The Realm's Fright | HOTD S1 | Fem!OC x Aemond Targaryen Fanfiction

Chapter Two

The burial was steeped in the ancient customs of House Velaryon, a ritual steeped in tradition and honor that would be etched into the hearts of those who stood witness. Vaemond Velaryon, the proud brother of the Seasnake, officiated the solemn ceremony. His voice rang out in the sharp, melodic cadence of High Valyrian, words that held weight and power, even though few could truly understand their meaning. Alysanne, still young and unfamiliar with the intricacies of the ancient tongue, cast a quick glance at her twin brother, seeking solace in the knowledge he might offer. But Jacaerys, for all his efforts to learn the language during his brief trainings with Vermax, was no more adept at the intricacies of High Valyrian than she.

She poked him playfully in the ribs, her small finger pressing insistently against his side, but he only huffed and swatted her hand away with a barely concealed sigh. His irritation was palpable, as though he were already bracing for the inevitable reprimand their mother would deliver once the ceremony ended. Alysanne bit back a pout, but the playful defiance remained in her gaze as she turned her attention back to the somber proceedings.

The coffin, a dark and elegant creation crafted from the finest wood, was an enigma to her. The body of Laena Velaryon—her aunt—was said to have been consumed by dragonfire, yet the coffin bore an image so intricate it almost seemed as if her aunt had been sculpted into it. Alysanne squinted at the lid, the design so lifelike that for a moment, she wondered if the dead could be preserved in such a way, if the ashes of Laena had been so carefully molded to appear as if she were merely sleeping. But no, she knew better. There was nothing of Laena Velaryon in that box, only dust, bones, and the faint scent of salt air.

Vaemond Velaryon's eyes, hard as obsidian, flickered toward Princess Rhaenyra and her children, his words growing more sharp, more pointed with every passing moment. His gaze lingered a touch longer than it should have, a look of disdain that could hardly be hidden. When he uttered the name of House Velaryon, his voice seemed to drip with venom, and Alysanne couldn't help but flinch. Her eyes sought her mother's, and found her staring, not at Vaemond, but at Prince Daemon Targaryen—her uncle, the rogue prince whose presence always seemed to unsettle the room, always bringing chaos in his wake. The King stood a little behind, watching his brother with a mixture of interest and suspicion.

The dragon has three heads, the old prophecy whispered in her mind, and for a fleeting moment, Alysanne wondered if the weight of it pressed down on her mother's shoulders, as it did her father's. A family divided, each head vying for power.

And then, as Vaemond concluded his speech, a chuckle broke the silence, low and dangerous, coming from none other than the rogue prince himself. It was a jarring sound, unsettling in its very nature, but Alysanne couldn't help herself—she smiled, an involuntary flicker of amusement, the noise reminding her of Mushroom, the fool who always seemed to know how to stir a laugh in the darkest of times. In her mother's arms, Alysanne felt a shiver of mirth, one she could not suppress, her childish innocence still unbroken despite the gravity of the moment.

The coffin was slowly drawn closer to the edge of the cliff, the ropes creaking with the weight of ceremony and tradition. The wind howled and the waves crashed violently against the rocks below, drowning out the soft, ceremonial words that Vaemond Velaryon barked as if to keep them from being lost to the chaos of the sea. Alysanne's gaze flicked to the massive form of Vhagar, distant yet so very present, her eyes transfixed on the ancient dragon. For a moment, she imagined herself atop that dragon, her legs wrapped tightly around its massive body, commanding the sky as only a true Velaryon could. If she had such power, no one would dare to challenge her family again. Not with the dragon beneath her, not with the blood of the sea running through her veins.

But her thoughts were distracted by the sound of crying—a quiet, mournful sound that tugged at her heart. Rhaena and Baela Targaryen, Laena's daughters, stood side by side, their eyes wet with grief as they wept for their lost mother. Their beauty was undeniable—silver hair, eyes like purple storm clouds—and it hurt Alysanne in a way she could not quite name. She didn't know them well enough to feel the depth of their pain, but she could see it in the way their shoulders trembled and their faces crumpled in sorrow. She had heard tales of them, had seen glimpses of them from afar, but it was only now, at the edge of Laena's final resting place, that Alysanne truly felt the weight of their loss. And though she did not understand their pain, she could not help but imagine what it would be like to lose a mother, to lose someone so dear.