"Your Grace, Prince Aemond has arrived."
The voice of Grand Maester Mellos sounded especially muffled within the narrow space.
He stepped aside to clear the passage, then closed the heavy oak door behind him, remaining silently at the back of the father and son.
The room was thick with the pungent smell of medicine and the peculiar air that clings to those long afflicted by illness. This place was called the Black Study, though the name was a misnomer. It was neither black nor truly a study, but merely a niche carved into the stone wall behind the throne room.
There was space for no more than a single desk, two chairs, and a bed.
Viserys I sat in an armchair, his whole body sunken deep into a heavy robe of dark crimson velvet. Once it had fit him well; now it hung loose around his steadily wasting frame.
The arm that had once wielded the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre was reduced to skin and bone. His bare wrist was wrapped in white bandages, faintly seeping with pale yellow stains.
The chamber gave off a complex, mingled scent of mint and medicinal herbs.
The king's face was sallow, like yellowed parchment, his eye sockets deeply sunken. Only those violet eyes still retained the distinctive bearing of House Targaryen.
At this moment, those eyes were fixed upon the son who had entered.
Aemond lowered his gaze, his posture respectful.
"I have heard it from Mellos," Viserys said, his voice hoarse, carrying the breathy rasp of sickness. "You wish to treat my illness?"
"Father," Aemond slowly raised his head.
"I merely offer a suggestion. I would not dare claim mastery of the healing arts."
"How did you know of my condition?" Viserys asked. There was no reproach in his tone—only curiosity.
After he was struck by this strange illness, the king had begun living apart from the queen.
He did not wish his wife to see his body as it slowly decayed—the ugly wounds, the withering limbs.
This was a man's last shred of dignity.
"I only wish for father to remain in good health," Aemond said.
Viserys stared at his son's face, beginning to examine in earnest this second son whom he might never have truly understood.
Aemond had indeed grown ever more into the handsome features of House Targaryen.
High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips somewhat thin. He had begun to let his hair grow long, the silver-gold strands bound behind his head, revealing a sharply contoured face and violet eyes like stars.
He is already an adolescent, Viserys realized.
No longer the gloomy, withdrawn child who once hid in corners.
Now his eldest son, Aegon, remained on Driftmark, while his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, traveled back and forth between Dragonstone and Driftmark, shoring up her alliance with Driftmark.
His youngest son, Daeron, had been sent by Alicent to Oldtown to be fostered by House Hightower.
At his side, the only ones truly left were Aemond and Helaena.
In the past, Viserys had rarely paid attention to this solitary second son.
He had heard that Aemond was bullied, heard that he did not fit in, but he had dismissed it all as harmless children's scuffles—a prince with an odd temperament, but of no real consequence.
It was not until that outburst on Driftmark, that bloody clash, that lost eye…
Only then did Viserys understand that he had been wrong.
He had neglected one son—and that son had, in silence, accumulated enough resentment to erupt at last in the most tragic way imaginable.
Guilt pricked his heart like fine needles.
Viserys extended a trembling hand. It was gaunt, the nails yellowed, the back of the hand mottled with age spots.
Slowly, he reached toward Aemond's face, his fingertips lightly brushing the wound that was beginning to heal.
Aemond did not flinch, nor did he lean into it. He simply stood where he was, accepting his father's touch.
It was a rare moment.
"Mellos said…" Viserys withdrew his hand, his voice growing softer, "that those treatments were your idea?"
"Yes."
"Why?" the king pressed.
"You have never been learned in medicine."
"Ser Cole taught you only swordsmanship."
"And what Mellos taught you was no more than history and law."
Aemond looked at his frail father before him and did not answer the question that troubled Viserys's heart.
"Bloodletting will not cure you," Aemond finally said.
"Maester Mellos has been bleeding you for four years, yet your body has only grown worse."
"Maggots can eat away rotten flesh, but if what lies beneath is already spoiled, what grows back will still be rot."
He stepped forward a single pace, lowering his voice. "It is not only the wounds on your body that are festering."
"Father—this as well."
He raised a hand and lightly tapped his own chest, over his heart.
Viserys looked at his son in silence—surprise, doubt, and perhaps a trace of the fear of being seen through.
"I saw it," Aemond added at last.
The king froze for a moment, then gave a helpless smile.
For a long time now, he had been surrounded by the endless quarrels of the Greens and the Blacks, each person seeking his support, his promises, his power.
Even the one who shared his bed—Alicent, his beloved wife—was striving for the interests of her children, her house.
Viserys knew that on these nights, Alicent suppressed her sobs alone in her chambers.
More than once he had stood outside her door late at night, listening to the choking sounds from within, yet daring not to knock and enter.
He felt guilt toward his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, because of her mother, Queen Aemma.
The woman he had loved most in his life had died because of his decision.
He had once yearned too desperately for a male heir and ordered the maesters to cut open his wife during her difficult labor.
In the end, both his wife and the son who lived only a single day… were lost.
At times, Viserys felt that this illness was his companion, and loneliness his crown.
Perhaps this was the Seven's retribution upon him.
"Aemond," Viserys said, his voice thick with emotion, "you are good. Very good."
A warmth—unfamiliar and precious—slowly rose from the depths of his heart.
It was so rare that the king did not know, for a moment, how to respond.
How long had it been?
How long since anyone had truly cared about Viserys Targaryen the man, rather than the king upon the Iron Throne?
His tone softened.
"Your confinement ends here."
"Thank you, father." Aemond lowered his head, silver hair slipping over his shoulders.
"And another thing," the king added, as if recalling it suddenly. "Along the Blackwater, near the kingswood, there is a royal estate."
"There are woods, pastureland, and several fine horses kept in the stables."
"In your leisure, you may hunt in the kingswood."
He paused.
"That estate is yours."
A royal manor.
A reward neither light nor heavy.
"Thank you for your grace, father." Aemond bowed once more; he understood Viserys's mind.
This was a king who longed to be loved, a father who needed care.
And he himself—now the only son remaining at his side—needed only to show concern and filial affection to receive rewards beyond expectation.
A walking gold dragon, Aemond thought, though his expression betrayed nothing.
Yet the shadow between Viserys's brows did not fully lift.
He hesitated, as though weighing his words, but finally spoke.
"Aemond."
"What happened on Driftmark… that was an accident."
"An ugly, heartbreaking accident. Lucerys has nightmares every night, Jace—"
After a brief pause, the king continued, "Hatred is a fire. Once lit, it burns everything to ash."
His gaze rested on his son, carrying a father's hope for his child.
"Write a reply to your sister. Say a few words—not a confession."
He added quickly, knowing the request might be excessive for Aemond.
"Just… express some regret."
"Can you… do that?"
At these words, the room fell into dead silence.
Aemond stood where he was, silent, unmoving.
No words. No defense. No flicker of emotion.
He simply stood there, violet eyes calmly meeting his father's gaze.
Time passed in silence. One second. Two. Three…
Viserys closed his eyes and waved a hand.
"You may go."
Aemond bowed deeply to his father. Then he turned and walked toward the door. The oak door opened, then closed.
Only after a long while did Grand Maester Mellos—who had been standing silently to the side—speak with caution.
"Your Grace, the prince's desire for vengeance—"
Viserys opened his eyes and shook his head. "He is still young, Mellos. When Aemond grows older, more mature, he will understand."
Mellos stepped forward and straightened the blanket over the king's knees.
"Your Grace, I fear that he may be… another Maegor."
Viserys turned his head sharply and fixed him with a stare. "Do you know what you are saying?"
"Are you questioning my son?"
"Or is someone asking you to say this?"
Under the king's piercing gaze, Mellos lowered his head. "Your Grace, I am loyal only to you."
"There are words I speak to no one but you. That is my duty."
Seeing Mellos yield, Viserys did not pursue the matter further.
No one understood the Targaryens better than he did.
Fire ran in their blood, their natures a mixture of draconic pride and obsession.
In his eyes, Aemond's temperament was much like Daemon's in his youth—proud, quick to anger, unforgiving, yet also yearning for recognition and for familial affection.
So long as he gave him enough attention and fatherly love, this child would one day grow mature.
"As for the method he proposed," Viserys changed the subject.
"What do you think? Will it truly work, or is it… a child's folly?"
Mellos pondered for a moment, the chain about his neck swaying gently with the motion. "Some of the ideas… do indeed differ from our traditional methods."
"To stop the bloodletting—but the effect is still difficult to judge."
The old maester raised his head and said sincerely, "The prince's intentions are good."
"He has noticed Your Grace's suffering."
"Such filial devotion… is not common within the royal family."
"Intentions…" Viserys repeated the word, a smile appearing on his face.
Mellos lowered his eyes. "Your Grace, forgive my bluntness, but your condition continues to worsen."
"Perhaps… perhaps the prince's method could be tried."
Viserys fell silent for a long time. At last, he nodded.
"Then we shall try it as Aemond suggested."
...
Outside the door, Aemond stood in the dim corridor, his back against the cold stone wall, listening to the exchange within.
The corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile.
Intentions? Yes—he had indeed put his heart into it.
That riverside royal estate—these were all gains he had not expected.
He reached up and touched the place on his face where his father had brushed him, then lowered his hand and straightened his collar.
Between him and Viserys, kinship was a weakness, and love a soft spot.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridor.
There was no warmth in them—only resolve.
This was a transaction, nothing more.
And within the Black Study, a soft murmur followed: "He is a good boy, Mellos. He only needs time."
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