"Prince?" Mellos looked at Aemond, who seemed lost in thought.
"Have you ever considered stopping the bloodletting?" Aemond asked once he came back to himself.
"Bloodletting can cure many illnesses, Your Highness," Mellos insisted when his practice was questioned.
"Grand Maester, His Grace grows weaker by the day. Is it not possible that this is precisely because you persist in bleeding him? Try my method instead and see what results it brings." Aemond fixed his gaze on him.
The Grand Maester was about to argue further when Aemond cut him off coldly. "I advise you to try it."
"Otherwise, I imagine Lord Otto, the Hand of the King, will be paying very close attention to the king's condition."
He raised an eyebrow. "Five or six years of treatment, and yet the king's body only worsens?"
Faced with the prince's threat, Mellos fell silent.
His maternal grandfather, Otto Hightower, naturally did not wish to see King Viserys die.
Only now had the Greens managed to gain a foothold in King's Landing, and all preparations were still incomplete.
And the longer the king lived, the more time there would be for rumors unfavorable to Rhaenyra to ferment among the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.
Many lords had long been deeply dissatisfied with Viserys breaking the male-preference succession established by the Great Council and insisting on naming Rhaenyra as his heir.
They were also displeased that three obvious Strongs, bastards in all but name, should dare to lay claim to the Iron Throne.
It was only because of Princess Rhaenyra's backing—the Blacks behind her, those nobles who still remained loyal to her, and the dragons they possessed—that the Faith, the Citadel, and part of the nobility suppressed their discontent and did not dare openly question her.
In the original course of events, Viserys's death also forced the ill-prepared Greens to go to war with the Blacks far too early.
What Aemond intended to do was to use Viserys's prolonged life to draw more allies to his side.
As for his elder brother Aegon? That piece of trash…
If he truly wished to avoid this civil war, he should accept the status quo, allow Helaena to marry Jacaerys, and remove himself from the struggle. Without him, the Greens would naturally be unable to stand against the Blacks.
But Aemond would never accept Helaena marrying Jacaerys.
Nor would he stake his own life on the mercy of Rhaenyra or Jacaerys once one of them became king.
Yet once he made this move, reconciliation between the Blacks and the Greens would become impossible.
In his eyes, this war was already unavoidable.
"Grand Maester, have you reached a decision?" Aemond looked at him.
Mellos's clouded eyes studied Aemond.
After a brief pause, he said, "I will… try your method, Prince."
Seeing him agree, Aemond continued, "And have His Grace kept away from the Iron Throne, or at least have cushions laid upon it."
"Most of the wounds on His Grace that refuse to heal come from the Iron Throne, do they not?"
In his mind, that throne was nothing less than a throne of tetanus.
Forged by his forebear Aegon the Conqueror from thousands of enemy swords melted by dragonfire, it was meant to make future Targaryen descendants feel that royal power was like walking on thin ice, demanding diligence in rule.
The intention was sound, but for later kings it was nothing but torment.
"This… may undermine His Grace's dignity," Mellos said hesitantly.
"Then tell me, is life more important, or dignity?" Aemond countered.
Mellos nodded and rose to take his leave.
He would try the prince's method, then. After all, five or six years of bloodletting had shown no effect…
His Grace's condition truly worsened by the day; if it continued, he would not live much longer.
"And one more thing, Grand Maester," Aemond called after him.
Mellos turned back.
Aemond said, "Try cleansing the wounds with strong spirits from the North. Do not use maggots again."
Mellos bowed once more, then left the chamber trembling, carefully closing the door behind him.
After Mellos departed, Aemond sat down at the desk and opened the heavy tomes before him.
He first opened The Valyrian Dragonriders. The ancient Valyrian script spoke of the resonance between blood and dragon, contests of will, and dominion over the skies.
Candlelight flickered as time slipped by with the sound of turning pages.
After an unknown while, a faint sound came again from outside the door.
Aemond lifted his head. Before he could respond, the door was gently pushed open a crack. A strand of silver hair entered first, followed by Helaena's beautiful yet pale face.
Her violet eyes glimmered in the dim light. In her hands, she carefully held a small porcelain dish, covered with a piece of clean white linen.
"Aemond?" she called softly. "I… may I come in?"
"Mother… Mother asked me to bring you something to eat."
Aemond set the book aside and looked at her with a smile. "Of course, Helaena. Come in."
Helaena slipped inside, her back pressed to the closed door, as if she had just completed some arduous task.
She wore a soft pale-blue nightgown, her silver hair falling loose like moonlight, barefoot—plainly having sneaked out from her own chambers.
"This is from Mother, made by her own hand," she said as she walked to the table, set down the porcelain dish, and lifted the linen cloth.
Two small, delicate lemon cakes, golden in color, came into view, giving off a fresh, sweet-and-sour scent.
"It's… it's what you used to like best."
"She said you lost blood from your wounds and are shut in here. Your heart must be bitter, and something sweet would help."
Helaena's voice grew softer and softer, until it was barely audible.
Aemond stared at the two cakes, and something distant and blurred deep in his memory was stirred awake.
"You still remember?" Aemond's voice softened.
Helaena pointed to herself. "Me?"
She seemed to recall that lonely, silent brother from before, overlooked by others, and how she had secretly brought him cakes.
"Aemond, this is what I ought to do," she said quietly.
"Thank you," Aemond said with a smile.
"Mother… she is very distressed as well." Helaena sat down on the chair opposite him. "For my sake, for Aegon's, and even more for yours."
"These days she has scarcely slept. It's just that… she cannot show it before others."
"I know." Aemond picked up a piece of cake and took a bite. The sweet-and-sour taste spread across his tongue, the soft texture offering a brief comfort. "You are hurting too, aren't you?"
"For that… betrothal."
Helaena's body trembled almost imperceptibly. She lowered her head, silver hair veiling the side of her face. "I… I said I was willing. If… if it could quell this dispute."
She lifted her head. Tears glimmered in her eyes, yet she forced a faint smile. "And the future… perhaps… perhaps it would not be so bad. I am prepared."
"But I will not accept it." Aemond's voice dropped abruptly.
"Helaena, I swear it by my blood: I will never allow you to marry Jacaerys."
Helaena's breath caught. A faint flush rose to her cheeks, whether from his words or from the memory of their last contact she could not tell.
"Aemond… do not—do not say such things."
"Father has already given his consent. This is dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Aemond looked at her.
He set down the half-eaten cake and met her gaze across the table. "You do not need to sacrifice yourself for anyone."
"But—"
"There is no 'but.'" Aemond cut her off. "Helaena, I have a way."
Helaena looked into his eyes, at the flame burning there—nearly obsessive. It frightened her, yet strangely made her feel at ease.
This brother had become unfamiliar: hardened, forceful, filled with an air of aggression.
Yet at least he was the only one who would speak so plainly, so recklessly, of protecting her.
"You… you must be careful as well," she said at last, softly. She reached out, hesitated, then gently laid her hand over the back of his resting on the table.
Her fingertips were cold, trembling slightly. "Your wound… tend it well. Do not be like you were in the hall at Driftmark."
Aemond felt the fleeting chill of her touch on the back of his hand. "Mm," he replied briefly.
Helaena then withdrew her hand like a startled doe and rose to her feet. "I… I should go."
"If I am discovered, it would not be good."
She reached the door, then looked back at him once more, her gaze complicated. "The cakes… finish them. They are Mother's concern."
"I will," Aemond nodded.
Helaena silently opened the door. Her figure merged into the dim stone corridor and vanished.
He picked up the remaining lemon cake and ate it slowly.
The sweetness lingered on his tongue for a long while.
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