Night had fallen. It was the tenth day of his house arrest.
Ever since the day he returned riding Vhagar, when King's Landing was left deserted by terror and awe alike, what followed soon after was the punishment imposed upon him by King Viserys—house arrest.
The duration was unspecified; everything depended on the king's mood.
The room was built of pale red stone bricks. On the northern wall stood a vast arched window, inlaid with thick leaded glass.
Aemond stood on the balcony of the Maegor's Holdfast tower. Drawing the curtains aside, he looked down upon King's Landing beneath the night sky.
Countless lights flickered in the darkness—lively, yet distant.
The pale wound on his left cheek had already scabbed over.
The excessive loss of blood still left his complexion wan.
His gaze passed beyond the city outside the window. King's Landing—the capital of the Seven Kingdoms—had now become a city capable of holding nearly four hundred thousand people.
The city was roughly square in shape, stretching for dozens of miles, enclosed by towering walls and seven massive gates. Three great hills—Aegon's High Hill (where the Red Keep stood), Visenya's Hill, and Rhaenys's Hill (site of the Dragonpit)—supported the outline of the city.
From such a height, Flea Bottom, that warren of slums, was clearly visible, its crowded shanties twisted like a maze. That place was perpetually steeped in the stench of refuse and foul water.
And the Red Keep, where he stood, rose upon the summit of Aegon's High Hill, overlooking the city—and the pitch-black expanse of Blackwater Bay.
The vast fortress, built of pale red stone, possessed several towers, and the Maegor's Tower where he resided was the fortress within the fortress.
Encircled by walls twelve feet thick and a moat that had run dry but was filled with iron spikes, it was a royal residence—and at this moment, his prison.
From beyond the door came the steady, heavy footsteps of the Kingsguard.
The Kingsguard—Ser Cole and Ser Arryk. By the king's command, they both watched over him and protected him.
Then another sound followed: slow, dragging footsteps, unlike the ringing of armored mail.
After a gentle knock, an aged and respectful voice came through the door: "Prince Aemond, are you at leisure? It is I, Mellos."
"Enter."
The door opened, and Grand Maester Mellos shuffled in, trembling slightly. He was advanced in years, the long chain of the Citadel hanging from his neck. Several attendants followed behind him, bearing trays—this was the prince's supper.
"His Grace… and the queen have been continually concerned about your injury," Mellos said with great deference.
The attendants set the trays upon the oak table: wine from the Reach, a bowl of cherries, a small jar of glistening caviar, carefully prepared venison, and a lidded silver bowl that carried the faint, distinctive tang of fresh blood.
These had been prepared according to the Grand Maester's understanding of restorative fare, meant to replenish the prince's lost vitality.
And that blood was deer's blood—at the prince's request.
"And also…" Mellos labored to draw several thick tomes bound together with leather straps from the wide sleeves of his robe, setting them upon the table with a dull, heavy thud.
"This is what you requested—books concerning dragons: A Brief Treatise on Dragonkind, The Valyrian Family Genealogy, and partial copies of The Lineages of Known Great Dragons."
"Some of the contents… are rather obscure, Your Highness."
As a scholar, he felt a measure of pain for these volumes; he had spent no small number of gold dragons to acquire them from the eastern continent.
Aemond nodded, his gaze passing over the trays before finally settling on the books. "You have my thanks, Grand Maester."
He walked to the table. Rather than touching the restorative fare, he speared a piece of roasted venison that a servant brought in afterward, still steaming, and began to chew.
The aged Mellos waved for the attendants to withdraw and remained in the room himself, watching the young prince eat.
He had already heard of this prince's deeds on Driftmark.
He came from Oldtown—the Citadel—lands of House Hightower, where the Great Sept of the Faith of the Seven also stood.
The ties between House Hightower, the Faith, and the Citadel were deeply intertwined, holding sway over the culture and belief of Westeros.
This was also one of the reasons Viserys had taken Alicent Hightower as his second queen.
Only the faint crackle of the hearth fire and the sound of Aemond chewing remained in the room.
Mellos felt a quiet unease within his heart. Within little more than a century, House Targaryen had seen no shortage of members who strayed from tradition or descended into madness—most famously "the Cruel" Maegor I, the former Prince Daemon, and… now, Aemond.
As Maesters sent by the Citadel to serve the king, they bore the responsibility of observing the Targaryen royal house and carefully instructing the Targaryen offspring, striving to prevent the emergence of yet another "Maegor."
In the eyes of the maesters, Targaryens who possessed dragons stood above mortals like gods… yet these gods could go mad.
At present, the struggle between the Blacks and the Greens was growing ever more intense within the realm, and deliberations within the Citadel were likewise filled with concern because of it.
As Grand Maester, his loyalty lay with the king—this was beyond question.
Yet within the Citadel of Oldtown and the Faith, a considerable number supported the Greens taking control of the realm.
"Grand Maester, there is no need to be so restrained." Aemond, still eating, raised his head and glanced at Mellos, who stood there lost in thought.
Mellos came back to himself and slowly took a seat opposite Aemond.
"It seems, Your Highness, that your complexion is somewhat better than when you first returned," he said after weighing his words.
Aemond swallowed the venison and lifted the bowl of deer's blood. The pungent scent rushed into his nostrils; without hesitation, he tilted his head back and drank several mouthfuls.
"But in my view, your medical arts are truly mediocre." He set the silver bowl down, a trace of dark red clinging to the corner of his mouth, and casually wiped it away with a napkin from the table.
Mellos had not expected such bluntness from Aemond.
Aemond tilted his head, fixing his gaze upon him. "My father's condition—how is it now?"
Mellos felt a jolt of alarm. "Your Highness, how did you come to know of this?"
The strange illness afflicting Viserys was known only to him and a few assistants. It was also something the king had strictly forbidden to be spoken of beyond them.
Aemond shook his head inwardly. In the original account, Viserys's strange affliction—resembling leprosy yet not contagious—had been treated by this Grand Maester for four or five years with no improvement, his condition only worsening with time.
Had it been anyone else, these mediocre physicians would long ago have been punished for their failures. Only Viserys's mild temperament allowed matters to persist.
"There are no secrets in the Red Keep," Aemond said flatly.
Mellos's grizzled brows twitched. "His Grace… suffers from a rare malignant illness."
"Its manifestations… are that wounds are exceedingly difficult to heal, even breaking down and spreading of their own accord."
"Some of the flesh has also begun to lose sensation…"
"How do you treat it?" Aemond pressed, his violet eyes unnaturally intent in the candlelight.
"We chiefly follow the ancient methods—bloodletting, to balance the humors believed to be excessive or corrupted within the body."
"At times… for portions that have already necrotized, we employ certain prepared maggots, allowing them to consume the rotten flesh and cleanse the wound." Mellos lowered his voice somewhat, as though the method were unseemly to speak of.
"This is supplemented with poppy milk to dull the pain, and diets meant to strengthen the constitution."
"So your principal means is bloodletting?" Aemond asked.
"We have also attempted certain salves and draughts, but… the results have been minimal," Mellos replied cautiously.
So, in effect, they were treating the king as a test subject. This leprosy-like condition damaged the body's resistance, and continued bloodletting would only hasten Viserys's death.
Aemond did not wish for Viserys to die as miserably as he had in the original course of events, even if this father of his was so deeply biased.
So long as the king lived even one more day, the Greens would gain one more measure of preparation.
Though he possessed Vhagar, the Blacks commanded more dragons—and more dragonriders.
From beginning to end, the Greens had only four who could ride dragons, discounting Helaena, whose temperament was gentle and ill-suited.
His elder brother Aegon's Sunfyre was a fine dragon, yet lacked experience.
The youngest brother, Daeron, had been placed in Oldtown to be raised by House Hightower; his "Blue Queen," Tessarion, was far too young.
The true strength the Greens could rely upon lay, in fact, only with him and Aegon's dragon…
What was more, in order to win this war, Rhaenyra was foolish enough to later allow Targaryen bastards to ride dragons.
In his view, this was an utter betrayal of Targaryen blood.
It was not that he despised bastards, but that those bastards were little more than roadside curs.
Those who know they carry a blade soon give rise to murderous intent.
How much more so for bastards who had once grown like weeds—once they grasped a dragon, humility would turn into ambition.
And in the end, Rhaenyra reaped what she had sown.
Of course, it could not be denied that among the bastards there were also those who were loyal—but he would never place a dragon in the hands of bastards of unknown origin.
The Blacks could afford to fail many times; the Greens could not.
In the original account, after he and Daemon perished together above the Gods Eye, the Greens utterly lost their chance of victory.
Had it not been for Rhaenyra's later descent into madness after becoming queen, the Blacks would have won this war long before.
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