I know, I know, it's been, like, half a year… Still, I'm here with a new chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and everyone who didn't get scared of the long delay enough NOT to read.

A Dragon Expendable

Aemon

"You're scared, aren't you?"

Mariah's sharp perception surprised him – not because she wasn't a keen observer, especially where he was concerned but because she had spent the last hour or two reclining with her eyes half-closed. She had barely looked at him, so how did she know?

"I am not," he lied. "Why should I be?"

She raised an eyebrow but a spell of dry coughing stopped her reply. Daeron rushed to her side and steadied her as her soul was trying to escape with the blood spray coming out of her lips.

It was a long fit, longer than the last one, for they were all growing longer and more severe. Was this how the end would come? Once, a long time ago, Daeron had hoped for a cure, or the Seven's blessing, or actually anything that could restore her to health. Now, he only hoped for a painless passing – but not yet. Not yet.

Finally, she wiped her lips but when he offered her a cup of cool tea, she shook her head. She had told him, once, that sometimes the taste of blood stayed in her mouth for too long and she felt queasy when introducing it further in by drinking anything.

For a long moment, she clung to him. She did not want to let go, she never had – but when she did, her eyes were as harsh as they had been before. "Because Maekar won't do it for you, you know."

Daeron blushed. It was true, he was hoping that Maekar would make the explanations – and Mariah was wrong about their youngest as often as Daeron himself was. Perhaps now, it would be one of those times when she'd be wrong and he'd be right. How could he go through it if he had to do it himself?

She was staring at him expectantly. "Can you really do it?" she asked. "Look him in the eye and tell him that you're sending him away forever for no better reason than your own demons? Can you? He's quite smart, for a seven-year-old but is he smart enough to understand that it has nothing to do with him?"

"Be silent!" he snapped because she was reaching straight to his heart and tearing it apart. She was doing it on purpose, too.

Mariah was about to keep pushing and perhaps, one of those days she'd break through his defences. But her voice betrayed her once again and as she lay down trying to inhale without panting, Baelor entered without much ceremony.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, taking her hand.

She smiled weakly. "Better," she said and he pretended to believe the lie. They had all become so good in pretending. As she always did with her visitors, she looked again to make sure that his chair was not close enough for him to inhale her own breath by accident. Sure, he was a man with a very strong constitution but why invite the risk?

"Is it raining?" she asked, noticing his soaked clothes. His hair was clinging to his skull.

He nodded and for a moment, all three of them stayed silent. Then, Baelor rose to bring her another blanket as Daeron flung the shutters quite open so she could hear the soft pattering, see the sky's tears. Rain was a precious thing to Mariah, for it brought life to a land that was so very dry. Rain meant nurturing crops, feeding rivers, easing breath in the swelter. Rain was life itself.

A moment later, Baelor followed his father to the window. "Aemon is coming," he said in a low voice. "I saw him on my way here. Are you going to tell him now?"

Daeron nodded unhappily.

"I hope you find the right words," Mariah said coldly. "If those exist at all. Go now. I don't want to see you."

How had she heard? Daeron headed for the door and Baelor followed but Mariah stopped him. "You may stay. It wasn't your cursed idea in the first place."

Baelor stopped immediately, a rather cowardly part of him secretly glad his mother didn't know that he considered the decision a right one. No matter the strong resemblance in their looks, there were things in which they differed greatly.

At the door, Daeron looked back but neither was looking at him. Mariah had closed her eyes. In the candlelight, her face showed agony and Daeron hated himself for putting it there. Baelor was staring out into the curtain of rain sweeping all over the vast expanse of King's Landing. Their mother did give them her love for rains, Daeron thought. Forever.

Aemon was already in the King's solar, a book was open at the table, and he was studying a small dragon glass statuette. One of the first things Daeron had done after taking the throne had been banishing a good deal of Aegon's dragon furniture to make room for something else. The figure Aemon was now holding showed a woman dancing in the fire. The tiny item was crafted so artfully that even the disturbing mixture of agony and ecstasy on her face was depicted.

"Do you like it?" Daeron asked and his grandson turned.

"The sculptor must have been a very good one," the boy replied and Daeron saw that the book open on the table was one of the art of sculpturing. Aemon did have a wide range of interests indeed.

"Why are we here?" Aemon asked and there was confusion in his deep purple eyes. Lately, the children had been seeing their grandfather in Mariah's rooms only.

Daeron sighed and felt his determination go down, his mood growing as dark as the blackness outside. He'd better get this over, instead of postponing, confusing Aemon, prolonging the torture for both of them.

"Have a seat," he said. "We need to talk."

He always spoke to Aemon as if the boy was a grown up but he felt a pang when he saw his grandson's expression change to caution and foreboding. Aemon went to his usual seat left to Daeron's chair but he clearly felt uncomfortable – for the very first time since they had placed the newborn in Daeron's arms. This light after the darkness of Daemon's rebellion, this tiny life, this hope that Daeron had to severe now with his own hands.

There was a bowl of raisins on the table but Aemon didn't reach for it. He was waiting, his uneasiness growing.

"What do you know about the Citadel?" Daeron finally asked.

Aemon gave him a look of such surprise that Daeron felt stupid. Of course Aemon knew much about it. He was still beating around the bush. "You know that maesters are the smartest people in Westeros. Would you like to live there?"

The joy in Aemon's eyes was instant – and its fading was just as instant. Daeron wouldn't be so somber if he was making him the gift of sending him there just for a while. "Live there?" he finally whispered. "Like… forever?"

"No! You'll still come back from time to time… often…"

"But then, I'll have to go back there, won't I?"

Daeron nodded. "One day, you'll become a maester and I think you'll be the best one the Citadel will have. You're already smarter than most boys of ten."

Thankfully, Aemon was too young to truly know what Daeron was depriving him of. He just looked at him, not understanding.

Daeron bit his lip, desperate to make it right. "That's much like what most boys of high birth must do when they're just a little older than you," he said. "Only we Targaryens keep our sons with us."

"Yes," Aemon said, "I've heard…" And then, something else occurred to him and his eyes went dark with horror. "But I won't be a Targaryen anymore, will I? That's what maesters do when they take their vows. I…"

He didn't finish. At this moment, Daeron wished the child wasn't so smart, so well-read. He could say it wasn't true but Aemon would know the lie. "Those are only words," he said. "And words are wind. You're of our blood, that's all that matters. I…"

"Are you doing this because of the practice yard?" Aemon suddenly asked, his eyes trained down on the table. His voice came out choked. "Because I'm useless and I'll never be a warrior?"

It was getting more terrible by the minute. Of course the child would have noticed his tutors' disappointment, although he'd never let it show. The whispers, the pitying looks at court – now, Daeron remembered those all too clearly those from his own childhood. Had he chosen to forget how anxious and uneasy those could make a child, even one as smart as Aemon? How deeply they could undermine his confidence?

"When I was your age," he said softly, "I was the same as you. It has nothing to do with the practice yard, Aemon. You must believe me."

He almost added that Aemon would when he would be a man – and it was true. At least he hoped so, he had to. But it would sound condescending. The whole exchange was going the worst way possible. "There are many ways to be of use," he said softly, "and the training yard isn't yours or mine. You'll make a good maester, Aemon. I believe that. I also believe it'll be a good fit for you. You'll see."

The boy nodded without looking at him. "Thank you, Grandfather," he said. "A good maester… thank you. May I go now?"

"Yes."

Despite Aemon's steady voice, Daeron had noticed that his fingers had gone white gripping the edge of the table. He was trying so hard to be brave but his face was set in a mask that would not last long. Daeron only hoped it would hold on until Aemon reached a safe place.

The boy rose and bowed as he would at any other time. The closing of the door was as soft as ever, although Daeron noticed that he didn't return the Kingsguard's greeting.

The dragon glass statuette flew through the solar and broke the colour glass of the window, making a great noise and a storm of coloured shards, and yet it brought Daeron no peace.

The End