Father

"Your Majesty, Prince Aemond has arrived."

Grand Maester Meuros's voice sounded especially muffled in the cramped space.

He stepped aside to clear the way, then closed the heavy oak door.

He stood silently behind the father and son.

The room was thick with the pungent smell of medicine and the peculiar scent of someone long afflicted by illness. It was called the Black Study, though the name was hardly fitting.

It was neither black nor much of a study, merely a niche carved into the stone wall behind the throne room.

It had room for only a desk, two chairs, and a bed.

Viserys I sat in an armchair, his entire body sunk into a heavy dark-red velvet robe. It had once fit him well, but now it hung loosely around his increasingly emaciated frame.

The arm that had once wielded the legendary family sword, Blackfyre, was now little more than skin and bone. White bandages wrapped his exposed wrist, faint yellow stains seeping through them.

A complex scent of mint and herbs filled the room.

The King's face was sallow as parchment, his eye sockets deeply sunken. Only those violet eyes still retained the distinctive brilliance of House Targaryen.

At that moment, those eyes were watching the son who had entered.

Aemond kept his gaze lowered, his posture respectful.

"I heard from Meuros," Viserys said, his voice hoarse and breathy with illness. "You wish to treat me?"

"Father." Aemond slowly raised his head.

"I merely offered a suggestion. I would not presume to claim mastery of medicine."

"How did you know about my condition?" Viserys asked. There was no reproach in his voice, only curiosity.

After he had contracted this strange illness, the King had begun living separately from the Queen.

He did not want his wife to see his steadily decaying body, those ugly wounds, those withered limbs.

It was a man's last shred of dignity.

"I only hope Father can remain healthy," Aemond said.

Viserys stared at his son's face, seriously studying this second son whom he perhaps had never truly understood.

Aemond had indeed grown ever more handsome in the Targaryen fashion.

High cheekbones, a straight nose, slightly thin lips. He had begun growing his hair long, its silver-gold strands tied behind his head to reveal a sharply defined face and violet eyes like stars.

He was already a youth, Viserys realized.

No longer the gloomy, withdrawn child who hid in the corners.

His eldest son, Aegon, now remained on Tidepool Island, while his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, traveled between Dragonstone and Tidepool Island, strengthening her alliance with Tidepool Island.

His youngest son, Daeron, had been sent by Alicent to Oldtown to be raised by House Hightower.

The only ones truly left at his side were Aemond and Helaena.

In the past, Viserys had rarely paid attention to this reclusive second son.

He had heard that Aemond was bullied and that he did not fit in, but he had regarded it all as harmless squabbles among children—a strange but insignificant prince.

Until that eruption on Tidepool Island, that bloody conflict, that lost eye...

Only then did Viserys understand that he had been wrong.

He had neglected a son, and that son had accumulated enough resentment in silence to finally erupt in the most brutal way possible.

Guilt pierced his heart like fine needles.

Viserys extended a trembling hand. It was gaunt, its nails yellowed, the back of it covered in age spots.

He slowly reached toward Aemond's face, his fingertips lightly touching the healing wound.

Aemond neither flinched nor sought to please him. He simply stood where he was and accepted his father's touch.

It was a rare moment.

"Meuros said..." Viserys withdrew his hand, his voice growing softer. "Those methods of treatment were your idea?"

"Yes."

"Why?" the King pressed.

"You have never studied medicine."

"Ser Cole taught you only swordsmanship."

"Meuros taught you only history and law."

Aemond looked at his weakened father and did not answer the question troubling Viserys's heart.

"Bloodletting will not cure you," Aemond finally said.

"Maester Meuros has bled you for four years, yet your condition has only worsened."

"Maggots may consume rotten flesh, but if the body itself has already decayed, what grows back will still be rotten flesh."

He took a small step forward and lowered his voice. "It's not just the wounds on your body that are festering."

"Father, this too."

He raised a hand and gently tapped his own chest.

Viserys silently watched his son, surprise, suspicion, and perhaps a trace of panic at being seen through in his eyes.

"I saw it," Aemond added at last.

The King was stunned at first, then smiled helplessly.

For a long time, he had been surrounded by the ceaseless disputes of the Greens and the Blacks. Everyone wanted support from him, promises from him, power from him.

Even Alicent, his beloved wife beside his pillow, had been fighting for the interests of her children and her family.

Viserys knew that, on these nights, Alicent wept in stifled sobs in her chambers.

More than once, he had stood outside her door late at night, listening to the choking sobs within, yet unable to bring himself to knock and enter.

He felt guilty toward his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, because of her mother, queen Emma.

The woman he had loved most in his life had died because of his decision.

He had once craved a male heir too deeply, ordering the maesters to cut open his wife's belly during her difficult labor.

In the end, neither his wife nor the son who had lived for only a day... remained.

Sometimes, Viserys felt that illness was his companion, and loneliness his crown.

Perhaps this was the Seven's retribution upon him.

"Aemond," Viserys said, his voice slightly choked, "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 how to respond to it for a moment.

How long had it been?

How long had it been since someone had truly cared about Viserys Targaryen the man, rather than the King on the Iron Throne?

His tone softened.

"Your confinement ends here."

"Thank you, Father." Aemond lowered his head, silver hair slipping over his shoulder.

"And," the king added, as if suddenly remembering something, "there is a royal estate by Blackwater Bay, near the Kingswood."

"There are woods, pastures, and several fine horses in the stables."

"You may hunt in the Kingswood in your spare time."

He paused.

"That estate is yours."

A royal estate.

Neither a light nor a heavy reward.

"Thank you for Father's grace." Aemond bowed again. He understood Viserys's state of mind.

This was a king who longed to be loved, a father who needed care.

And he, as the only son now remaining at his side, only needed to show concern and familial affection to receive unexpected rewards.

A walking Gold Dragon, Aemond thought, though none of it showed on his face.

Yet the clouds of sorrow between Viserys's brows had not fully dispersed.

He struggled for a moment, as though weighing his words, before finally speaking.

"Aemond."

"What happened on Tidepool Island... was an accident."

"An ugly, heartbreaking accident. Lucerys has nightmares every night. Jae..."

After a pause, the king continued, "Hatred is fire. Once lit, it will only burn everything to ashes."

His gaze fell upon his son, carrying a father's hopes for his child.

"Write back to your sister. Say a few words—not an admission of guilt."

He added that quickly, knowing the request might be too much for Aemond.

"Just... express some regret."

"Can you... do that?"

At those words, the room fell into deathly silence.

Aemond stood where he was, silent and utterly still.

No words, no excuses, no shift in emotion.

He simply stood there, his violet eye calmly meeting his father's gaze.

Time passed in silence. One second, two seconds, three seconds...

He closed his eyes and waved a hand.

"Leave."

Aemond bowed deeply to his father. Then he turned and walked to the door. The oak door opened, then shut.

After a long while, Grand Maester Meuros, who had stood silently at the side all this time, finally spoke cautiously.

"His Majesty, the prince's vengeful nature..."

Viserys opened his eyes and shook his head. "He is still young, Meuros. Once Aemond grows up and matures, he will understand."

Meuros stepped forward and readjusted the blanket over the King's knees.

"His Majesty, I fear he may become... another Maegor."

Viserys abruptly turned his head and stared at him. "Do you know what you are saying?"

"Are you questioning my son?"

"Or does someone need you to say this?"

Under the King's piercing gaze, Meuros lowered his head. "His Majesty, I serve only you."

"There are words I would say only to you. It is my duty."

Seeing Meuros yield, Viserys did not pursue the matter further.

No one understood the Targaryens better than he did.

Fire flowed in their blood, their temperaments mingling the pride and obsession of dragons.

In his eyes, Aemond's nature was exactly like Daemon's in his youth.

Proud, quick-tempered, grudge-bearing, yet also yearning for recognition and family affection.

As long as he gave the boy enough attention and fatherly love, one day, the child would mature.

"The method he suggested," Viserys changed the subject.

"What do you think? Would it truly work, or is it... merely a child's foolishness?"

Meuros pondered for a moment, the chain around his neck swaying lightly with the motion. "Some of the ideas... are indeed different from our traditional methods."

"Stopping the bloodletting, but the effectiveness is still difficult to determine."

The old maester raised his head and said sincerely, "Your Highness means well."

"He noticed His Majesty's suffering."

"Such filial devotion is... not often seen in the royal family."

"Means well..." Viserys repeated the words, a smile appearing on his face.

Meuros lowered his gaze. "His Majesty, forgive my bluntness, but your condition is worsening."

"Perhaps... perhaps we could try the prince's method."

Viserys remained silent for a long time. At last, he nodded.

"Let us try it as Aemond said."

Outside the door, Aemond stood in the dim corridor, his back against the cold stone wall.

Listening to the two men converse.

The corner of his mouth curled slightly.

Means well? Yes, he had indeed put thought into it.

That Riverside Royal Estate—these were all unexpected gains.

He reached up and touched the spot on his face his father had touched, then lowered his hand and straightened his collar.

Between him and Viserys, familial affection was a weakness, and love was a vulnerability.

He turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridor.

There was not the slightest warmth, only resolve.

This was a transaction, nothing more.

And within the Black Study, Viserys murmured softly, "He is a good child, Meuros. He simply needs time."