The fifth level of the dungeons beneath the Red Keep was dark, lit only by torches along the stone walls.
Those confined to the dungeons were usually nobles who had committed crimes, or descendants of noble houses.
Time here was not measured by sunrise or moonset.
In his cell, Aemond lifted the wooden sword, assumed a stance, and swung it with deliberate speed, following Cole's teachings.
This was exactly what he demanded from the guards, insisting on daily training even while imprisoned.
The king had not objected.
His cell was far roomier than the others, with rough stone walls carved into shelves for books.
Dozens of tomes were stacked there, sent by the Great Scholar Meros on the king's orders: The House of Targaryen, The Fall and Legacy of Valyria, The Origins of the Andals, and Knowledge of the Dragon.
Below, a few books on knightly legends had been placed, likely out of fear that the young prince might be too lonely.
On the table lay The Valyrian Bloodline and its Connection to Dragons.
A small gnome served the meal—a roasted chicken thigh, white bread, and a few spoonfuls of pea paste.
"Your dinner, Your Highness the Prince! Today, with the freshest rumors and oldest jests from King's Landing!"
The gnome, no taller than four feet, was dressed in bright patchwork and a tiny bell on his hat jingled as he moved.
He carefully arranged the plate, knife, and fork—his usual preparation for Aemond's tests of patience and vigilance.
The king had initially insisted that his son should not suffer the hardships of the dungeons or descend into madness from solitude.
The gnome placed the plates on the small wooden table, then climbed onto a raised stool made just for him to reach the surface.
He sipped some wine, cut a piece of chicken from Aemond's plate, chewed it exaggeratedly, shot a mock-evil glance, and swallowed.
"See! Not poisoned! Your food is safe and worry-free, noble imprisoned prince!"
Aemond approached with his sword and sat at the table.
He took a sip of wine before speaking.
"What news from the outside today?"
"Oh, so much news!" The gnome gestured wildly.
"From High Tide, Lady Rhaenys has finally declared publicly that House Velaryon shall not be torn apart by baseless accusations."
"However, many Valyrians have already gathered in King's Landing, waiting for Lord Corlys to awaken…"
Aemond listened quietly, cutting his chicken.
"House Lozhar also used gold to create a statue of a golden dragon, the size of a carriage, and all the townsfolk ran to the harbor to see the spectacle."
"Where is Dragonstone?" Aemond asked.
The gnome froze, tongue-tied, unwilling to answer.
The name "Aegon" carried the weight of Aegon the Conqueror, and everyone understood its importance.
Aemond stopped asking and continued eating.
He already knew far more, gleaned from rare notes that Damon had, a month ago, made a proposal to the king to exile him.
He knew his mother, Alicent, prayed for him daily in the Red Keep's sept; he knew Helena had resumed her daydreams; he knew Aegon fussed over the servants…
"Ah, yes, yes!" The gnome suddenly remembered something and retrieved a neatly folded silk handkerchief from his hands.
"Princess Helena asked me to bring this to you yesterday."
Aemond took it.
The corner of the pale blue silk was embroidered with tiny silver flowers—Helena's handiwork—and a line of delicate handwriting read:
"I miss you dearly. Remember, do not go against your father…"
Aemond studied the note for a long moment. Had she foreseen something again?
He looked up. "Did she say anything else?"
The gnome shook his head. "No, that's all."
They continued eating in silence.
The gnome tried to lighten the mood, sharing a stockpile of jokes: a bawdy story from Dorne and a camel, a funny tale of a bachelor's chain knot, and a sarcastic quip about an illegitimate son wandering into a tavern.
Halfway through, he choked and awkwardly coughed.
The gnome recalled the recent events in the throne room, debates over illegitimate children.
"This isn't funny, not funny at all," he muttered, quickly shoving a piece of bread into his mouth.
Aemond's lips lifted slightly. "Why don't you finish it?"
"Uh… because…"
The gnome froze, staring at the prince.
He nodded.
"I'll send someone to assign them a worthy task in exchange for you."
A grateful smile crossed the gnome's face.
He glanced toward the dungeon door—normally a solid peephole, now showing a narrow slit.
Aemond noticed it too.
He leaned back in his chair, took a sip of wine—it was ordinary, sour perhaps, but refreshing.
The sound of a key turning in the lock came from the other side, the metal grinding and twisting, followed by the heavy muffled noise of a door opening.
The cell door was pushed inward.
King Viserys stood there.
He wore a heavy black cloak and could still not hide a slight tremor—whether from the dungeon's chill or the lingering effects of his stubborn ailment, none could tell, and his left hand was still bandaged.
He did not enter immediately, only looking at his son within the cell.
The gnome slid down from his stool, kneeling on the stone floor with his forehead pressed against the cold surface.
"Step aside," Viserys said.