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"Your Grace, Prince Aemond."
Grand Maester Mellos's voice sounded exceptionally dull in the cramped space.
He stepped aside to clear the path, ushered the boy in, and closed the heavy oak door, retreating to the shadows behind the father and son.
The room was filled with the thick, cloying scent of medicinal herbs and the distinct, sweet-rot aura of the long-term sick.
This place was called the Black Study, but the name was a misnomer.
It was neither black nor truly a study; it was merely a niche carved into the stone wall behind the Throne Room, a hidden retreat for a King who could no longer sit on the Iron Throne without agony.
It held only enough room for a desk, two chairs, and a daybed.
Viserys, I sat in an armchair, his entire being sunken into heavy crimson velvet robes.
The garments had once fit him well, but now they hung loosely around an increasingly gaunt frame.
The arm that once wielded the legendary ancestral sword Blackfyre was now nothing but skin and bone.
His bare wrist was wrapped in white bandages, through which pale yellow stains faintly seeped.
The King's face was sallow like old parchment, his eye sockets sunken.
Yet, those purple eyes still retained the unique, melancholic spirit of House Targaryen.
At this moment, those eyes were fixed upon his son.
Aemond kept his eyes lowered, his posture respectful.
"I heard from Mellos," Viserys began, his voice raspy with the breathiness typical of the dying, "that you believe you can treat my illness?"
"Father." Aemond slowly raised his head.
"I offer only a suggestion. I would not dare claim the knowledge of a Maester."
"How did you learn of my condition?" Viserys asked, without reproach, only curiosity.
Since the disease had begun to rot his flesh, the King had lived separately from the Queen.
He did not want Alicent to see his decaying body, the hideous wounds, and the withered limbs.
It was a man's final shred of dignity.
"I only hope that Father can remain healthy," Aemond said softly.
Viserys stared at his son's face, really observing the second son he had perhaps never truly understood.
Aemond was growing into the high Valyrian beauty of their house.
High cheekbones, a straight nose, and thin, determined lips.
He had begun to grow his hair long, the silver-gold strands tied back to reveal an angular face and purple eyes that shone like cold starlight.
He is already a young man, Viserys realized with a start.
No longer the gloomy, withdrawn child hiding in the corners.
Now, his eldest son, Aegon, remained on Driftmark.
His eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, traveled between Dragonstone and Driftmark to consolidate her power.
His youngest, Daeron, was in Oldtown.
Only Aemond and Helaena remained by his side.
In the past, Viserys had rarely paid attention to this quiet boy.
He had heard of Aemond being bullied, of his isolation, but he had dismissed it as harmless childhood bickering.
It wasn't until the outburst on Driftmark, that bloody conflict, the lost eye, that Viserys realized he was wrong.
He had ignored a son, and that son had accumulated enough silence to finally erupt in tragedy.
Guilt pricked his heart like a needle.
Viserys reached out a trembling hand, bony, with yellowed nails and age spots.
He slowly reached toward Aemond's face, his fingertips gently hovering near the healing scar on the left cheek.
Aemond did not flinch. He did not lean in.
He stood there, frozen, accepting his father's touch.
"Mellos said..." Viserys withdrew his hand, his voice softening, "That questioning the treatment was your idea?"
"Yes."
"Why?" the King pressed.
"You are no physician. Ser Criston taught you swordsmanship, and Mellos taught you history."
Aemond looked at his frail father.
"Bloodletting will not cure you," Aemond spoke, his voice steady.
"Maester Mellos has been bleeding you for four years to balance the humors, yet your condition only worsens."
"Maggots can eat away rotten flesh, but if the core is already corrupted, what grows back will still be rot."
He took a small step forward and lowered his voice.
"It is not just the wounds on your body that are festering, Father. It is here as well."
He raised his hand and lightly tapped his own chest, over the heart.
Viserys watched his son in silence, surprise, suspicion, and perhaps a flicker of panic at being seen so clearly.
"I see it," Aemond added finally.
The King was stunned at first, then smiled helplessly.
For so long, he had been surrounded by the endless clamor of the Greens and the Blacks.
Everyone wanted support, promises, and power.
Even Alicent, his dear wife, fought for her children's interests.
Viserys knew that on these nights, Alicent wept in her room.
He felt guilty toward Rhaenyra because of her mother, Queen Aemma.
The person he loved most had died because of his decision to cut her open for a male heir.
Sometimes, Viserys felt that pain was his only companion.
"Aemond," Viserys's voice choked slightly.
"You are... a good boy."
A warmth, strange and precious, rose from the depths of his withered heart.
It was so rare that someone seemed to care for Viserys the Man, rather than Viserys the King.
His tone softened. "Your confinement ends here."
"Thank you, Father." Aemond bowed his head.
"Also," the King added, clutching at the moment of connection, "near the Kingswood, by the banks of the Blackwater Rush, there is an estate belonging to the Crown. It has woods, pastures, and fine stables."
"You may go hunting there when you have leisure." He paused.
"That estate is yours."
A royal estate. A significant independent holding.
"I thank Father for his grace." Aemond bowed again.
He understood Viserys perfectly.
This was a King who craved love, a father who needed to feel benevolent.
Aemond only needed to feign affection to receive power.
He is practically a walking pile of gold dragons, Aemond thought, though his face remained a mask of gratitude.
However, the clouds of worry on Viserys's brow did not completely dissipate. He struggled for a moment, weighing his words.
"Aemond."
"The matter at Driftmark... it was a tragedy. An ugly, heartbreaking accident. Lucerys has nightmares, and Jace..."
The King sighed. "Hatred is a fire; once lit, it burns everything to ash. Go and write to your sister. Say a few words. It need not be an admission of guilt."
He added quickly, seeing the tightening of Aemond's jaw.
"Just... express some regret. Can you... Do that?"
The room fell into a dead silence.
Aemond stood in place, motionless.
No words. No defense. No emotion.
He just stood there, his purple eyes calmly meeting his father's gaze, offering nothing.
Time passed in silence. One second. Two seconds. Three.
Viserys slumped back, defeated by the wall of ice. He closed his eyes and waved his hand.
"You may go."
Aemond gave a deep bow. He turned and walked toward the door; the oak opened and then closed with a definitive thud.
After a long while, Grand Maester Mellos spoke from the shadows.
"Your Grace... the Prince's nature..."
Viserys opened his eyes and shook his head.
"He is still young, Mellos. When Aemond grows up, he will understand."
Mellos stepped forward and readjusted the blanket on the King's knees.
"Your Grace, I fear he is... another Maegor."
Viserys turned sharply. "Do you know what you are saying? Do you question my son? Or does someone else need you to say this?"
Facing the King's flash of anger, Mellos lowered his head.
"My loyalty is to you alone. It is my duty to warn you."
Seeing Mellos back down, Viserys sighed. No one understood Targaryens better than he did. Fire flowed in their blood.
In his eyes, Aemond's temperament was just like Daemon's when he was young, proud, irritable, and craving affection.
"The method he proposed," Viserys changed the subject.
"What do you think? Is it truly useful?"
Mellos pondered, his chain clinking.
"Stopping the bloodletting contradicts the Citadel's teachings. But... the Prince's intentions are good. He observes your pain. Such filial piety is rare."
"Intentions..." Viserys repeated the word, a smile touching his lips.
"Your Grace, if I may be blunt, your condition is worsening," Mellos admitted.
"Perhaps... perhaps we can try the Prince's method."
Viserys nodded.
"Let us try it, as Aemond said."
Outside the door, Aemond stood in the dim corridor, leaning against the cold stone wall.
He listened to the muffled voices.
A faint, cold curve touched the corner of his mouth.
Intentions? Yes, he certainly had intentions.
The royal estate by the river, a foothold, a resource, a place to train.
These were unexpected gains.
He reached up and touched the spot on his face where his father had touched him, then lowered his hand and straightened his collar.
Between him and Viserys, affection was a weakness.
This world was not cut out for it.
Love was an Achilles' heel to be exploited.
He turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
There was no warmth in his stride, only determination.
This was a transaction. Nothing more.
Inside the Black Study, a voice whispered to itself:
"He is a good boy, Mellos. He just needs time."
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