Hello there, my lovely degenerates ~
Yeah, yeah, I'm late ~
I don't really have any sob stories or excuses that some authors like to share about why they couldn't write faster. I was just busy with work and personal stuff—nothing out of the ordinary. I know it sucks to wait for the next chapter, but I want to write with at least some semblance of quality, and that takes time and effort.
Anyway, I want to clarify a few things about this chapter. I don't know much about strategy. I did study a bit about it years ago, reading things like The Gallic Wars, Anabasis, The Art of War, and similar works, but that doesn't mean I can create amazing battle tactics based on just that. Even George R. R. Martin isn't the best at writing detailed battle strategies, which is why, in his books, he often skips the descriptions of wars and focuses on the results.
I don't want to do that. I want to at least touch on describing army battles and tactics, so I'm giving it a shot in this chapter. But you've been warned about my lack of proficiency in this area—just read for fun and don't take it too seriously.
As for Aemon's change in personality, it will be explained gradually in later chapters. Sometimes these changes might seem abrupt or come out of nowhere, but keep in mind that I'm trying to write something akin to a chronicle, with many time jumps. This means some events will happen "off-camera" and will only be explained later.
Anyway, 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.
Enjoy the chapter!
~~O~~
Aemon Targaryen, 111 AC.
The Stepstones lay ahead, a treacherous cluster of jagged rocks and narrow straits that had long served as a haven for pirates and mercenaries. Now, they were the battleground where Westeros clashed with the forces of the Triarchy, a coalition determined to control these vital shipping lanes. For months, the Triarchy's fleet had harassed the Westerosi, seizing ships, plundering cargo, and killing without mercy.
Months of warfare had taken their toll on the Velaryon-Targaryen forces. The once-proud fleet had suffered heavy losses, with every skirmish costing more than the last. Aemon and Rhaenyra, once tasked to the role of scouts, had grown restless. The blood of the dragon coursed through their veins, and the thrill of battle called to them, but they were held back by Daemon and Corlys, who insisted that it wasn't yet time to fully deploy the dragons. Aemon, frustrated by the waste of their potential, had argued vehemently, but his pleas were dismissed.
That was until Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder, struck a devastating blow. Leading a cunning ambush, Craghas had decimated a significant portion of the Velaryon fleet, even cutting down soldiers from Daemon's private army. The defeat stung, and Daemon, enraged, flew to the scene to exact his revenge. But by the time he arrived, Craghas and the bulk of the enemy fleet had fled, leaving only stragglers behind to suffer Daemon's fiery wrath.
Daemon's desire to pursue the Triarchy ships was stopped by the knowledge that this was likely a trap. Dragons were mighty, but they were not invincible. The enemy had scorpions especially built to deal with dragons, likely provided by the Dornish, who harbored their own spiteful reasons to see the Targaryens bleed.
Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the water, Aemon, Rhaenyra, Daemon and Corlys stood on the deck of the Sea Serpent, Corlys Velaryon's flagship. The sea was calm, but the air was thick with tension. Above them, three dragons—Vermithor, Caraxes, and Silverwing—circled like vultures, their scales catching the last light of day as they waited for the signal to strike.
Aemon's eyes were fixed on the map spread out before him, his mind racing as he studied the enemy's formation. The Triarchy's ships were positioned to block any attempt to pass through the Stepstones, their scorpions ready to unleash a deadly volley at any dragon that dared approach. They were prepared, confident in their strength. But Aemon saw something they did not—a weakness, an opportunity.
"We can't attack them head-on," Aemon said, his voice low but firm. "They're expecting that. If we try, we'll be slaughtered before we can even get close. We need to outflank them, hit them where they least expect it."
Daemon, who had been pacing the deck like a caged animal, stopped and turned to Aemon with a skeptical look. "And where, exactly, do you suggest we hit them, dear nephew? They have the advantage in terrain, and they've positioned their fleet well with the wind in their favor."
Aemon looked up from the map, his purple eyes burning with a cold fire. "We'll split our forces," he began, his tone sharp and decisive. "Corlys will take the main fleet and feign an attack from the west, drawing their attention. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra and I will take Vermithor and Silverwing and fly low along the coastline, using the cliffs to cover our approach. We'll come up behind them and set their ships ablaze before they realize what's happening. Once they're in disarray, Daemon, you'll lead the rest of our fleet straight through their center and crush them."
Daemon arched an eyebrow, his skepticism and mockery mixed with curiosity. "And what makes you think this plan will work, dear nephew?"
Aemon detected the derision in Daemon's voice and snapped back. "We don't have time for your antics, Daemon, and you've already proven your incompetence in dealing with them these past few months."
His tone was cold and sharp, taking everyone by surprise. Aemon usually met Daemon's provocations with fiery anger, but now there was a dangerous calm in his voice, a change that unsettled those around him, especially Rhaenyra.
Daemon's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Aemon met his glare with defiance. After a tense moment, Daemon conceded, shrugging his shoulders. He knew when to pick his battles, and this wasn't one of those times.
Aemon's lips curled into a smile, but it was not a smile of warmth or joy. It was a cold, feral grin that spoke of the fire simmering just beneath the surface, a fire that was ready to explode. "They won't see it coming," he continued, his voice tinged with a hint of madness. "They think they have us cornered, that we're desperate and broken. But they've underestimated us. They've underestimated me."
Daemon held Aemon's gaze for a long moment, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all he saw was the eyes of a predator, a true dragon who was now ready to unleash his fury. A part of Daemon admired that—respected it, even. But another part of him was wary. There was something different about Aemon now, something dangerous.
Corlys was hesitant at first, thinking that the young heir was too green and unseasoned as a tactician to really employ any kind of effective strategy. But after many defeats at the hands of the Triarchy using Daemon's tactics, he decided to at least listen to the prince this time around and see if the rumors about his talents were indeed true. Although he still didn't fully respect Aemon as a peer, and didn't want to involve him completely in the war just yet, he, as a Velaryon, had different views and values about youth. To him, this was the best time to polish and harness talents, and he was willing to gamble on the young Targaryen at least once. But it didn't mean he wouldn't make some backup plans to diminish his losses if Aemon's strategy didn't work; after all, it was his fleet that would suffer the most if the prince failed to fulfill his role.
He sighed to himself while thinking, 'If only Laenor had this kind of attitude towards war, perhaps the Velaryons would reach unimaginable heights in this era.'
He nodded towards Aemon and said, "It's a simple but effective method, but it will mostly depend on your and Rhaenyra's ability to destroy their ships before they can counterattack. You'll be flying low when you do this, risking not only your dragons' lives but also your own. Do you think you can handle it?" He stared deeply into Aemon's purple eyes, trying to catch any sign of weakness. If he did, he would have to rethink his backup plans.
But Aemon didn't waver. He stared back at him, saying in a firm tone, "I am aware of the risks, and I can assure you that I don't have any plans on dying today nor anytime soon, Lord Corlys."
This seemed to impress Corlys enough for him to nod back with a somewhat pleased expression.
Aemon knew the risks, and history had already taught him that even mighty adult dragons could be killed by scorpions if he was unlucky enough. He had to be careful not only with himself but especially with Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra stared deeply at Aemon, her eyes filled with unspoken concern for his recent changes. She made a mental note to talk to him privately about it before nodding and saying, "They'll be too focused on Lord Corlys to realize the real threat until it's too late."
Although the strategy seemed simple, it required precise execution. The timing had to be perfect to prevent the enemy from regrouping and counterattacking.
Daemon grinned, a gleam of admiration in his eyes as he looked at Aemon. "This could work."
"It will work," Aemon replied, his voice cold and resolute. "I will personally lead the first strike with Rhaenyra so nothing goes wrong, and I'm counting on your full cooperation, Daemon. Do not disappoint me."
He stared deeply into Daemon's purple eyes as he said this, a silent challenge and an offer of trust.
This was a chance he was giving Daemon—a chance to build trust and forge a bond between them. Their relationship had been strained, nearly ruined, but now Aemon was offering Daemon an opportunity to mend it through fire and blood.
"Very well," Daemon finally said, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Let's see if you can pull this off."
~~O~~
With the plan set, the Velaryon fleet began to move. Corlys led the main body of the fleet westward, just as Aemon had instructed. The Triarchy's scouts spotted the movement, and horns blared across the water as the enemy prepared to meet the expected attack.
Aemon and Rhaenyra mounted their dragons, the weight of the moment pressing down on them like a physical force. As Vermithor's powerful wings lifted him into the sky, Aemon felt a surge of adrenaline course through his veins. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, excitement, fear—all swirling together into a single, overpowering drive. He wanted to burn, to destroy, to make the Triarchy pay for every drop of blood they had spilled.
But underneath it all, there was something else. Something darker. Aemon's smile widened as Vermithor flew low along the coastline, the cliffs hiding them from sight. He felt a strange sense of elation, a twisted joy that bubbled up from the depths of his soul. The world around him seemed to fade, leaving only the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. It was intoxicating, this feeling, this madness that had taken hold of him.
"Rhaenyra," Aemon called over the rush of wind, his voice carrying an edge that she had never heard before. "Are you ready?"
Rhaenyra, flying beside him on Silverwing, nodded, though her eyes betrayed her concern. She had seen the change in Aemon, the way he had hardened these past few months.
As they reached the rear of the Triarchy's fleet, Aemon gave the signal. The dragons rose from behind the cliffs like vengeful spirits, their massive forms silhouetted against the darkening sky. The enemy had no time to react, no time to defend themselves before the dragons unleashed their fury.
"Dracarys!" Aemon roared, the word escaping his lips with a wild, almost manic glee.
Vermithor's flames poured forth in a torrent of bronze-golden fire, engulfing the nearest enemy ship in an instant. The wood cracked and splintered under the intense heat, the crew's screams cut short as they were incinerated where they stood. Silverwing followed suit, her silver flames turning another ship into a blazing inferno.
Aemon laughed—a harsh, mirthless sound that echoed across the battlefield. The sight of the burning ships, the smell of smoke and charred flesh, the cries of the dying—it all fed the growing fire inside him. This was power, this was control. Here, in the chaos of battle, Aemon felt truly alive.
But even as he reveled in the destruction, a part of him knew that this was not normal, that this was not who he used to be. Yet, that part was small, drowned out by the roaring flames, by the bloodlust that had taken hold of him. The madness was there, creeping into his thoughts, warping his emotions. And he embraced it. He smiled wider, teeth bared like a wolf on the hunt.
Rhaenyra looked in Aemon's direction, her concern growing as she watched him revel in the destruction they were unleashing. The battlefield was a hellish inferno, the air thick with smoke and the screams of dying men, but what disturbed her most was Aemon's expression.
They were hundreds of feet apart, but the distance didn't matter. She knew him too well to mistake that look. His smile was lit by the fires consuming dozens of ships, and the horrific sounds of pain and misery only seemed to fuel the sinister joy in his eyes. The once-familiar beautiful purple of his gaze was now tinged with a cold, golden hue, a shade that sent a chill down her spine. It was as if something dark and ancient had awakened within him, something that was not entirely human.
Rhaenyra didn't pity their enemies—she knew the Triarchy would have shown them no mercy if the situation were reversed. She had no qualms about killing those who threatened Aemon's life, and she would exterminate any threat without hesitation. But never in her past lives had she taken pleasure in the act of killing. She did what she had to, but she never allowed herself to enjoy it.
Seeing Aemon smile with such disturbing glee chilled her heart. This wasn't the brother she knew. The thought that he could find joy in such carnage made her fear for him in a way she had never felt before.
If the situation allowed, she would have flown to his side, shaken him, done whatever it took to snap him out of this state. But in the heat of battle, she had no choice but to focus on the task at hand. All she could do was burn as many ships as possible, as quickly as possible, to end the battle and get Aemon away from the flames and the darkness that seemed to be overtaking him.
The sooner they ended this nightmare, the sooner she could confront Aemon about what she had seen, and try to save him from the abyss that was pulling him in.
Below them, the Triarchy's fleet descended into chaos. The captains, realizing too late the trap they had walked into, tried to rally their men, to regroup and fight back. But it was no use. Aemon and Rhaenyra were relentless, their dragons tearing through ship after ship, leaving nothing but burning wreckage in their wake.
And then the scorpions came to life. Massive ballistae, mounted on the few remaining enemy ships, swung around to target the dragons. Aemon saw the movement, saw the deadly bolts being loaded, and a wicked grin spread across his face.
"Let them try," he muttered, his eyes gleaming with a madness that bordered on joy. He relished the challenge, the danger. It was a thrill like no other, a dance with death that made his heart race and his blood sing.
Vermithor dodged the first volley, his massive wings beating the air as he soared higher. Aemon urged him into a dive, the wind howling in his ears as they plummeted toward the scorpion-laden ships below. The enemy crews frantically tried to reload, their movements slow and panicked.
"Dracarys!" Aemon roared again, the word laced with a dark, twisted pleasure.
Vermithor's flames engulfed the ships, reducing the scorpions and their crews to ashes. The ships exploded in a shower of splintered wood and metal, the force of the blast rocking Vermithor, but Aemon only laughed, his mind a whirlwind of fire and blood.
Beside him, Rhaenyra guided Silverwing in a similar assault, her dragon's flames reducing the last of the enemy's defenses to smoldering ruins. The Triarchy's fleet was in full retreat now, their once-proud armada reduced to burning wrecks scattered across the sea.
The battle was won. But Aemon felt no satisfaction, no relief. Only a hollow emptiness that gnawed at him wanting for more, even as the madness inside him continued to burn. He had won, he had destroyed the enemy, but at what cost?
As the dragons circled back toward the Sea Serpent, the Velaryon fleet regrouped, their sailors cheering at the sight of the defeated enemy. Aemon and Rhaenyra landed on the deck after dismounting their dragons, where Daemon and Lord Corlys awaited them.
Daemon approached Aemon, clapping him on the shoulder. "Well done, nephew. You've won us a great victory today."
Aemon looked at Daemon, his smile still in place, but there was a coldness in his eyes, a shadow that had not been there before. "Yes," he replied, his voice quiet, almost detached. "We've won."
Daemon frowned, sensing the change in Aemon, but said nothing. There was a tension in the air, a darkness that clung to Aemon like a second skin. But this was not the time to confront it. Not yet.
As Aemon walked away, Rhaenyra caught up to him, her eyes filled with concern. "Aemon, are you all right?"
Aemon turned to her, his smile faltering for the briefest of moments. "Of course," he said, his voice light but hollow. "We've won, haven't we?"
Rhaenyra reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "What's up with you, Aemon? I saw you out there. You're changing. Is this about Mother? We can talk about it…"
Aemon's smile faded completely, his expression turning cold and distant. She saw a glint of gold in his eyes, the same cold, fiery intensity she saw before. "We don't have the luxury of being soft, Rhaenyra. Not if we want to survive."
Rhaenyra searched his face, looking for any sign of the brother she had known, the gentle boy who had always been there for her. But all she saw was a man hardened by pain, a man who had lost something precious along the way.
"Aemon, please," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. "Don't lose yourself to this."
She knew this look like no one else. She had been through this in her past life. She didn't want to see Aemon walking the same destructive path she had walked before, knowing it would only bring him more pain and suffering.
Aemon looked away, his jaw clenched. "It's too late for that, Rhaenyra," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We've all lost something in this wretched world. I'm just making sure we don't lose everything by dealing with any possible threats to us."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Rhaenyra standing alone on the deck, her heart heavy with a fear she could not shake. As she watched him go, she knew that the war was far from over and that the greatest battle Aemon would face was not against the Triarchy, but against the darkness growing within him.
Her eyes slowly changed from worry to determination and anger.
'I will not watch Aemon fall into darkness the same way I did before,' she vowed silently.
She made up her mind to talk to him later, to break through the shell he was building around himself, even if she had to beat the hell out of him.
As the Sea Serpent sailed away from the burning wreckage of the enemy fleet, Aemon stood at the prow, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his mind a tumult of conflicting emotions. The madness was still there, lurking just beneath the surface, but for now, he kept it at bay.
Over the past few months, he had felt this darkness growing inside him, and it terrified him. It was a creeping sensation, an insidious voice whispering that there was no turning back, that he was doomed to lose himself to the same fire that fueled his dragon. He feared infecting Rhaenyra with his presence, dragging her down into the abyss with him.
He could not lose her, not to the madness that threatened to consume him. Even if it meant keeping his distance, even if it meant watching her from afar and protecting her in ways she might never know. His heart ached for her warmth, her closeness, now more than ever. More than siblings should...
But for now, he was still in control.
But he knew, deep down, that control was slipping.