"Prince?" Maester Merros stared at Aemond, frozen in place.
"Have you ever considered stopping the bloodletting?" Aemond asked, regaining his composure.
"Bloodletting can cure many ailments, Your Grace," Merros insisted, seeing the interrogation in the prince's eyes.
"Grand Maester, His Grace's body grows weaker by the day. Could it be your insistence on bloodletting? Try my method and see how it works," Aemond said, his violet gaze cold and unyielding.
Merros opened his mouth to argue, but Aemond cut him off with a firm, "I advise you to try it. Otherwise, I suspect Otto Hightower will be keeping a close eye on the king's health."
Aemond raised an eyebrow. "Five or six years? And the king's health has only worsened?"
Hearing the prince's veiled threat, Merros fell silent.
Otto Hightower, Aemond's maternal grandfather, would certainly not wish to see King Viserys die.
The Green faction had only recently begun to establish its foundation in King's Landing, and the preparations were far from complete.
The longer the king lived, the more rumors about Rhaenyra might stir among the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.
Many lords were already deeply displeased with Viserys for bending the laws of male succession established by the Great Council, insisting Rhaenyra be heir.
He was also troubled by the three illegitimate sons, openly seeking the throne.
In the original timeline, the death of Viserys forced the unprepared Greens into premature war with the Black faction.
Aemond would have to use the king's prolonged life to win more allies.
As for his older brother Aegon? Useless.
But Aemond would never accept a marriage between Helaena and Jacaerys.
He would never risk his life to place them at Rhaenyra's or Jacaerys' mercy once they became rulers.
For now, as long as he stirred unrest, no reconciliation between the Black and Green factions was possible.
In his mind, the war was already inevitable.
"Maester, what do you think?" Aemond asked, eyes fixed on him.
Merros' cloudy gaze met Aemond's. After a short pause, he muttered,
"I… will try your way, Prince."
Seeing Merros agree, Aemond continued,
"Also, keep His Grace away from the Iron Throne, or at least lessen its strain."
"Most of His Grace's wounds, the ones slow to heal, are connected to the Iron Throne, yes?"
The Iron Throne was the center of his torment.
Forged by Aegon the Conqueror from a thousand swords heated in dragonfire, its purpose was to remind Targaryen heirs that royal power walks on thin ice, demanding vigilance in politics.
Merros nodded, stood, and prepared to leave.
"Try the prince's method. After all, five or six years of bloodletting has done nothing…"
"And one more thing, Grand Maester," Aemond stopped him.
Merros turned.
"Clean the wounds with northern spirits. No more larvae."
Merros bowed again, trembling, and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
Alone, Aemond sat at his desk and opened the heavy tomes.
He first examined The Valyrian Dragonlord, a tome written in ancient Valyrian, chronicling the resonance of blood and dragons, the struggle of wills, and mastery over the skies.
Time passed in silence, broken only by the rustle of pages.
A faint sound came at the door. Aemond looked up.
Before he could speak, the door opened slightly. A silver strand of hair appeared, then the pale, delicate face of Helaena.
Her violet eyes glimmered in the dim candlelight, and she held a small porcelain plate covered with white linen.
"Aemond?" she whispered. "May… may I come in?"
"My lady… Mother asked me to bring you something to eat," she added softly.
Aemond set aside his book and smiled. "Of course, Helaena. Come in."
Helaena slipped inside, pressing her back gently against the closed door, as if completing a difficult task.
She wore a soft pale-blue robe, silver hair tousled like moonlight, and was barefoot, clearly sneaking from her chambers.
"This… is from Mother herself," she said, setting the plate on the table and lifting the linen.
Before him were two small, golden lemon cakes, delicate and sweetly fragrant.
"It's… your old favorite," she murmured, her voice softening to nearly inaudible.
Aemond stared at the cakes, a distant, hazy memory stirring deep within him.
Helaena gestured to herself. "I… remembered my lonely, silent brother, and secretly brought this for you."
"Aemond… I had to do this," she whispered.
"Thank you," he said, smiling.
Helaena sat across from him. "For me… for Aegon… and for you."
"Lately she sleeps poorly. But she cannot show it to others," she added.
"I know," Aemond said, taking a bite of the cake. The sweet-tart flavor melted on his tongue, a fleeting comfort.
"You are troubled as well, aren't you?"
Helaena lifted her head, tears glimmering in her violet eyes, forcing a fragile smile.
"Moreover… the future… may not be so bleak. I am ready."
"But I will not allow it," Aemond's voice dropped.
"Helaena, I swear by my blood, I will never let you marry Jacaerys."
"Aemond… don't… say that," she whispered.
"My father has already agreed. It is dangerous."
He set aside his half-eaten cake, meeting her gaze.
"You need not sacrifice yourself for anyone."
"But…"
Helaena looked into the burning, almost paranoid fire in his violet eyes—frightening, yet oddly comforting.
This younger brother had become strange, rigid, and fiercely protective.
At least he was the only one who would speak so plainly, so desperately to safeguard her.
Her fingertips trembled slightly, cold to the touch. "Your wounds… take care of them. Do not behave so recklessly on the island of Driftmark again."
Aemond felt the fleeting chill on the back of his hand. "Hmm," he murmured.
Helaena withdrew her hand like a startled fawn and rose.
"I… must return. It is unwise to be seen."
She approached the door, glancing back with conflicted eyes.
"The cake… for Mother's heart."
"I will," Aemond nodded.
Helaena quietly opened the door, disappearing down the dimly lit stone corridor.
Aemond took the remaining lemon cake and ate it slowly.
Its sweetness lingered long in his mouth.