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

Chapter Twenty-Four

The shadows had long since swallowed the last traces of sunlight when Alysanne finally roused from the restless slumber that had eluded her for most of the day. The wind howled through the cracks in the windowsill, carrying with it the ominous whispers of a storm that had been gathering ever since the noon hour. She could hear the distant rumblings of thunder echoing through the halls of the Red Keep, but it was not the storm she feared. It was the weight of her thoughts, each one heavier than the last, that kept her bound to her bed.

Her prince husband had come earlier, as he often did, with yet another bundle of scrolls that required her attention. Alysanne barely spared them a glance. These were the same tasks she had performed for years—endless translations from the common tongue into High Valyrian, tasks that, if she were honest, bored her to the point of exhaustion. She could feel the cold fingers of indifference tightening around her chest as she looked at the parchment, knowing full well that her twin brother, had he been here, would have thrown them aside without a second thought. Jacaerys was a man of action, a man of fire, not one to be chained to the dull task of scholarly pursuit.

Instead of picking up the quill, Alysanne allowed her gaze to drift out of the window, watching the storm approach. The heavens themselves seemed to share in her restlessness, their fury reflected in the jagged streaks of lightning that illuminated the darkened sky. She let the hours slip away in silence, the candlelight flickering weakly in her room as she tried to still the thoughts that churned within her.

But sleep was an elusive companion, and soon enough, she found herself rising from the warmth of her bed, restless as a wolf on a hunt. The journey was one she had made many times before, but tonight, it felt more like a pilgrimage than a simple walk. The halls of the Red Keep seemed to stretch on forever, the torches flickering in their sconces casting long, distorted shadows across the stone floors. She walked in solitude, her footsteps echoing through the empty corridors as she made her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, where the King—her grandsire—lay in his final days.

When she arrived at the door, the guard, a stoic Ser Arryk, barred her passage. "I am truly sorry, Princess, but I cannot allow you to see him. It is late, and the king must rest."

Alysanne’s eyes narrowed, the fire that burned within her refusing to be stifled by the guard’s words. "I order you to let me see my grandsire, Ser," she said, her voice steady, a blade honed from years of royal expectation.

The knight hesitated, and for a moment, Alysanne feared he might try to stop her. But then a familiar voice, laced with authority, broke the tension.

"Let her in. She is his granddaughter. If she wishes to see him at any hour, she may."

Alicent Hightower, the Queen, stood in the doorway, her regal presence unmistakable even in the dim light of the hall. Alysanne bowed her head in thanks before following her into the room.

The King’s chambers were colder than she remembered, though the room was filled with flickering candles that cast their weak light upon the king’s prone form. Viserys I Targaryen, once the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, now lay broken before her, his body twisted with pain and disease. She had heard whispers in the halls of the Red Keep, rumors that the Maesters could do no more, that his illness was beyond even their most potent remedies. She could see it now, the toll it had taken on him—his once proud face gaunt and pallid, his breathing ragged and shallow.

Alicent, ever the devoted wife, sat beside him, her fingers gently caressing the king’s hand. She did not seem to mind the stench that clung to him, the decay that had settled into his flesh. Her expression was serene, as though this, too, was part of the sacred duty she had taken upon herself.

Viserys moaned, his eyes flickering beneath their lids as if trapped in some waking nightmare. His voice, hoarse and frail, echoed through the silence of the room. "I’m sorry… I’m sorry…" he muttered, over and over, the words lost to the wind.