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A Dragon Expendable

Baelor

"Spring is coming," Baelor said absent-mindedly when his father entered the solar he had been waiting him in.

Daeron looked at him with surprise. "It is?"

Startled, Baelor realized that the question was a serious one. In the gloomy magnificence of the Red Keep, one could easily lose sight on what was happening inside. Daeron hardly ever left it unless his presence was required for matters of state and when he did, he barely paid attention to his surroundings. "Yes," Baelor said. "It is. Actually, Rhae made me promise that tonight, I'd look for the first snowdrop around here."

Daeron bit back a smile. Baelor looked confused, like a man who didn't know how he had found himself in his current predicament. While he had gotten along with Daenerys splendidly most of the time while growing up, he had had no experience with little girls since he had become a man grown and his susceptibility to his nieces' charm could still surprise him. It felt comforting to Daeron to know that he wasn't the only one his granddaughters could sway into anything. Less foolish.

"How is Mother?" Baelor asked, his levity gone.

Daeron sighed. "There's been no change. You'll visit her tonight, I expect?"

"Of course I will." Baelor paused. "So, what did you call me for?"

Daeron took a seat at the table and started aligning the books he had left all over the shining dark surface, postponing the moment of truth for as long as he could. "I intend to send Aemon to the Citadel," he finally said and looked at his son expectantly.

Baelor smiled. "He'll be thrilled. You couldn't come up with a better nameday present."

The words tugged at Daeron's heart with a new sharp pain. A long time ago, when he had been Aemon's age, he had dreamed of visiting the Citadel and spent some time there. Would he have been happy as a maester? Some aspects of such a life of learning and using his knowledge for good purposes did hold a certain appeal and yet he wouldn't trade Mariah and his family with her for the fate of a maester. "You didn't get my meaning, Baelor," he said. "I am not sending him there on a visit. I intend to give him over to the maesters. Have him become one."

Baelor flinched but regained control almost immediately. Daeron sighed and poured some wine for both of them. Baelor's eyes widened when his father drained his goblet at once. He took a sip of his own wine. "Why?" he finally asked.

"You know why," Daeron replied.

Baelor shook his head. "No, not that. Why now? Is it really so important to do it in such a hurry?" Or do it at all, he wanted to ask. As far as he was concerned, Aemon was a nephew he'd rather keep. Now, it they could pack Aerion off for somewhere instead…

"Yes, it is," the King replied, rising from his seat to go to the window. "Either I will do it now, or you'll have to do it later."

The thought of finding himself saddled with such a duty was repulsive to Baelor but he could see where his father was coming from. To his shame, he felt profoundly grateful that Daeron was saving him the potential making of such a decision, telling Aemon that he'd decided that he was expendable, his future sacrificed, suffering the inevitable problems with Maekar… And still, and still… Out of all the young dragons, Aemon was the least likely one to cause any trouble of the kind they feared. But then, I never thought that Daemon would do anything to undermine Father's throne either, Baelor remembered. Maybe he just wasn't very good at predicting how people he cared for would turn out. Surely removing a potential threat out of his own sons' way should be a good thing? It didn't feel like it. Even his relief had a shameful tinge to it. "But we cannot afford any more grave mistakes," he finished aloud and Daeron nodded.

"He won't feel this bad there," Baelor said, not quite certain that this would be the case. "He's the brightest among them all. He thirsts for knowledge. He's a bright boy and I remember he could write decent stories to amuse the girls when he was five."

All of a sudden, Daeron smiled wickedly. "Here," he said. "I want to show you something."

He went to a cabinet and started leafing through the meticulously sorted documents. With years, he had amassed quite the number of cherished parchments and now he gave one to Baelor who looked at him, bewildered, but started reading anyway. His bewilderment grew. This was clearly some kind of list, written by a small child decades ago. Dont talk to me as if I am stupid I andastant everyting. I know you want to sing but I just want to sleep. Give me my shuus I can put dem on myself. Cant I go araund stripped? Cloting is irksam. Dont pull your hair ander the cap. Give it to me. I wont eat bread in milk. I want a blad orange. Barefut. Yes. I wil not safer shoos. Whai dont you sleep when I sleep? You shud rest because soon you wont have the chance. Whai is Baelor allowed to climb the settees and I am not? Ah itll be lovely if you liiv us alon more ofan he helps me do da tings he does.

"What's this?" Baelor asked. "Who wrote this? It must be very old, it's so yellow and faded."

Daeron smiled again, the wicked sparkle in his eyes still dancing. "You did," he said. "That was the limit of your writing abilities when you were five."

For a moment, Baelor looked unsure whether he was being jested with. "You mean that I started off like this and now I can write a decent letter that people can understand?" he asked and when his father nodded, he laughed. "That's quite the progress!" he said. "What was this anyway? If I could write this half-coherently, I must have been old enough to express those sentiments in an articulate way."

"You were," Daeron confirmed. "But Maekar was not yet a year old. He had just started becoming interesting to you. You were trying to help his new nursemaid. Poor girl was scared out of her wits that your mother would send her away, he was rejecting her so hard. Pity that she couldn't read."

Baelor laughed again, remembering that once his brother had started making sentences, he had made the same claim Baelor had ascribed to him – that being alone with Baelor was a good thing because he helped him do grown up things. Yes, there had been times when Maekar had been amusing, even if it had been unintentionally.

"Aemon is quite gifted indeed," he said softly a while later, trying to remember when his own sons had started crafting coherent written texts. They had been six or eight year old. At least that. "And he's a very nice boy."

That was exactly the wrong thing to say since his father's face closed. Baelor had long suspected that out of all Daeron's grandchildren, Aemon was his secret favourite – the first who was born after the blood and madness of Daemon's rebellion, the one who was most like him. Once again, his hatred for Daemon rose. It felt weird because he had not hated him even as he warred with him. Hatred had come much later when he had started realizing how hard the healing of the wounds the vainglorious fool had inflicted would be. When kindness had once been met with a stab in the back, it was almost impossible for the survivors to not entertain this ugly thought that ambitions and greed might take their toll once again.

"Are you well?" Daeron asked sharply. "You are terribly pale."

"Yes," Baelor lied. "Yes, I am."

He wasn't. He could see that sending the boy away would lead to more heartache and hostility within the family. Daemon had won in more than one way.

"Do you think I am right in doing this?" the King finally asked.

It isn't up to me, Baelor told himself. I am not the one doing it. He has made his mind already. Whatever I say, it won't change his decision. "Yes," he said because it was the truth.

But truth still tasted like ashes.