Bonus Chapter at 100 stones.
Dropping some reviews helps with the algorithm.
Notes:- I a made some corrections. Mc is an Aemond with memories of the got and hotds and another life. But he is still Aemond. (Gota fill some holes.)
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It was night, the tenth day of his confinement.
Ever since the day he returned astride Vhagar, when all of King's Landing had emptied into the streets in dread and awe, his father had punished him with house arrest.
There was no set duration; everything depended on the King's mood.
Maegor's Holdfast was a fortress within a fortress.
The chamber was built of pale red stone, its north wall pierced by a massive arched window with thick leaded panes set in a soldered lattice.
Aemond stood on the balcony of the Holdfast's tallest tower, drawing back the heavy velvet curtain to gaze down on the city under nightfall.
Thousands of lights flickered in the darkness, lively yet distant, like the embers of a dying fire.
The pale scar across his left cheek had finally scabbed over, though the blood loss had left his face ghost-white against the night.
His eyes swept beyond the window. King's Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms, now held nearly four hundred thousand souls.
From this height, the geography of the city was laid bare. Roughly square, it sprawled for miles within high walls pierced by seven great gates.
Three hills dominated the skyline: Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep stood, Visenya's Hill, and Rhaenys's Hill, crowned by the Dragonpit.
Below, the maze of Flea Bottom's hovels showed clearly, a warren of cramped shacks forever reeking of refuse and stagnant water.
Above it all, the Red Keep crowned Aegon's High Hill, looking down upon the city and the black waters of Blackwater Bay.
Maegor's Holdfast was the heart of that power.
Ringed by walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes, it was the royal residence, and currently, his cage.
Outside the heavy oak door, the measured tread of Kingsguard boots never ceased.
Ser Criston Cole and Ser Arryk Cargyll guarded him by the King's order.
Then came a different sound, a slow, dragging shuffle, nothing like the ring of armor.
A soft knock followed. An aged, respectful voice called out:
"Prince Aemond, may I enter? I am Mellos."
"Come."
The door opened. Grand Maester Mellos shuffled in, the heavy chain of the Citadel clinking softly about his neck. Behind him, novices bore trays of his supper.
"His Majesty… and the Queen… have asked after your wound," Mellos said with deference.
The novices set the trays on the oaken table: gold wine from The Reach, a bowl of cherries, a small pot of glossy caviar, roast venison cooked to a turn, and a silver bowl, lidded but smelling faintly of copper and iron.
It was fresh stag's blood, a tonic, as the Grand Maester understood it, to restore the Prince's lost humors. It was a request Aemond had made himself.
"And these…" Mellos drew several thick tomes bound with leather thongs from his wide sleeves and let them thud onto the table.
"The books on dragons you asked for: Notes on Dragonkind, Valyrian Lineages, and parts of The Great Dragons of Record."
"Some passages… are rather obscure, my Prince."
The scholar in him winced; the volumes had cost a small fortune in gold dragons from the eastern markets.
Aemond nodded, his eyes skimming the trays before settling on the books.
"My thanks, Grand Maester."
He stepped to the table, ignoring the delicacies, and speared a steaming chunk of roast venison.
Old Mellos waved the novices out but remained, watching the young Prince eat.
He had heard the tale of what this boy had done on Driftmark.
Mellos hailed from Oldtown, the seat of House Hightower, where the Starry Sept of the Faith stood tall.
House Hightower, the Citadel, and the Faith were interwoven, the masters of Westerosi learning and belief.
It was one of the reasons Viserys had taken Alicent Hightower as his second Queen.
Only the crackle of the hearth and Aemond's chewing broke the silence.
The Grand Maester felt a flicker of dread. In a bare century, the Targaryens had already produced madmen and monsters, Maegor the Cruel, Prince Daemon, and now… Aemond.
The Archmaesters were charged with watching the royal line and guiding its sons, lest another Maegor arise.
To the smallfolk, dragonriding Targaryens were gods above men, yet gods could go mad.
The realm's feud between Blacks and Greens grew fiercer daily; even the Conclave fretted.
"Grand Maester, relax," Aemond said, looking up from his meal.
Mellos started, then lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite the Prince.
"You seem better than when you first returned," he offered carefully.
Aemond swallowed the meat and lifted the bowl of stag blood. The reek filled his nose; without hesitation, he drank.
"Your healing arts, however, are mediocre," he said, setting the bowl aside and dabbing a smear of dark red from his lip.
Mellos blinked at the bluntness.
Aemond tilted his head. "How fares my father's sickness?"
A chill ran through the old man.
"My Prince… how did you learn of it?"
Only Mellos and a few trusted aides knew of the strange ailment; the King had forbidden its mention.
Aemond hid a sigh. In the histories, the disease, leprosy-like yet not contagious, had stumped the Maesters for years, growing worse with every treatment.
Any other monarch would have had the physicians flayed for their failure; only Viserys was so mild.
"The Red Keep keeps no secrets," Aemond said evenly.
Mellos's white brows twitched.
"His Majesty… is afflicted by a rare malady. The wounds refuse to close and spread of their own accord. Flesh loses feeling in places…"
"How do you treat it?" Aemond pressed, his violet eyes intent in the candlelight.
"We follow the old ways, bleeding to balance the humors deemed corrupt or excessive," Mellos explained.
"Sometimes… for mortified flesh, we apply certain maggots, cleaned, to devour the dead tissue," Mellos murmured, as though the words soiled him.
"And milk of the poppy for pain, with strengthening foods."
"So your cure is mainly bleeding?" Aemond asked skeptically.
"We have tried salves and draughts, but… to little avail," the old man answered carefully.
Aemond realized they were using the King as a test animal.
A disease that eroded the body's strength could only be hastened by constant bloodletting.
He did not wish Viserys to die the wretched death foretold, however partial the King had been to Rhaenyra.
Each extra day the King lived gave the Greens more time to prepare.
Aemond's mind turned to the board.
He had Vhagar. But the Blacks commanded more dragons and more riders.
The Greens could field only four. Helaena had Dreamfyre, but his sister was gentle and ill-suited for war.
Aegon's Sunfyre was formidable, the most beautiful dragon on earth, yet its rider was green and untested.
Young Daeron, fostered in Oldtown by the Hightowers, commanded the small Blue Queen, Tessarion.
In truth, only he and Aegon were the Greens' true aerial strength.
Rhaenyra, desperate for victory, would one day let bastards ride dragons.
To Aemond, it was an utter betrayal of Targaryen blood.
He did not scorn bastards as people, but these baseborn youths were mongrels off the street.
Give the lowborn steel, and they grow claws; give them dragons, and their craven pride turns to hunger.
Rhaenyra would reap what she sowed.
To be sure, some bastards might prove loyal, yet he would never entrust a dragon to an unknown by-blow.
The Blacks could lose again and again; they had the numbers. The Greens could not afford a single defeat.
In the histories, once he and Daemon slew each other above the Gods Eye, the Greens' cause was lost.
Had Rhaenyra not gone mad after taking the crown, the Blacks would have won the war outright.
He would not let the plot come to be.
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