The Gods Are Cruel
"Go get some rest," he growled suddenly.
"I'm fine my lord, rea-" she started.
"I will not tell you again woman. Go," he all but snarled. It was not a request.
Selyse crept out of the room at his command with a slight, grateful tilt of her head. She was exhausted, and in a state like that he didn't trust her to do her duty. His eyes slid to the Maester and he held his gaze steadily for a moment, then turned away. Cressen knew his lords moods better then the Lady Selyse, and he hastened to the door without hesitation. For that, Stannis was grateful.
When the room was empty he went to the ornate cradle. It was one that Renly had used as a baby. It was painted yellow and black, with stags carved into its sides. The wooden sides were in the likeness of vines. It was a pretty thing, but what it held inside was anything but.
Renly had been much bigger...and healthier. His own daughter seemed dwarfed in comparison, although Cressen had assured him that there was nothing wrong with her, and that she was just small.
That had been only a month ago. That had been before the greyscale.
The girl stirred in her fever and let out a pitiful sounding noise, but she did not cry. That was a blessing, if there were any. She hardly ever cried. Only the small mewling noise, much like a kitten, told them that she was uncomfortable and in need of something.
She needed something now, but he was unable to give it to her. Rest. Good health. Comfort. A warm, dry climate. The love she deserved.
His brows drew together in a scowl that had grown more comfortable for him than any smile ever had. The girl made that small whimper again and he ground his teeth together for a moment, then slowly, as if afraid to break her, he picked her up.
She weighed hardly anything, and went still when he moved her. Her eyes flickered half open and she looked up at him, as if expecting something. He held her awkwardly in his arms, as he had few times since she was born. Fatherhood was not something that came to him easily.
Probably for the first time since her birth, he really looked at her. Even as small as she was, he could tell that she had her mother's unfortunate ears. She had black hair, like his, although it was only a small tuft on her head, and fine as silk thread. Her eyes belong to him as well, though even feverish as they were, they were not as hard or unforgiving. The girl had yet to be tainted by anything but the greyscale on her cheek.
Her name is Shireen. You should call her by it. A part of him nagged, but he found it difficult to do. Maester Cressen had informed him that most children who caught greyscale survived it, and that the girl would most likely pull through. Stannis doubted it. He hoped for the best, but expected the worst. It was the way he had started to go through life. It led to less disappointments, and a more realistic expectation of the world.
He half turned when he heard a knock on the door, and instantly his irritation rose. There were never ending droves of people who sought him out night or day, to offer their condolences on his daughters sickness...as if she had died already. He was tired of dealing with them.
"Go away," he snapped, but the door opened anyway. Another angry retort was half formed, but died on his lips as he saw Ser Davos enter the room.
"Sorry to disturb you my lord, but Maester Cressen said you might feel more comfortable with another helping hand in the room," Davos shut the door behind him and regarded his lord with an even gaze.
"Even that old fool thinks I can't look after my own daughter," Stannis spat in irritation, but Davos only shrugged and came to his side, and looked down at baby in his arms.
"Well, no doubting your abilities my lord, but you don't look at ease," Davos gave a small grin and Stannis sighed.
"I hear the gods blessed you with another son, Ser Davos," Stannis acknowledged, though he didn't look at the Onion Knight. Davos nodded.
"Aye, little Stannis was born a few months after yours, my lord," Davos swelled visibly with pride.
"The gods see fit to give you nothing but," Stannis stiffened as he looked at his daughter.
"The Lady Selyse may have sons yet my lord," Davos assured him kindly, but Stannis waved a hand in dismissal of the statement.
"She is barren, Davos. I know it. She knows it. Cressen knows it," he felt tired suddenly and put his daughter gently back into her crib. She looked more restful then before, but the dead, grey skin on her face looked painful and terrible.
His gaze returned to Davos, who at least had the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable.
"It matters not Davos, I am the second son to a King with an heir. Renly has been given Storm's End, and it will only be a matter of time before he weds and has boys of his own. I am the lord of a dead rock in the sea. If she lives, she will inherit Dragonstone. If not, I'm sure my brother will give it to some other, deserving lord," he was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. The slight was still fresh in his mind, and he supposed it always would be.
"She will live, my lord," Davos assured him, choosing to ignore his pessimism of his current situation. Stannis looked back down at the girl...Shireen...and nodded.
"Yes. She will live. The gods are cruel, and it would be an unusual kindness for them to let the greyscale take her. Instead she will live, with a permanent reminder of her sickness etched on her face. What lordling will want to take her for a wife, Davos? What man would accept a woman that may still carry the sickness in her blood? Who would risk marriage for that?" his brow furrowed again as he stared at the mark on her tiny cheek.
"Not many, but still, there may be some. You cannot rule it out my lord," Davos assured him, placing one hand on his shoulder. Stannis felt the warmth from his hand through his doublet...and also the cold absence of the missing finger joints. He was not sure what he had done to earn Ser Davos's utter loyalty, but was grateful for it nonetheless. There was more warmth in the maimed hand of a retired smuggler than in the whole being of his lady wife.
"I wish to be alone Ser Davos," he decided suddenly and the hand was withdrawn from his shoulder.
"My lord," Davos gave a curt dismissal, and left him alone with his daughter.
Stannis looked back down at the small form in the crib. To his surprise she was looking at him, as if she expected things from him. The guilt washed over him suddenly and powerfully and he sighed.
"You would have done better to have a father like Davos, child," he whispered. Even if Davos was given nothing but girls, he would have loved them all just as fiercely as he loved his boys. There was nothing for it, she was his and he was her father. He had a duty to her to be the best father he could be, even though he did not know where to begin.
She started to make that small mewling sound again at the sound of his voice, and started to fuss.
"The gods cursed me with brothers, a daughter, and no idea how to deal with any of it," he reached into the crib and picked her up again, cradling her in the nook of one arm. He wrapped the blanket around her a bit tighter, to keep the warmth in and she settled against him.
Stannis took a seat in one of the high backed chairs and gazed at his sick daughter. To his surprise she had fallen asleep in his arms. With one long finger he lightly brushed along the greyscale. It was hard and cold to the touch, as if he were touching one of the stone gargoyles that lined Dragonstone. She didn't even feel it, he was certain. The Maester had told him to not come in contact with the dead skin...that he could catch it and everyone knew that greyscale in adults was a death warrant. He didn't care. This was his daughter, and he was not going to be afraid to touch an infant.
He reached up with one hand and lightly stroked the fine hair on her head. The skin beneath his touch was no longer warm. The fever had broken, at last, after two weeks of illness. Shireen slept soundly in his arms, the hardest part of her sickness coming to an end. Stannis found that he was suddenly didn't care if the gods were cruel or not, he had a duty to his daughter and he would do the best he could.
"Shireen Baratheon," he whispered to the small child, as he accepted that she was not the son he wanted, but the daughter he deserved.