Chapter 25: Chapter 24.

A/N:

Hello there, my lovely degenerates ~

Here's the chapter as promised! I forgot to post it yesterday, sorry about that ~

It's a multiple POV chapter, skimming through some things, but I think it turned out decent enough.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Don't forget to send me some stones and leave a review. It not only helps with visibility but also keeps me motivated to write more!

~~O~~

Viserys Targaryen, 111 AC.

Viserys sat in his chambers, staring into the crackling hearth as if the flames held answers to the questions that gnawed at his soul. The wine in his hand did little to dull the ache inside him, though he sipped it in vain hope. No matter how much he tried to drown himself in wine, nothing could quiet the unrest in his mind.

The halls of the Red Keep had never felt so hollow. Since Aemma's death, a silence had settled over the castle like a fog, thick and suffocating. Viserys felt its weight press down on him with every passing day. His grief was a constant companion, gnawing at him, but the absence of his children cut deeper still. It had been months since he had seen Aemon and Rhaenyra, and their absence left an emptiness in his life that no one else could fill.

The weeks since Aemma's death had hollowed Viserys. The world he once ruled with calm authority had crumbled, leaving behind a man consumed by guilt. His nights were haunted by the sounds of her screams—Aemma's cries of pain, of despair, still echoed in his ears, louder than the rustle of council meetings or the bustling noise of the Red Keep. The memory of the moment he had ordered the maesters to cut her open lingered in his mind like a festering wound, poisoning his thoughts, his every breath.

And worse, still, were the eyes of his children. The last time he had seen Aemon and Rhaenyra together was during Aemon's heir ceremony. Aemon had stood before him, regal and tall, as he accepted the oaths of loyalty from his future subjects. Yet, there was nothing warm in Aemon's gaze—only cold indifference, as if Viserys had ceased to exist as anything more than a distant figure, a figure he could no longer trust. The same was true of Rhaenyra, her once calm, but present love for him having turned into something darker.

Viserys had betrayed them both.

He had crushed Rhaenyra's hope when he stopped her from attempting to save Aemma during her final hours. He remembered the way she had pleaded with him, begged him to let her try to use her own strength, her skills as a healer, anything to help her mother. But he hadn't allowed it. He had stood in her way. He had silenced her cries, thinking he was protecting them from the inevitable. That was when he saw the hatred in her eyes—the same hatred he saw in Aemon's later.

The last time they looked at him, both of his children had been filled with an icy rage that burned into him like dragonfire. It was a rage he couldn't escape, no matter how he tried to push it aside. It cut deeper than any blade ever could.

When Viserys learned that both of them had fled the capital, their destination the war in the Stepstones, his initial reaction had been fury. They had defied him—his own blood had turned their backs on him. But that fury was fleeting. His guilt, the ever-present shadow over his soul, had returned swiftly, choking out his anger. They had fled, yes—but they had fled him. He was the one who had turned them away. He was the one who had driven them into the arms of war, into a battle they had no business fighting. The blame was his alone.

He had ignored Otto's protests, had dismissed the man's constant nagging about punishment and consequences. How could he punish them? When it was he who had driven them to this?

Aemon and Rhaenyra had become almost legendary in the war, their feats spoken of with admiration and fear. Word of their exploits—their bravery, their skill—had reached the court, and Viserys found some small comfort in knowing they were still alive and well. But even in their triumphs, he could feel the widening chasm between them. Each victory seemed to carry with it a reminder of how distant they had grown from him.

And in these moments of darkness, when his mind wandered through the wreckage of his shattered family, it was Alicent who came to him, like a quiet, constant presence. Over the months, her once-formal manners had softened, and he found himself relying on her in ways he never expected.

She was a quiet and understanding, her soft voice and gentle words offering solace where others only brought noise. She was kind, attentive, and never pressed him when he did not wish to speak. She simply sat with him, listening when he needed to pour out his heart, or offering a warm smile when the weight of the crown became too much to bear. In the cold, empty hours, she was the only one who seemed to understand the depth of his sorrow.

At first, she had come to him under the pretense of duty, as the daughter of his Hand, but slowly, she became more. She was young, far younger than Aemma had been, but there was wisdom in her beyond her years. She spoke little of herself, instead focusing on him, offering quiet encouragement, and in those moments, Viserys found himself leaning on her more than he had expected.

She had become his confidant in these trying times, the only person he could talk to without feeling the weight of the crown pressing down on him.

He could not deny the connection that had grown between them, but still, Aemma's memory lingered, her ghost haunting every corner of the Red Keep. Viserys felt torn between the past and the future, between the woman he had loved and the young woman who had slowly begun to fill the void left behind. It was a conflict he could not yet resolve.

Viserys sighed, leaning back in his chair, gazing out at the darkened sky. The war raged in the Stepstones, and his children fought battles far from home. The realm needed stability, and soon, decisions would have to be made—decisions he wasn't ready for. But for now, in the quiet of the night, he allowed himself a brief moment of peace, even as Alicent's gentle voice echoed in his thoughts, and the shadow of Aemma still lingered close.

~~O~~

Otto Hightower, 111 AC.

Otto Hightower paced the chambers of the Red Keep, his mind racing with a combination of fury and cold calculation. The war in the Stepstones should have been a momentary distraction, a distant conflict far from the concerns of the Iron Throne. But thanks to those insolent twins, it had become something far more dangerous—a stage for their rise in fame and power. Their exploits were being sung across the realm, tales of Rhaenyra's dragon riding prowess and Aemon's relentless combat ferocity. Every victory they achieved in that cursed war chipped away at his control over King Viserys and the future of the realm.

"Fools," Otto muttered under his breath. "They're setting themselves up to be heroes. To be Targaryens." And the realm, long swayed by stories of dragonlords and ancient power, would embrace them if they returned triumphant.

He had tried to convince Viserys to punish them, to strip them of their birthright, or at least bring them to heel. But the king, guilt-ridden and soft, had refused. Viserys had welcomed reports of their successes, pleased by their growing reputations, blind to the danger they posed, as they tarnished the King's authority. Otto could still feel the sting of Viserys dismissing him, choosing instead to bask in the stories of his children's victories. The king's guilt over driving them away had made him weak, and Otto had no choice but to act on his own.

Otto had always known that war was a gamble, and though the twins had been successful, the Triarchy had been resourceful. The war had stagnated, bogged down by the Triarchy's use of guerrilla tactics. Their forces had hidden in caves, far from the dragons' reach, striking quickly and vanishing before Aemon or Rhaenyra could retaliate fully. The dragons could not smoke them out, and the Targaryen twins, despite their power, had found themselves caught in a drawn-out stalemate. The longer the war dragged on, the more vulnerable they became. Otto had bided his time, knowing the moment would come when he could strike.

His machinations had already been set in motion. Silent agreements had been made, shadowy alliances formed. Otto had reached out to the Dornish royalty, forging a delicate but necessary pact. The Dornish had long hated the Targaryens, and their involvement with the Triarchy had been inevitable. Through his spies, Otto had passed on sensitive information to the Triarchy, helping to supply them with arms and provisions, ensuring that the war would not only drag on but become more perilous for the twins. He would give the Triarchy the tools to trap them.

The Dornish had agreed to lure Aemon and Rhaenyra into a deadly ambush. The Triarchy's forces would feign a retreat, drawing the dragons out into vulnerable positions. There, in the open, they would be isolated, exposed, and the Dornish—hidden in waiting—would strike.

It was a dangerous game, one that could backfire if the twins proved more formidable than even he expected. But Otto was confident in his plan. He had carefully orchestrated every detail, making sure the Dornish knew just when and where to strike. The twins were becoming too powerful, too beloved by the people. If they returned from war triumphant, their influence would rival that of the crown itself. And that was something Otto could not allow.

In the dim light of his chambers, Otto's lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. Soon, the war would tip in his favor. Soon, the realm would see that the Targaryen children were not invincible. And when the time was right, when they were weakened, Otto would move against them, ensuring that the crown—and its future—remained in the hands of those he could control.

"Let them play at being dragons for now," he muttered. "Soon, they'll burn themselves out."

~~O~~

Aemon Targaryen, 111 AC.

Aemon leaned against the edge of the rocky outcrop, his purple eyes scanning the horizon. Smoke still billowed from the wreckage of the Triarchy's encampment, the bitter scent of burning flesh filling the air. His muscles still ached, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his bones, but it was the price they paid—the price of their power.

He thought back to those early days in the Stepstones, when he and Rhaenyra had first begun to explore the extent of their abilities. The blood of the dragon flowed strong in their veins, and it manifested in ways that terrified even them. In battle, they became something else—something more than human. The air seemed to crackle with raw energy when they unleashed their full strength, moving faster, hitting harder, and killing with a precision that made them unstoppable.

At first, Aemon had been hesitant, wary of allowing Rhaenyra to join him in the thick of battle. She was powerful, yes, but the thought of her getting hurt gnawed at him constantly. He had tried to keep her out of it, reasoning that she could still aid the war effort from a distance, leading the dragons or strategizing their next moves.

"I can handle this on my own," he had insisted, standing tall in front of her. "You're strong, Rhaenyra, but I won't risk you. Stay back. Let me handle the front lines."

That suggestion had been promptly dismissed. Rhaenyra's violet eyes had darkened with frustration before she took him down in an instant, pummeling him to the ground with her martial prowess. Aemon had barely had time to react before she pinned him, her movements swift and merciless, every strike landing with precision. His body had screamed in protest, but his pride had screamed louder.

"Stupid brother," she had hissed as he lay winded beneath her. "You think I'll let you keep me on the sidelines? We're in this together, and if you try to stop me again, I'll break your bones."

He remembered the sting of humiliation more than the physical pain. In that moment, it became clear that there was no way in the Seven Hells he was keeping Rhaenyra away from the battlefield. If anything, she was just as dangerous as he was—if not more so.

One memory stood out vividly in his mind. They had been surrounded, more than ten of the Triarchy's elite forces closing in on them. The clank of armor, the hiss of swords, and the bloodthirsty glint in their enemies' eyes had been palpable.

But they hadn't been afraid.

Rhaenyra had met his gaze across the chaos, a flicker of understanding passing between them. And then, without a word, they both entered what Aemon had jokingly called Draconic Frenzy.

He smirked, recalling how Rhaenyra had ridiculed him for the name he gave their power. "Draconic Frenzy?" she had scoffed, her lips curled into a playful sneer. "You have the naming sense of a child, Aemon."

He had shrugged her off, as always. "It fits," he said. "It's like we're consumed by the dragon within." He said with a "serious" voice.

"More like you're consumed by your own stupidity," she'd muttered, but he could tell she secretly liked the name, despite her protests.

Draconic Frenzy was their shared secret, a terrifying burst of strength and speed that allowed them to tear through enemies like reapers on a battlefield. In those moments, they became killing machines. Every movement was fluid, every strike deadly. Their bodies seemed to move on instinct, fueled by some ancient and primal force.

In that battle, surrounded by those men, they had massacred their way through. Swords clashed, bones broke, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. It had been over in less than a minute—ten men dead at their feet, their enemies looking at them as if they were more monster than human.

But it wasn't without a cost.

Aemon remembered how, after every fight like that, his body felt like it had been wrung dry. The strength that had carried him through battle would drain from him, leaving his muscles weak and his mind foggy. The same went for Rhaenyra, who had once collapsed beside him, her body trembling from the exertion.

At first, their limit had been just a minute or two of this power before the backlash hit—intense lethargy and weakness, as if their bodies couldn't keep up with their own strength. It had been terrifying, realizing that this gift came with such a high price. They couldn't afford to collapse in the middle of a battle, vulnerable and exposed.

But they had adapted. Over the months, they had trained relentlessly, pushing the boundaries of their abilities. Slowly but surely, they learned how to extend the duration of the Draconic Frenzy, stretching the time they could remain in that heightened state.

Now, after more than six months of war, they had improved significantly. What had once been a mere minute had grown to five. They could remain in the Frenzy longer, enduring the strain without suffering the same debilitating aftereffects. But the cost was still there—sore muscles, exhaustion that lingered for a day or more.

"Five minutes, maybe six if we push it," Aemon muttered to himself. "But no more than that."

They had tested their limits, and they knew the price of pushing too far. If they overextended, the backlash could leave them completely helpless. And in the Stepstones, with enemies lurking in every shadow, that was a risk they couldn't afford.

But that wasn't the only price they had to pay.

Aemon felt sense of dread when he recalled something.

Losing control had been his worst fear, and yet, it had happened. His Frenzy had overtaken him, transforming him into something savage, something untamed. And in that madness, he had turned on Rhaenyra—the one person who mattered most.

"She doesn't blame you," Aemon muttered to himself, recalling her calm words after the incident. Rhaenyra had brushed it off, saying they were still learning, that the powers were unpredictable. But her understanding only made it worse. She was patient, unflinching, but Aemon couldn't forgive himself so easily.

It haunted him, the thought that he had been the one to put her in danger. He could feel the heat of that moment, the rage he couldn't contain, the primal instincts that had ripped away his reason. He had sworn to protect her, to always be her shield, yet he had nearly become the threat she needed protecting from.

But he would make sure it never happened again. His grip on his sword tightened as a quiet vow formed in his mind. He would learn to control this power, no matter what it took. The Draconic Frenzy would become his weapon to defend her, not something that could tear them apart. He would master it, refine it, until he could wield it without fear of losing himself.

"I won't let it happen again," he whispered under his breath, his eyes glanced toward the camp where his sister rested. "I'll protect her. I'll protect her from everything—including myself."

~~O~~

Rhaenyra Targaryen, 111 AC.

Rhaenyra sat by the flickering bonfire, her sharp eyes scanning the piece of parchment in her hands, filled with scribbled notes and observations. Unlike Aemon, who had always relied on instinct, Rhaenyra sought to understand their newfound powers with precision and logic.

She had created a list analyzing the changes she and Aemon had undergone when they started using their powers.

It wasn't just their physical strength that had transformed—she had gathered data, observed the effects of their abilities over the long months of war. Rhaenyra, ever the sharp mind, had listed them one by one, organizing the knowledge into something tangible.

"First, there's our cognitive enhancement," she muttered aloud, speaking more to herself than anyone else. "When we use the Frenzy, it's like everything around us slows down. Movements become more predictable, reactions easier to anticipate."

Aemon, of course, had a much more simplistic take on it, often making his odd references. She smiled, remembering how he'd compared their heightened senses to something from his bizarre stories.

"Sharingan," he'd said with a grin, the word rolling off his tongue as if it meant something profound.

She had rolled her eyes at him then, brushing it off as one of his childish fantasies. "No one understands your bizarre references, stupid brother."

But in truth, she had to admit he wasn't far off when he explained to her. Their heightened perception allowed them to almost predict their enemies' moves before they happened, making them nigh untouchable in battle.

Then there was the Dragon Fear. That's what Aemon had named the aura that seemed to radiate from both she and Aemon whenever they used their powers. It wasn't just fearsome in a typical sense—it was primal, something that went beyond mere intimidation. Their enemies would sometimes freeze in terror, paralyzed as if faced with a beast from their darkest nightmares.

"They sense something," Rhaenyra mused, her fingers absently tracing the hilt of her sword. "It's like we carry the presence of dragons in our very bones when we use this power. Their minds recognize it, even if they don't understand it."

It made sense. They were the blood of the dragon, their lineage tied to the ancient beasts. Perhaps the power they wielded awakened that fear in others, forcing them to cower as if standing in the shadow of a true dragon.

Her gaze shifted to Aemon, his silhouette stark against the glow of the moon. He had taken to the powers more naturally, more recklessly even. His ability to heal had grown alarmingly fast. Wounds that should have left him incapacitated for days closed within moments, his flesh knitting together as though time itself was bending to his will. Rhaenyra didn't know why his healing seemed more potent than hers—maybe it was because he pushed himself harder, or maybe because he cared less about the consequences. She wasn't sure, but she had noticed it. And she wrote it down.

"Aemon's healing is faster," she noted quietly, her quill scratching the paper. "Mine isn't far behind, but his body... it adapts faster."

There was also their connection to their dragons—Silverwing and Vermithor. That bond, too, had deepened in ways neither of them had expected. Before the Frenzy, they had commanded their dragons with a word, a look, a gesture. Now, it was as if they didn't need any of that. When they were in their Frenzy, their dragons responded instinctively, as if their minds were linked. Silverwing seemed to know what Rhaenyra wanted before she even thought it, acting on her unspoken commands.

"We're one with them," she murmured. "When we're in the Frenzy, it's like there's no separation between us and the dragons. It's... terrifying."

The power was intoxicating, the strength overwhelming. But there were dangers—significant ones. The downside wasn't just the exhaustion or the muscle strain. It was the risk of losing themselves entirely. The longer they remained in their Frenzy, the more their human reasoning began to fade, replaced by something beastly, savage.

"There's a point," Rhaenyra whispered, "when we stop being ourselves."

She remembered one instance vividly—one that still made her heart pound with dread. Aemon had gone too far, let himself slip too deep into the Frenzy. His eyes had lost their usual glow, replaced by something wild, something feral. He had been consumed by the power, overtaken by a bloodlust so fierce that he could no longer distinguish friend from foe.

She had been forced to fight him, to pull him back from the brink of madness. That had been one of the hardest battles of her life—not because of his strength, though he had been terrifying to face—but because it had been Aemon, her twin, the other half of her soul. He had fought like a beast, not a man, and she had been terrified that she might lose him to the power forever.

"I had to drag him back," she recalled, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was lost in his own mind, and I thought I wouldn't be able to save him."

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, pushing the memory aside. They had learned from that incident—learned to keep their usage of the Frenzy controlled, limited. But the risk was always there, lurking beneath the surface.

She turned to Aemon, her gaze lingering on his broad back as he stood at the camp's edge, staring out into the distance, lost in thought. His usual confident posture was heavy with something deeper—regret, maybe, or frustration. Rhaenyra could sense the weight of his turmoil even without seeing his face.

'We need more time,' she thought quietly, the realization sinking in. They needed time to get used to the Frenzy in battle, to study its depths, to understand every facet of it. They couldn't afford to let it control them, not when so much was at stake. But she had faith. She trusted in herself and, more importantly, in Aemon.

They would master this power—sooner or later, they would bend it to their will.