Night. The tenth day of his house arrest.
Ever since the day he had returned atop Vhagar, after fear and awe had emptied the streets of King's Landing,
Viserys had punished him with house arrest.
For an indefinite period; everything depended on the king's mood.
The room was built of pale red stone bricks. A huge arched window, set with thick leaded glass, opened in the north wall.
Aemond stood on the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, drawing back the curtains as he looked down over King's Landing beneath the night sky.
Countless lights glittered in the darkness, lively yet distant.
The pale scar on his left cheek had already scabbed over.
The blood loss had left him pale.
His gaze swept over the city beyond the window. King's Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms, had grown to accommodate nearly four hundred thousand people.
The city was roughly square, stretching for miles and enclosed by towering walls with seven enormous gates. Three hills—Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep stood; Visenya's Hill; and Rhaenys Hills, where the Dragonpit stood—formed the city's outline.
From this height, the slums of Flea Bottom were clearly visible, their crowded shacks twisting like a maze. The stench of garbage and stagnant water hung over them year-round.
The Red Keep, where he was, stood atop Aegon's High Hill, overlooking the city and the dark waters of Blackwater Bay.
This vast fortress, built of pale red stone, had several towers. Maegor's Holdfast, where he was staying, was a fortress within the fortress.
Guarded by twelve-foot-thick walls and a dry moat studded with iron spikes, it was the royal residence—and his prison for the moment.
The regular, heavy tread of Kingsguard sounded outside the door.
The Kingsguard, Ser Cole and Ser Alec, had been ordered by the king to watch over him and protect him.
Then came another sound: a slow, shuffling tread, unlike the clank of the white-cloaks' armor.
After a gentle knock, an aged, respectful voice came from outside.
"Prince Aemond, may I come in? It's Meuros."
"Come in."
The door opened, and Archmaester Meuros tottered inside. He was advanced in years, and the long chain of the Citadel hung around his neck. Several attendants followed behind him, carrying trays with the prince's dinner.
"His Majesty...and the Queen have been very concerned about your injuries," Meuros said deferentially.
The attendants set the trays on the oak table. There was Riverlands wine, a bowl of cherries, a small jar of glistening caviar, carefully prepared venison, and a covered silver bowl that gave off the faintly fishy smell peculiar to fresh blood.
The archmaester had prepared these restorative foods as he understood them, to replenish the prince's depleted blood and energy.
The blood was deer's blood, as the prince had requested.
"And..." Meuros laboriously drew several heavy tomes, bound with leather straps, from his wide sleeve and set them on the table with a dull thud.
"These are the books you asked for, on dragons. Dragonkind Considerations, the Valyrian Family Tree, and portions of the Known Dragon Genealogy."
"Some of the contents...are quite obscure, Your Highness."
As a scholar, he felt a pang at the thought of these books. He had spent a good deal of Gold Dragons acquiring them from the Eastern Continent.
Aemond nodded, his gaze passing over the trays before settling on the books. "Thank you for the trouble, Archmaester."
He went to the table. Rather than touch the restorative foods, he speared a piece of roast venison that an attendant had just brought in, still steaming, and began to chew.
The elderly Meuros gestured for the attendants to leave, then remained in the room, watching the young prince eat.
He had already heard about the prince's deeds on Tidepool Island.
Meuros had come from the Citadel in Oldtown, seat of House Hightower. The Great Sept of the Faith of the Seven was there, too.
House Hightower's ties with the Faith and the Citadel were deeply rooted, and together they held sway over Westeros's culture and religion.
That was one of the reasons Viserys had married Alicent Hightower as his second Queen.
Only the soft crackling of firewood in the hearth and the sound of Aemond chewing broke the silence.
Meuros was troubled. In just a hundred years, no small number of Targaryens had abandoned tradition or gone mad. The most notorious among them were Maegor the Cruel, Prince Daemon in his day, and...Aemond now.
As the archmaester sent by the Citadel to serve the king, he was responsible for observing the Targaryen royal family and carefully educating its children, doing his best to prevent another Maegor from arising.
In the eyes of the maesters, Targaryens who possessed dragons were gods, above mere mortals...but these gods could go mad.
The struggle between the Blacks and the Greens was intensifying across the realm, and the Citadel's councils were deeply concerned.
As an archmaester, he was unquestionably sworn to the king.
But a significant number of people in Oldtown's Citadel and the Faith supported the Greens ruling the realm.
"Archmaester, you needn't be so formal." Aemond looked up from his meal at Meuros, who was standing there, lost in thought.
Meuros came back to himself and slowly sat opposite Aemond.
"You seem in better health than when you first returned, Your Highness," he said after some deliberation.
Aemond swallowed the venison, then lifted the bowl of deer's blood. The strong smell stung his nostrils, but he didn't hesitate. He tipped back his head and drank several mouthfuls.
"But to me, your medical skills seem rather mediocre." He set down the silver bowl, a trace of dark red at the corner of his mouth, and casually wiped it away with a handkerchief.
Meuros hadn't expected Aemond to be so blunt.
Aemond tilted his head and studied him. "How is my father's health?"
Meuros's heart skipped a beat. "Your Highness, how did you learn of it?"
Aside from him and a few assistants, no one knew about Viserys's strange illness. The king had strictly forbidden them from speaking of it.
Aemond shook his head inwardly. In the original story, Viserys's illness resembled leprosy but wasn't contagious. The archmaester had treated him for four or five years with no improvement, and his health had only worsened.
Had it been anyone else, he would have punished these incompetent physicians long ago. Only Viserys was so mild-tempered.
"The Red Keep has no secrets," Aemond said coolly.
Meuros's bushy white brows twitched. "His Majesty...suffers from a rare and malignant illness."
"The symptoms...are that wounds are extremely slow to heal. They may even fester and spread on their own."
"Some parts of his flesh have also begun to lose feeling..."
"How are you treating him?" Aemond pressed. His purple eyes seemed unusually intent in the candlelight.
"Primarily according to ancient methods: bloodletting, to balance the humors believed to be excessive or corrupted."
"At times...for parts that have already died, we use specially prepared maggots to consume the rotten flesh and clean the wound." Meuros lowered his voice, as if embarrassed to mention the method.
"We also use some milk of the poppy for pain, and a diet to strengthen his constitution."
"So your main treatment is bloodletting?" Aemond asked.
"We have also tried some ointments and medicines, but...with little effect," Meuros answered cautiously.
So they were treating the king like a test subject. This leprosy-like illness damaged the body's immune system, and continued bloodletting would only hasten Viserys's death.
Aemond didn't want Viserys to die as miserably as he had in the original story, even if his father was so obviously biased.
Every extra day the king lived gave the Greens more time to prepare.
He had Vhagar, but the Blacks had more dragons, and more dragonriders.
The Greens had only four people capable of riding dragons, and that was counting Helaena, who was gentle by nature and unsuited to it.
His eldest brother Aegon's Sunfyre was a fine dragon, but Aegon lacked experience.
His youngest brother Daeron had been sent to Oldtown to be raised by House Hightower, and his "Blue Queen," Tessarion, was still too young.
In truth, the only dragonriders the Greens could rely on were him and Aegon...
What was more, to win this war, Rhaenyra would later be foolish enough to let Targaryen bastards ride dragons.
In his eyes, that was an outright betrayal of Targaryen blood.
It wasn't that he looked down on bastards; it was that these bastards had been nobodies from the gutter.
He knew well the saying: once a man held a blade, the desire to kill arose.
And when these bastards, who had once been no better than weeds, gained control of dragons, their lowly status would give way to ambition.
In the end, Rhaenyra reaped what she had sown.
Of course, some bastards were loyal, but he would never hand a dragon over to one whose origins were unknown.
The Blacks could afford to lose several times; the Greens could not.
In the original story, after he and Daemon killed each other over Gods Eye Lake, the Greens lost any chance of winning.
Had Rhaenyra not gone mad after becoming Queen, the Blacks would have won the war long before.
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