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"Prince?" Grand Maester Mellos eyed the absent-minded Aemond.
"Have any of you considered stopping the bloodletting?" Aemond asked, snapping back to the present.
"Bleeding cures many ailments, my Prince," Mellos insisted, his tone defensive.
"It balances the humors."
"Grand Maester, His Majesty grows weaker each day. Could it be your continued bleeding that is killing him? Try my way and see what comes of it." Aemond studied the old man with a predator's intensity.
The Grand Maester started to object, citing centuries of Citadel wisdom, but Aemond cut him off coldly.
"I suggest you try it. Otherwise, I imagine my grandfather, the Hand, will take a very close interest in why the King's condition has only worsened under your care."
He arched a pale brow. "Five or six years of treatment, and the King only declines? That looks like incompetence... or treason."
At the Prince's threat, Mellos fell silent.
He knew Otto Hightower had no wish to see His Majesty die, not yet.
The Greens had only just secured their footing in King's Landing; the pieces were far from set.
Aemond knew this, too. The longer the King lived, the more the whispers against Rhaenyra could fester among the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms.
Many nobles already resented Viserys for setting aside the Great Council's precedent on male succession.
They resented even more that three obvious bastards, boys with pug noses and brown hair, might one day sit on the Iron Throne.
Only the fear of the Blacks' dragons kept the Faith, the Citadel, and the High Lords from voicing their outrage aloud.
In the history Aemond remembered, Viserys's death had forced the ill-prepared Greens into a premature war.
Aemond intended to change that.
He would use the King's prolonged life to gather allies, to let Rhaenyra's reputation rot, and to prepare the board.
As for his brother Aegon? A useless wretch. Without Aemond, the Greens would crumble.
But Aemond would never suffer Helaena to marry Jacaerys Velaryon.
Nor would he stake his life on Rhaenyra's mercy.
War was unavoidable; he just needed to control when it began.
"Grand Maester, have you decided?" Aemond asked softly.
Mellos's cloudy eyes measured him. The boy was twelve, but he spoke with the authority of a king.
"I shall… attempt your method, Prince."
Seeing him yield, Aemond went on.
"Keep His Majesty away from the Iron Throne, or at least cushion it. Most of his wounds that refuse to heal come from that seat, do they not?"
To Aemond, the Iron Throne was a death trap.
Forged by their forebear Aegon the Conqueror from the thousand blades of his vanquished foes, it was a monstrosity of jagged edges and razor-sharp barbs.
It was meant to remind each Targaryen that a King should never sit easy.
A noble intention, yet for Viserys, it had become a slow method of execution.
Every cut introduced poison into his blood.
"That… might diminish His Majesty's dignity," Mellos hesitated.
"Ask my father: which matters more, dignity or life?" Aemond countered.
Mellos gave a stiff nod, rose, and turned to leave.
He would try the Prince's way; years of bleeding had done nothing but hasten the Stranger's approach.
"One more thing, Grand Maester," Aemond called out.
Mellos looked back.
"Stop using maggots. Wash the wounds with boiling wine and seal them with clean linen."
The old man bowed again, shuffled out, and shut the door with care.
When he had gone, Aemond sat at the desk and opened a heavy tome.
First, he turned to the section on the Valyrian Dragonlords.
The ancient High Valyrian glyphs spoke of blood resonating with dragonkind, of will matched against will, of dominion over the sky.
"So blood matters, not he soul."
The candle flame wavered; time slipped past with the rustle of parchment.
Some while later, a soft sound came at the door.
Aemond lifted his head. Before he could speak, the door cracked open.
A strand of silver hair slipped through, followed by Helaena's pale, lovely face.
Her violet eyes glimmered in the dimness. She balanced a small porcelain dish in her hands, covered with white linen.
"Aemond?" she whispered.
"M-may I come in? Mother… Mother sent me with food."
He closed the book, the harsh lines of his face softening.
"Of course, Helaena. Enter."
She slipped inside, pressing her back to the closed door as though she had just survived a perilous journey.
She wore a soft sky-blue nightgown, her silver hair spilling like moonlight over her shoulders. She was barefoot; clearly, she had stolen from her own bed.
"Mother made this herself," she said, setting the dish on the table and lifting the cloth.
Two small, golden lemon cakes appeared, their bright, citrus scent cutting through the gloom of the chamber.
"They were… your favorite once," she said softly.
"She says you've bled and been shut away, so your heart must be bitter. She thought sweets might help."
Her voice dwindled until it was barely a breath.
Aemond stared at the cakes.
A distant, hazy memory stirred, warmth, a kitchen, a mother's smile, before politics turned everything to ash.
"You remembered?" His tone was gentle.
Helaena touched her own chest.
"Me?"
She, too, recalled the lonely, overlooked boy she used to sneak cakes to when Aegon and the nephews were mocking him.
"It's what I should do, Aemond," she murmured.
"Thank you." He smiled, a rare, genuine expression.
"Mother is… grieving as well," Helaena said, settling into the chair opposite him.
"For me, for Aegon, and for you. These nights she scarcely sleeps. She simply… cannot show it before others."
"I know."
He took a cake and took a bite.
The tart sweetness melted on his tongue, a brief, childish comfort in a world of steel and blood.
"You grieve too, don't you?"
"Over the… betrothal."
A tremor ran through her slender frame. She lowered her head, letting her hair hide her face.
"I said I would. If… if it could end the strife."
She looked up, tears shining in her eyes, yet she forced a brave smile.
"And perhaps… perhaps it won't be so dreadful. I'm prepared."
"But I will not accept it."
His voice dropped low, vibrating with intensity.
"Helaena, by my blood I swear: you will never wed Jacaerys Velaryon."
Her breath caught. A faint flush colored her cheeks, fear, hope, and the memory of their last touch on the Dragonpit floor.
"Aemond… don't. Don't speak so. Father has agreed; it's dangerous."
"Dangerous?" He held her gaze.
Setting the half-eaten cake aside, he stared across the table.
"You need to sacrifice yourself for no one."
"But, "
"No buts." He cut her off.
"Helaena, I'll find a way."
She saw the burning, almost fanatic fire in his violet eyes. It wasn't very comforting, yet strangely comforting.
This brother had become foreign, hard, and predatory.
Yet he was the only one who would so bluntly, so recklessly, swear to protect her against the King's own word.
"You… be careful too," she whispered at last.
Hesitantly, she placed her cool fingers over his hand. Her touch was icy, trembling.
"Heal your wounds. Don't act as you did in Driftmark's hall. Please."
He felt the fleeting chill of her skin against his feverish heat.
"I will," he answered shortly.
Then, like a startled doe, she withdrew her hand and stood.
"I… must go back. If I'm found, it will be trouble."
At the door, she glanced back, her eyes full of unspoken things.
"Finish the cakes. It's Mother's heart."
"I will." He nodded.
She slipped into the gloom of the corridor and vanished.
He picked up the last lemon cake and ate it slowly.
The sweetness lingered on his tongue long after she was gone.
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