"Your Grace, Prince Aemond has arrived."
The room was not black nor worthy of its name—it was merely a niche carved into the stone behind the throne room.
There was barely enough space for a table, two chairs, and a bed.
Aemond lowered his eyes and bowed respectfully.
"I have heard, Merros," Viserys said, his voice hoarse, carrying the characteristic rasp of illness. "Do you wish to heal me?"
"Father," Aemond lifted his head slowly.
"I am merely offering a suggestion. I do not presume to command knowledge of medicine."
"How do you know of my condition?" Viserys asked, curiosity, not reproach, in his tone.
Since he had fallen ill with this strange malady, the king had grown distant from the queen.
He did not wish her to see his decaying body, the ugly sores, his dwindling limbs.
This was the last dignity a man could claim.
"I only wish my father to remain well," Aemond said quietly.
Viserys stared at his son's face, examining seriously the second son he might never have truly understood.
Aemond bore more and more of the striking features of House Targaryen.
He was already a teenager, Viserys realized.
No longer the gloomy, withdrawn child hiding in the corner.
Aegon, the eldest son, remained on the Isle of Tide's Head, and Princess Rhaenyra traveled between Dragonstone and Tide's Head to solidify alliances.
The youngest son, Darren, had been sent by Alicent to the Hightower family in Oldtown for education.
Only Aemond and Helaena remained close to him.
Viserys had once paid little attention to this withdrawn second son.
He had heard rumors of Aemond being bullied, of his quiet, reclusive nature, but had dismissed it as harmless childish oddity.
Viserys now knew he had been wrong.
He had ignored a son who had silently gathered so much resentment that it finally erupted in the most tragic manner.
Guilt was a thin needle piercing his heart.
Viserys extended a trembling hand, thin and yellowed, fingernails spotted with age, knuckles worn.
He slowly reached toward Aemond's face, fingertips lightly touching the recovering wounds.
Aemond did not flinch or offer himself further. He simply stood, accepting his father's touch.
Merros spoke softly. "… Your Grace…"
Viserys withdrew his hand, his voice gentler.
"You have considered these methods of healing?"
"Yes."
"You never understood the science of medicine."
"Ser Cole teaches you only swordsmanship."
"Merros teaches only history and law."
Aemond looked at his weak father before him and offered no answer to Viserys' quiet dismay.
"Bloodletting will not heal you," Aemond finally said.
"Maester Merros has drained you for four years, and your health worsens."
"Larvae may consume clean carrion, but if the meat is spoiled, decay will grow nonetheless."
He took a small step forward and lowered his voice.
"The rotting is not only on my body."
"I have seen it," Aemond added at last.
Even a devoted wife like Alicent struggled for her children and family.
Viserys knew she kept her suffering hidden in her chambers at night.
The one he had loved most in life had died because of his decisions.
Sometimes Viserys felt that this illness was his companion, and loneliness his crown.
Perhaps it was the Seven delivering vengeance upon him.
"Aemond," Viserys' voice trembled, "you are well… very well."
A strange, precious warmth rose slowly from the depths of his heart.
It was so rare that the king did not know how to handle it for a moment.
How much time had passed since no one had truly cared for Viserys Targaryen as a man, rather than a king upon the Iron Throne?
"Your punishment here ends."
"Thank you, Father." Aemond lowered his head, silver hair falling over his shoulders.
"Thank you, Father, for your mercy." He bowed again, understanding Viserys' psychology.
This was a king who longed for love, a father who needed care.
And he, as the only son left nearby, needed only show affection to achieve unexpected results.
It was simply a moving golden dragon, Aemond thought, though no expression crossed his face.
Yet the sadness between Viserys' brows had not fully dissipated.
He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, then spoke:
"Aemond… the matter of Chaotou Island… it was an accident."
"A terrible, agonizing accident. Ruther every night sees nightmares… Gon…"
His gaze fell on his son, weighing the expectations a father holds for his children.
"Answer your sister, and say a few words. This is no confession."
He quickly added, knowing the request might be too heavy for Aemond.
"Simply… express regret."
"Can you… do that?"
The room fell silent.
Aemond stood motionless, silent.
No words, no excuses, no mood swings.
He simply stood, violet eyes calmly fixed upon his father.
Time passed in quiet. One second, two seconds, three…
He closed his eyes and waved a hand.
"Go."
Aemond bowed deeply, paying respect to his father, then turned and walked toward the door.
After a long moment, the great scholar Merros, who had been silently observing, spoke cautiously:
"Your Grace… the prince's temper…"
Viserys opened his eyes and shook his head.
"He is still young, Merros. When Aemond grows, he will understand."
Merros stepped forward and laid a blanket over the king's knees.
"Your Grace… I fear this… yet another Mæge."
Viserys snapped his head toward him, eyes sharp.
"Do you understand what you speak?"
Facing the king's piercing gaze, Merros bowed his head.
"Your Grace, I serve only you."
"Some words I speak to you alone. It is my duty."
Seeing Merros' deference, Viserys let the matter rest.
No one understood a Targaryen better than him.
Proud, irritable, vengeful, yet craving recognition and family attachment.
"He mentioned," Viserys changed the subject,
"What do you think? Is this truly helpful… or childish folly?"
The old scholar raised his head and said sincerely,
"Your Grace's intentions are good."
"He can observe Your Grace's illness."
"With all my heart…" Viserys repeated the words with a faint smile.
Merros lowered his eyes.
"Your Grace… with all respect, your health declines, and worsens."
"Perhaps… try the prince's method."
Viserys was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.
He extended a hand and touched the same spot on his face where his father had reached, then lowered it and straightened his collar.
Between him and Viserys, family attachment was weakness, and love a weakness.
Turning, his footsteps echoed down the empty corridor.
No warmth—only resolve.
An agreement, nothing more.
In the Black Chamber, he whispered to himself:
"He is a good boy, Merros… it just takes time."