DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING

A/N: Not sure where exactly this one came from, but I guess I had an urge to do more with these characters. Chronologically this takes place after War of the Dragons but before Sons of the Dragon. I hope to keep this one short!

Aemon lay on his back, his hands behind his head, and the sheets around his waist. He watched Alerie looking out of the window, her elbows on the sill, her chin on her hands. He watched Alerie, and he thanked the Gods that the Lyseni dressmakers had decided to make all of their materials so thin and translucent. He thanked them with a wholehearted gratitude , because it clung to her so tightly that it seemed she was nude.

"Alerie," he wheedled at her.

"Mmm?"

"Come back to bed."

She turned round; hands on the sill behind, her body a dark outline against the bright window. "Why? Haven't you grown tired of me?"

"I don't think that's possible."

"Well," and she pushed herself away from the window and padded across the room. "I don't suppose there's any harm in testing your limits, is there?" she stopped at the foot of the bed. "There's just one thing."

He smiled in confusion. "And what's that?"

She crept up on to the bed, on her hands and knees, eyes fixed on his face. She knelt up, one leg either side of him and leant down, slowly kissing a trail up his chest and neck, right up to his lips. Her hair tickled at his face and her rasping breath tickled his ear. She whispered to him then, "I'm dead…."

Aemon sat up in bed with a sudden jolt, for a few moments unsure what had just happened. He took a series of deep breaths and searched his surroundings. He was still in his bedroom just as he had been; only it was night and he was alone. Like a slow knife driving into his chest he realized that it had all been a dream, and that he was alone. Now and forever…

With a miserable hesitancy he lowered himself back under his covers and grasped onto one if the pillows, it used to be that Alerie laid against that same pillow, her strawberry scent covering it and the whole bed. Aemon once found comfort in the small items that littered his chambers, the way it smelt, the way things had been oddly place by her unique sense of comfort. But months had passed since she and his child had died, and her presence was slowly fading from the old castle, as was all forms of joy and happiness in his life.

How often had he dreamt of her? It seemed as if every night brought a new dream, a new hallucination. Her voice was a constant whisper in his head, her image constantly dancing on the edge of his vision. More than once he wondered if he was going the way of so many of his forebears, if the coin had landed on the side of madness in his case. The thought was crushing, humiliating and powerful. He grasped his wife's pillow again and used it to muffle his sobs so that none of the servants would come rushing in. His eyes were still wet with tears when he finally fell asleep again.

When he awoke next it was well into the afternoon, the orange rays of sunlight filtered in through open window. He took a few deep breaths, and slowly dragged himself from the bed. His whole body ached with stiffness and he took a few moments to roll his shoulders, trying his best to relieve the tension.

Why do I bother? He wondered for the thousandth time. It felt as if each day weighed down on him harder than the last, as if the sky itself would come crumbling down on him. Aemon dutifully dressed and took a moment to observe himself in a mirror. The face that stared back at him was gaunt and tired looking. Dark bags sat underneath his purple eyes, which were now listless and faded. His hair had lost its shine and hung about messily, a grotty stubble covering his jaw. I look just as I feel, he reflected. I'm dead already, I just have to wait for my body realise it…

He found that he could no longer look at the reflection and tore his gaze away, taking a shuddering breath. How can I leave this room? he wondered. How can I face anyone, have they ever seen such a miserable wretch before? more than anything he wanted to crawl back to his bed and stay there forever. In the end he found the nerve and slowly moved down the grand halls of his castle. The Servants, whom had served with the royal family for most of their lives, smiled and bowed whenever they saw him, but it did little to change his mood. He felt grey and dull.

With weary, lifeless movements, Aemon Targaryen made his way towards the eastern wing of Summerhall. He began a slow climb up a series of steps until he finally came upon the door of the castellan of the ancient summer home.

Jon Staedmon stood before a great map, pointing out positions with one meaty finger, and circling them with a dab of ink from his quill, a look of deep-set concentration on his lined face. The old man had first served as Castellan of Summerhall in the early days of King Aegon's rule when he first moved his family to court and his visits grew less. Jon stood tall and proud as an old oak tree and was twice as stubborn, having served directly under King Maekar himself. When he saw the prince enter he gave the slightest smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, my prince?" he finished marking off a spot on the map and put his full attention to Aemon. "The maids said you were ill."

Aemon gave a tired nod. "Aye, but not of any ailment of the body I'm afraid."

Staedmon raised a single grey brow. "How do you mean?"

He chose to ignore the man for the moment and instead gestured to the map. "What's all this?"

"Oh, we've been having some problems with bandits around the area," the old knight brushed the thought away with a weary gesture. "It's nothing serious. But what's this ailment you're referring to?"

"I've been having trouble sleeping again," he said quietly. "I've come to know what that is a precursor to, very soon I'll become utterly useless around here." he felt a pang of shame. "I fear that you'll need to take charge of the castle for a while."

The old man looked at Aemon for a very long time, long enough to unsettle the prince. "I've known you for many, many years. I knew you when you were naught but a loud energetic nuisance. I know you suffer from…problems, but If you need help," his eyes drifted up and down discerningly, "as it certainly looks like, then why not ask for help? I can manage here, so why not go to your family? King Aegon or perhaps Prince Jaehaerys-"

"NO!" He was surprised by the volume of his voice, and felt his whole body trembling. "No…I can't ask that of them. My father is King, he has millions of people to worry about without my added troubles. Jaehaerys…" he thought about his brother, sick in bed struggling to breath from a slight chill. "Jaehaerys has his own problems."

"What about Prince Duncan?"

Aemon would have sniggered if he had the energy. "I love him dearly, but my brother has hardly ever been one to take much responsibility."

Jon shook his head and sat forwards, his eyes locked on Aemon's. "Well the others may have their own worries, but I know for a fact that your sister would raise no objections about coming here, or even accepting you into her husband's halls. It's not so far to Storm's End."

That gave him pause. Rhaelle was his big sister. He felt safe around her, in a way that he didn't with the others. How many times in the past have I come to her with a problem? How many times has she been patient with me? Would it really be so bad to go to her again? The thought was crushed quickly. His sister did not need to be burdened by his madness.

"I can't do that to her," he said weakly.

"Why not?"

He felt shame burning under his skin, searing at whatever shred of pride he had left. "Why would I burden her….why would I burden any of them with my madness? It would only hurt them, and I can tell you now Ser, I am not worth the grief that it would inspire within them."

Jon looked at him defiantly. "Is this really about your family's sake, or are you just afraid of being seen as a madman?"

"What would you know of it?" he snapped. "My family has had to live with this curse for centuries Ser, do you realise how much derision and hatred it has brought to our reign? Do you think that my father's enemies would not use whatever they could to undermine him? It's better for everyone this way."

The old man sat back in his seat, a look of deep disappointment on his face. "I never would have thought I'd see the day when you would have given up so easily."

"You think I wanted this?" he rose to his feet, fuming. He desperately wanted to break something. "You think I wanted any of this? I wanted to be a knight and lord, I wanted to live in this castle with my wife and child and serve the realm, I wanted peace, I wanted happiness!"

"Calm down Aemon-"

"NO!" He roared, knocking all of the books and maps from the table, unable to see through his rage. "No I will not calm down! I will not be called a coward in my own keep! You think you know what it's like? I see her in my dreams every damned night, mocking me, haunting me! Don't talk me about bravery and strength, do you know how difficult it is to drag myself from bed every morning? Do you know how the grief that I carry with me every day! It's a weight on my chest that never leaves!"

By the time he had finally stopped to take a breath Aemon realized that he had been screaming his throat raw and that he had overturned several items in Jon's solar. His head was throbbing and he felt like he could collapse, his hands were trembling. The shame of his outburst struck him like a hammer. How could I have done this? Why did I do this?

"I….I'm sorry," he tried miserably.

Jon stood, perfectly still. His face was a mask. He casually walked around the scattered books and overturned chairs until he was standing right before the prince. "Aemon," he said. "I am perfectly aware of how badly you are doing right now, and you have suffered more than most men your age should have to, but you can't allow your misery to bottle up as it does."

"I'm safe here Jon, no one judges me here." he felt tears rising in his eyes. "Out there, at court they'd just think of me as another Prince Rhaegel or Aerion Brightflame. I can't face that, or my family knowing I'd be shaming them."

The old castellan gently squeezed Aemon's shoulder, his face softened into a fatherly expression. "If you lock yourself away in fear, then you will wake up some day to find that the world has passed you by. Don't give in to it Aemon, please."

"What can I do?"

"At the very least take a few days to rest," he spoke softly, slowly, careful to keep the prince calm. "And then after that I think you should go to Storm's End for a time. There is to be a tourney there soon, mayhaps you could stay with your sister under the guise of wanting to see it. Some time away will do you wonders, you'll see."

Aemon gave a shaky breath, and nodded. "Aye…I think you might be right. I'll need to send a raven of course, to let her know that I'm coming….." he shook his head. "I think for now that I shall retire to mine own study for a time."

Jon bowed low. "As you wish, my prince."

Aemon was stirred from his late night readings by the distant sounds of arguing outside in the courtyard. He rose silently from his desk and padded over to the window of his solar, in the moonlight he could just barely make out the image of several cloaked figures setting on horseback, arguing with the castle's Man-at-arms. Guests? At this hour? That can only be trouble…

With a long yawn he donned a cloak and made his way down to investigate. When the Man-at-arms spotted Aemon he stiffed considerably yet gave a bow nonetheless. Ser Lyonel Tudbury was a big man with a big face, oversized features positively stuffed into the available room on the front of his head. "My prince!" he announced loudly, as if to scare the current cloaked figures on horseback. "You needed have gotten out of bed for such a trivial manner as this, I was-"

"-I wasn't in bed, Ser." He said dismissively before turning towards the cloaked riders, all of them still sitting astride their steads. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

The leader of the group urged his horse forwards just a tad, letting more of the moonlight hit his face. He was a stern-looking type with a long sword at his side that looked like it had seen plenty of action and a grey-stubbled face that looked like it had seen plenty more, eyes narrowed to slits in the shadow of his hood. "I am Myles Allyrion of Godsgrace," his voice held only a trace of the odd Dornish accent, and he looked down at Aemon long and level. Eventually he added a "My Prince."

"And what is a Dornish lord doing this far north?" he asked curiously. "And travelling at this hour?"

Another man dismounted from his horse, allowing his squire to take the reins. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a handsome face and a mass of dark curls. He gave a respectful bow before speaking. "Prince Aemon, I am Franklyn Fowler of Skyreach." he smiled at his own title before gesturing to the others behind him. "These fine fellows are all my travelling companions, an entourage of Dornish lords on our way to the Capitol to answer a summons from your father the good King." His face fell. "We were set upon by bandits on the way here, lost many good men. I know it is most unusual, and that I have come at such an inappropriate time, but I beg your grace to allow us to rest here for the night, at least until it is safe to travel again."

Aemon looked over at the crowd of Dornishmen, there was easily thirty or more of them. So many people coming into my home, by the Gods this will be tiresome. A good host would have to endure their presence, show them every courtesy…but do I really have the strength for that? I hardly have the strength to look my own servants in the eye let alone lords of Dorne. He found that he had started to grind his teeth and made himself stop at once. "The hospitality of Summerhall is yours, my lords. I'll have my servants prepare rooms as befitting your station."

Fowler beamed down at him. "You have the gratitude of Dorne my prince, truly as good and kind as your kingly father."

"Yes, yes," he waved the notion away. "Ser Lyonel here will show you all to the stables, and I'll have some food prepared in the main hall."

The big-headed knight all but groaned his displeasure, but led the entourage away while Aemon stepped back and leant against a nearby post, watching them go by. In the moonlight he could only just see their faces, but one caught his eye; tar-black hair on a strong face with hard bones in it, a fierce line of jaw and a lean neck. Blue eyes, like ice over sea water looked out, certain intelligence to them. Her blue eyes found his purple and winked back at him.

Aemon looked back in disbelief. What have I gotten myself into?