips into a content slumber with Morghul laid beside her like a cat. Beside him, Aegon leans on his palms with Jaehaerys napping on his outstretched legs, Shrykos' head on Aegon's ankle. Daeron lay stretched out across his back with Maelor now napping, as well, atop his chest, lulled by his uncle's beating heart and soft caresses along his back or through his hair. Helaena sits with her legs curled beside her and Aemond's head on her knee as he eats the star fruit while popping grapes between his teeth, her gentle and soft hand massaging his scalp. He hums, the corner of his lips quirking with a grin as his eye falls closed.

   A serene hush falls over the siblings and sleeping little ones as they dine on the pile of sweets. Winged shadows continuing to dance above them. Vhagar and the Cannibal basking a distance away. 'Til Daeron speaks softly, so not to wake the children, "Did you ever go on any royal hunts in Oldtown, Daeravor?"

   Daeravor, then, remembers this would be young Daeron's first.

   "No. Not royal ones, that is. But hunting, yes, I did with the Tarly sons whenever they visited." Daeravor snickers as an old memory surfaces. "I remember the royal hunt for your second nameday."

   "I wish I could remember it."

   Aemond huffs in amusement, "It was a boring affair. Aside from when Aegon fell off that brutish stallion and into a pile of mud." Daeravor and Helaena chuckle.

   "If I recall, you were the one to push me." Aegon retorts back, silver-gold hair glowing in the sunlight, but Aemond just shrugs, the slight tugging of his lips and the mischief in his eye betraying him.

   "Mayhaps. No shame in it, brother. Not all princes are born to ride royal steeds."

   Aegon grunts, muttering something, likely a curse, in Valyrian as Helaena giggles and Daeravor and Daeron snicker.

   "Why ride a horse into battle when we ride the mightiest creatures of all?" Aemond mirrors Daeravor's smirk. "True that, brother."

The dragons floating above trill and the siblings look up, watching the three dragons as they fly off for their own hunt in the vast Kingswood. As he watches his dragon's slender, golden form disappear on the horizon, Aegon wishes 'twas he and his siblings disappearing instead.

"Mayhaps we should fly off. Avoid this hunt altogether." He suggests, and they know he weren't entirety joking, and something within all of them want to make his words a reality for them. The last thing any of them want is to be forced to stand in the presence of those Strong pups for an entire week.

"If we wouldn't be at the risk of Mother murdering us, then I'd join you." Daeron jokes, and they chuckle. "Where would we go? Figuratively speaking, of course." Daeravor asks.

"Of course." Aemond remarks, smirking at his older brother, who chucks a grape at him. Aemond flinches with a snicker.

Helaena smiles, "Highgarden. Or Lys, perhaps."

Daeron hums, thoughtfully, "Somewhere in the North. Like the Wall."

"We could visit Yi Ti and see all its treasures. Or the ruins of Valyria." Aemond offers.

"I agree with Hel. It should be Lys." His sister-wife smiles at him, and Aegon returns it softly.

Daeravor hums, "'Twould be quite amusing if we hid ourselves on Dragonstone. Right in that bitch princess' castle." The siblings chuckle, agreeing that the last isle of dragons and dragonlords would be an amusing place to hide upon. For none would think to look there first.

And so, as pale-gold warmth beams down on them, the children of the Queen continue to lounge with joy in their hearts. All of their troubles drifting away with the breeze for those few short hours together.

☙ •—• ༻♕༺ •—• ❧

𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 :

  • Ñuho gevie valonqar. ~ My beautiful brother.

Author's Note: I love them so much 🤧. Next chpt. things get intense between our Mad Prince and his nephews/cousins 😏. And, for anyone who may be wondering, no I will not be butchering my babies relationships like the show did! The Greenies know they are all one another has, and it will always stay that way 😌.