A/N:
Hello there, my lovely degenerates ~
Yeeesss, I've been a very lazy and absent author, haven't I?
My personal/work life has been incredibly stressful lately, but I won't dwell on it because, let's be honest, you guys aren't here to read my sob stories, right?
I'll try to be more present now, as things have gotten a bit better, so I can write and edit more.
And a little note before we begin:
I've received some complaints about changing the canon or characters acting differently from the original, yada yada… Well, this is fanfiction, lol. I'll be making changes, including altering the personalities and motives of some characters. As I've said before, consider this story an AU.
Anyway, enjoy the chapter!
Also send me fucking stones! Only one loyal reader has been sending them, you damn degenerates!
~~O~~
Craghas Drahar, 111 AC.
The war was not going in Crabfeeder's favor. He could feel it in the way his soldiers were retreating, the way his plans kept crumbling under the force of the Targaryen twins' relentless fury. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as he paced in the dimly lit cave, his mind racing with frustration.
The war had become an inferno he could not escape, every attempt to control it slipping through his fingers. His plans had crumbled under the assault of the twins. Aemon and Rhaenyra had proven to be far more dangerous than he could have imagined—invincible, it seemed. Every ambush he set, every trap he planned, had failed. They tore through his forces with the kind of unrelenting fury that made Craghas's blood boil.
It wasn't just their strength; it was their uncanny ability to survive. Even when wounded, they pressed forward as though nothing could stop them.
Every time he thought he had cornered them, they escaped, their bloodied bodies rising from the dirt to keep fighting like gods of war. His traps, his ambushes—none of it had worked. He'd sent his best fighters, mercenaries, entire regiments to snuff them out, but the twins, those monstrous creatures of the battlefield, had crushed every effort with terrifying ease.
The sheer audacity of it—their indomitable will, their refusal to die, to stop, to relent—drove him to the edge of madness. He'd seen Rhaenyra wounded, her side bleeding like a river, only to rise again, her twin blades dancing through the carnage with a cruel grace. Aemon, too, his rage a fire that burned through the ranks, his eyes wide with a fury that made men fall before him before they even realized he was there.
Frustration gnawed at him, but it wasn't the only thing that ate at him. His face—a grotesque mask of scars and disfigurement from the deadly touch of Greyscale—was hidden behind a meticulously crafted mask of copper, designed to obscure the ravages of the disease. The mask was as much a part of him now as his sword, a constant reminder of the toll his body had taken in pursuit of power.
'If things keep going this way…' Craghas thought bitterly, 'they'll win this war in mere months. And then, I'll be nothing but ash'. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the flickering flame in front of him. There had to be a way to stop them, something—anything—that would break their unyielding momentum. But every path he'd taken had been closed off by their brutality.
That's when the shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
He looked up sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt, only to relax as the figure emerged from the darkness. A tall man, his posture straight and unwavering. The stranger stepped into the place with an ease that suggested he'd walked into far more dangerous places and survived.
The man was tanned, his features sharp, his short hair dark and neatly styled, revealing a glint of something foreign—Dornish, without a doubt. Craghas's gaze flickered over him, trying to discern more, but there was something about this man that unsettled him deeply. His eyes gleamed with a calm, predatory intelligence. Craghas had spent enough time in the company of schemers to know when one was before him. This man, though, he felt like a viper—beautiful, deadly, a creature of deceit cloaked in the gentlest of smiles.
He knew what the Dornishmen were capable of—ruthless, sly, and far more dangerous than they appeared. But what unsettled him most was that this man was not just a random ally. Someone he trusted had vouched for him, and that alone was why Craghas had agreed to meet him. Without that endorsement, he would have killed the man on sight.
"Craghas Drahar," the man said, his voice smooth, almost musical, but with an undercurrent of sharpness that was impossible to ignore. He gave a slight bow, but his eyes never left Craghas's. "It is an honor to meet you."
Craghas only gave a curt nod. He didn't trust anyone who greeted him like that, especially not with that air of insufferable calmness. The tension in his chest tightened. "I hope for your sake, the pleasure isn't wasted," he growled, voice harsh. "Because I'll be damned if I waste any more time playing games."
The man smiled—too widely, too easily—and gestured for Craghas to sit. He didn't take a seat himself, instead remaining on his feet, his gaze piercing as it traced every movement of Craghas's.
"I've heard about your troubles with the twins," the man said, his voice casual, though Craghas could feel the sharpness in every word. "And I know you've tried every tactic at your disposal. Traps. Ambushes. Mercenaries." He tilted his head. "You thought them weak, easily cornered, but you were wrong."
Craghas's fists clenched, the reminder of his failures biting deeper than he cared to admit. "I know they're fucking untouchable. I know. And I need them gone. Now."
The man's smile deepened, though there was no humor in it, only a cold certainty. "That's why I'm here. I can help you with this… problem. But it won't be with more men, more traps, or more ambushes. The twins are not ordinary warriors. You can't defeat them the same way you'd defeat an army."
Craghas's brow furrowed, his frustration mounting. "Then how? Tell me, because if you don't, I'll have no use for you." He leaned forward, his voice low and threatening.
The Dornish paused for a moment, as if considering his words carefully, then stepped closer. He lowered his voice to a whisper, as though sharing a dangerous secret.
"You need to think beyond force." He fixed Craghas with a gaze that seemed to pierce through his very soul. "Let me handle the twins. Let me take them out of the equation."
Craghas recoiled, his unease shifting into suspicion. "You?" he spat, shaking his head. "How do I know you're not just some other snake in the grass trying to sell me a lie?"
The man's lips curled into a sly, knowing smile. "Because I'm not offering promises or empty words. I'm offering results. All I ask of you is trust. Let my men—disguised as Triarchy soldiers—do what they do best. Allow them to work in the shadows, where the twins' fury cannot reach them. Let them move unseen, and when the time is right…" He let the words hang in the air, dangerous and tantalizing. "Your enemies will be no more."
Craghas's mind raced. Trust this man? Let him control the flow of the battle? It was the last thing he wanted to do, but his options were running thin. The war had become a battle for survival, not just for him, but for someone very precious to him... He clenched his jaw, staring hard at the man in front of him, feeling his trust slip away with every passing second.
He could feel his heartbeat quicken, the weight of his decisions settling heavily in his chest. There was no other choice, not if he wanted to save what little he had left. His hands balled into fists at his sides, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
Craghas finally exhaled, his voice low and tense. "Fine," he muttered. "You have my trust—for now. But if you fail me…" His eyes locked with the Dornishman's, icy with the threat of a thousand deaths.
The Dornish's smile never faltered. "If I fail you, you'll never have to worry about me again." He bowed slightly, as though the matter were already settled. "Now, we only wait for the right moment."
Craghas watched him carefully, distrust still gnawing at him. But he had no choice. His back was against the wall, and he had to take this risk. For his survival. For her...
"I'll hold you to that," Craghas muttered darkly. "And if you fail, you'll regret it."
The man's smile deepened, the calm in his eyes never wavering. "I am certain we will be victorious. In time, Craghas, in time."
~~O~~
Aemon Targaryan, 111 AC.
It's been a few days since the armies had last clashed, but this had changed today as the twins commanded another strike against the Triarchy forces.
The battle erupted in a torrent of chaos, a storm of steel and blood under the shadow of dragons circling above. Aemon was a relentless force, cutting through the battlefield like death itself. His sword moved with brutal precision, tearing through armor and flesh alike. Blood sprayed across his face, yet his eyes never blinked. Each swing of his blade was lethal, every motion calculated to end a life. He cleaved through bone and sinew, sending soldiers crumpling to the blood-soaked ground.
Nearby, Rhaenyra fought with a deadly elegance, her twin blades flashing like lightning. She struck with such precision that every enemy fell before they even realized she'd moved. One soldier lunged at her, but her blade had already pierced his throat before his weapon even descended. Blood spilled in torrents as she spun, momentum carrying her second sword into the chest of another enemy charging at her back.
The twins were unstoppable, two halves of a deadly whole. Their movements were synchronized, an unspoken bond guiding them through the chaos as they carved their way through the enemy ranks. Aemon slashed through a soldier's armor, splitting him in two, then sidestepped just as Rhaenyra surged forward, her blades slicing through three more enemies in a whirlwind of death.
A group of soldiers attempted to surround them, but the twins only exchanged a brief glance, a silent understanding passing between them. In an instant, they moved together, a storm of whirling blades and crimson spray. Aemon's sword sliced through a soldier's arm, severing it cleanly, while Rhaenyra's blade plunged into the heart of another. She moved with a grace that belied the carnage, weaving through the fray like a dancer, delivering death to anyone foolish enough to close in.
A soldier charged Aemon from the side, but Aemon spun, his sword arcing down to split the man's skull with a sickening crunch. Blood and bone splattered across the ground as the body collapsed, lifeless. Another enemy lunged at him, but Aemon met him head-on. Their swords clashed, metal screeching against metal, until Aemon twisted his blade and drove it into the man's gut. He yanked it free, watching with cold satisfaction as his opponent crumpled in agony.
Rhaenyra, meanwhile, faced four soldiers closing in with smug confidence. They thought they had her cornered, but she was already moving. She ducked beneath the first swing, slicing through the man's hamstring before stabbing upward into his jaw, the tip of her sword bursting from the top of his skull. Without a pause, she spun, her second blade slashing across another soldier's throat, his blood spraying her in a vivid arc.
Together, Aemon and Rhaenyra tore through the enemy ranks, their blades dripping with blood as the ground became a graveyard of the fallen. The soldiers' formation crumbled, fear overtaking them as they faced the twins' unyielding wrath. Aemon felt the surge of the Frenzy clawing at him, his senses sharpening, time slowing as each enemy's fear radiated through him. Every motion became effortless, every strike deadly as the power surged within him.
Aemon fought with his usual ruthless precision, each swing calculated for death. But as the skirmish wore on, a subtle difference caught his attention—some of these soldiers moved with a grace and agility that set them apart from the others. Their footwork was fluid, almost dance-like, evading direct strikes and lashing out with unexpected swiftness. He'd seen it before in his training sessions with various sparring partners or 'sandbags' as Rhaenyra liked to call them. These weren't just soldiers of the Triarchy. Some of these men fought with the unmistakable style of Dorne.
Aemon's eyes narrowed as he dodged a spear thrust aimed at his heart, recognizing the nimble steps and low, sweeping strikes. He pivoted, striking down the soldier before him and catching a glimpse of another with similarly quick movements just to his left. The realization sparked fury within him. "Dornish bastards," he hissed, slicing through his opponent's shoulder with brutal efficiency. His mind raced—if Dorne had joined forces with the Triarchy, they had far more cunning and lethal adversaries than they'd prepared for.
Beside him, Rhaenyra was fighting in perfect synchrony with his movements, her twin blades dancing in lethal arcs. She too had noticed the peculiar fighting style of some of the soldiers, their movements distinct among the ordinary ranks.
Aemon's senses were heightened, his eyes gleaming with a golden glow. His sword cleaved through armor and bone, the bodies of his enemies piling up in his wake. But as the Frenzy took over, his focus narrowed, and the world around him seemed to blur.
Rhaenyra, her blades flashing, was equally focused on their enemies, but she couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in Aemon. His movements were becoming erratic, more violent, less controlled. He was lost in the Frenzy—too deep again. She could see it in his eyes, the way his gaze had darkened, a golden storm brewing beneath the surface.
As she spun to face another enemy, she saw it—a soldier sneaking up behind Aemon, his spear raised high. Aemon, too deep in his Frenzy, was oblivious to the threat looming behind him. Rhaenyra's heart skipped a beat as she realized the danger. Without a second thought, she threw herself forward, intercepting the spear meant for Aemon with her own sword, deflecting it away.
But in her haste, she made a fatal miscalculation. The enemy she was facing before seized the moment, and his spear struck hard, slamming into her arm with brutal force
Pain exploded in her arm as the sharp tip of the spear lodged deep into her flesh. The world seemed to freeze for a moment as the impact hit her like a wave, her breath catching in her throat. She gasped, her arm going numb, but Rhaenyra was no stranger to pain. She gritted her teeth, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull her under.
Her body moved on sheer instinct as she lashed out, her sword flashing in a deadly arc that cut through the air, aiming for both of her attackers.
The two soldiers barely had time to register what was happening before her blade sliced clean through their necks, their shocked expressions frozen as they fell lifeless to the blood-soaked ground.
She pressed a hand to her arm, feeling warm, wet blood seeping from the wound. This was not the first time she'd been hit or wounded in battle, but something felt different this time. The pain was sharp, yes, but there was a strange weight to it, a sickening sensation creeping through her body.
Frowning, she lifted her blood-slick fingers to her mouth, tasting a drop. Immediately, her tongue tingled, followed by a faint numbness that spread through her mouth and her face paled as she recognized the sharp, bitter taste.
Poison.
Rhaenyra knew this poison. She had studied poisons from every corner of the known world—its origins, its effects in medicine and the like. This was something rare, something deadly. A particular poison from the depths of Dorne, potent enough to kill a lesser man within seconds. Only the elite assassins of Dorne would have access to such a weapon. She could feel its effects already. She cursed under her breath, her mind racing.
Her arm was going numb as the poison began to spread, its effect immediate. The sensation was cold, creeping up her veins, wrapping around her body like an invisible chain.
Aemon didn't notice at first. He was still locked in his Frenzy, his sword carving through another enemy as though nothing could touch him. But when he heard her sharp intake of breath, he spun around, his golden eyes wild with confusion and fury.
"Rhaenyra!" His voice cracked with panic, his hand reaching for her. His gaze followed the trajectory of the spear, his heart plummeting as he saw the blood dripping from her arm.
She stumbled toward him,"Aemon," she called, her voice hoarse as the dizziness intensified. "It's poison. Dorne's venom."
Aemon's eyes locked onto her, and he saw the pale, grimace-like expression on her face. His heart skipped a beat as her words sank in. He turned sharply toward her, his gaze fierce. "What? Damn it, Rhaenyra, how—" His voice cracked with concern and anger. He could see the pallor spreading across her face, the faint tremor in her body.
Rhaenyra, already feeling the numbing effects of the poison, met his gaze with a grim expression. "I… I'm fine," she said, her voice strained but steady. "I saw the spear coming at you, I had to…"
But Aemon was having none of it. His eyes flashed with rage and horror as he looked at the now black wound, the poison already working its way into her bloodstream. His breath came in ragged gasps as his heart pounded in his chest. The Frenzy burned within him, but it couldn't drown the fear that gripped him now.
"Damn it," he growled, his hand trembling as he grabbed her by the waist, lifting her with ease despite the weight of the battle still raging around them. His sword hung loosely in his other hand, forgotten for the moment. The frenzy still pulsed inside him, but the fury he felt for letting her get hurt overshadowed everything.
Rhaenyra felt weak, the poison already beginning to cloud her mind. The battlefield felt far away, her vision blurred as the poison spread. But she stayed focused on Aemon, refusing to let him see her falter.
"Get me to safety," she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible over the sound of the battle. She knew their time was running out—she had to survive this to be by Aemon's side.
Aemon's jaw tightened as he looked around. They were in the midst of a slaughter, bodies everywhere. But their forces were nearly victorious—most of the enemy had already fallen, their lines broken. With a roar, he bellowed orders to his soldiers. "Cover my retreat! NOW!"
He turned on his heel, carrying Rhaenyra through the blood-soaked mud of the battlefield, his pace frantic. Her weight was nothing to him, but the look of pain and weakness on her face made his chest tighten with guilt. He couldn't afford to lose her—ever.
As they made their way through the carnage, the mud squelching beneath their feet, the bodies of the fallen soldiers of both sides scattered across the field like discarded rag dolls, Aemon's mind raced. He could hear the survivors of their army murmuring as they passed, a mixture of awe and fear in their eyes. They saw the twins—both legends on the battlefield—but this time, there was something different in the air. Fear. The unnerving thought that even the untouchable might fall.
Aemon's jaw clenched as he run faster, refusing to let anything slow him down. The Frenzy was still thrumming within him, but now it was tinged with an edge of despair. He could feel the poison taking it's toll on Rhaenyra, her breathing shallow and strained. She was fading fast, but he couldn't stop—not yet.
He carried her back to their barracks, ordering his soldiers to clear a path, not caring about the chaos around them. His sole focus was on Rhaenyra, and the battle they would now face—just the two of them, was only beginning.