Rhaegar took his mother's hand in his own, trying to ignore the thin red lines he could see peeking from beneath the sleeve of her kirtle. "Pray, do not fret, mother. Shaena is in good hands."
The Queen looked at him with soft damp eyes, doe-like and filled with pain. He looked away in shame, unable to hold her gaze. How could he have? Rhaella's fingers clenched around his hand, her grip tight, had she had any true strength she might have bruised him. Rhaegar allowed her that.
"I should have never allowed her to go riding about," the Queen said, her voice atremble. "What shall your father do to me if she dies, I do not even wish to contemplate."
Neither did he. Which was why Rhaegar prayed she didn't die. "Don't speak like that, mother. Shaena is strong; she always has been. My sister will pull through." He hoped she would, else the King would somehow manage to blame it on all the innocent heads, as he always did.
He heard rather than saw his mother weeping gently. Seated as she was , with her chin falling to her chest, he could not make out more than the top of her silver head. She worried and fretted. That had been her preoccupation for as long as he could remember. Rhaegar could not recall a time when she had been joyful, truly joyful. There was a sorrow about Rhaella Targaryen which followed her wherever she went, shadowing her, hounding her steps.
But for all that, she had made it her mission in life to protect her children. And it was time he returned the favour. Rhaegar would see to it, as soon as possible, that no one would ever harm her again. Yet that was a matter for another time.
Pycelle finally opened the door that led into the antechamber and came out of Shaena's bedchamber. The old maester, bent and frail-looking, stepped into the room with a sort of cloying coyness that Rhaegar found both repulsive and fascinating. He resolved not to make any of his feelings known, however.
"Maester," Rhaella breathed out, "how is my child?" The ever concerned mother would have stood to her feet, had Rhaegar not placed his hands on her shoulder, holding her down.
"The Princess," the old man spoke, slowly, quietly, as if he had been running all about and was just then regaining his breath, "has a high fever, Your Grace." He rocked on his heels, hiding his hand behind his back. "She is, I fear," he stopped to draw in a gulp of air, "beyond my reach."
His mother let out a sharp sound of pain, drawing back into herself like a wounded animal. Rhaegar fixed the maester with a cold look. "What mean you by that? Beyond your reach?"
"I have tried every draught known to man. But the Princess had not a mere chill. It is the sweating sickness." Of course it would be. Half the population of King's Landing had been infected by the plague. "If her fever does not come down by the end of the day, she will expire."
Rhaella emitted another sob. "Nay, not my daughter. Pray save her, maester."
"Your Grace," Pycelle's sickly voice filled his ears, "there is nothing more to be done."
"I want to see her," Rhaegar said suddenly. If Shaena was to go, she would not be alone.
At the pronouncement, Pycelle's face went ashen. "'Tis not possible, Your Grace, she has taken the sweating sickness and is liable to spread the disease. You cannot go in there."
"She is my sister, maester. If I as her brother abandon her, then who else shall be by her side?" He pulled away from his mother who had been trying to hold onto him. "Pray don't worry, mother. If the Stranger comes, I shall send him back empty-handed. He will not have Shaena."
"Oh, my dear child," Rhaella cooed gently. She gave him a tremulous smile. "You do not have to do this. Let me stay by her side. I shall care for her properly."
"Nay, mother. I shall speak to Shaena first. And after, if you wish, I shall leave her in your care." He kissed the top of Rhaella head, trying to impart to her the notion that not all was yet lost. The sweating sickness had claimed lives in great number. But not all who suffered from it had died.
"This is too dangerous," Pycelle sputtered. "What should the King say if he finds out?"
"Nothing, maester, for he shan't find out. And if he does, I will know who to look to." That seemed to quieten the old man. Rhaegar left his mother sitting in her chair and walked towards the door which separated him from Shaena.
If he looked back, he might have second thought. So he didn't. Death was frightening. But all would face the Stranger sooner or later and if it was his time to perish, he would. Rhaegar entered his sister's room as quietly and gently as he could.
The first thing that hit him was the scent. A sickroom held a particular peculiar scent. Shaena's bedchamber was chocked in a sweet smelling mist, heavy to the stomach. The scent burned in his nostrils and down his throat. Rhaegar thought for one moment that he would be sick. There was no air. He looked to the windows to see they had been barred. Dark and oppressive was his sister's cage.
Rhaegar neared her bedside and looked at her. Once lustrous silver-blonde locks clung to her forehead, limp and grimy. Her skin was awashed in sweat and her skin was pale, a sickly, death-like colour. It broke his heart to see her so, Shaena who had been full of life.
"Sister," he called gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her skin burned through the shift. He pulled his hand back instinctively at feeling the hot, damp flesh. "Shaena, can you hear me."
Her eyelids fluttered and she, with great difficultly, opened her eyes. Her lips moved. No sound came though for the first few tries. And then, a small croak broke through, "Rhaegar." She swallowed, her throat working convulsively as if she had choked upon his name. "Rhaegar," she repeated weakly, somehow managing to pull out her hand from under the covers and reach out for him.
Something inside of his roared in fury and frustration. He took her hand in his. "Aye, it's your brother, Rhaegar." It was not fair. It should not have been his sister that caught ill. If anyone deserved such a fate than it was his father. Aerys should have ridden out that day and caught the pestilence. The realm would have thanked him for it. "Would you like some water?" he asked softly, afraid that raising his voice might do her harm.
Shaena managed a nod. Rhaegar left her side momentarily to pour her some water from the pitcher. It was hot as well. Everything in the damnable room was hot, an oppressive heat that sucked every ounce of power out of his sister. Rhaegar helped her drink a few sips. She had barely taken some of it on her lips. A stray droplet slid down her chin. Light lilac eyes burned, shining with fever and pain.
"I don't want to die," she cried out all of a sudden, her slight, emaciated frame turning with such alacrity that Rhaegar had to catch her so she wouldn't end up jumping off the bed. "I don't want to die, Rhaegar. I want to live. I want to visit Highgarden with mother and see the roses in bloom."
"And you shall," he promised. "As soon as you are feeling better, we shall go to Highgarden, all of us. You and me and mother, with Daeron, Aegon, Jaehaerys and Viserys." Thank the Seven father had decided to leave the younger children on Dragonstone. They might have caught the pestilence as well. "You just need to get a little better first. Promise you will, Shaena. Promise not to give up."
"I don't feel well," she moaned, trying to hide herself away beneath the covers. "I'm tired." He shifted positions and she jumped, her feeble clutch on him growing stronger. "Nay, don't leave me. It's dark in here and I don't like the dark. Stay with me."
"I am not going anywhere," Rhaegar assured her. He drew her into his side, resting his frame alongside hers.
They were supposed to have been planning by now. They were supposed to have made alliances. Rhaegar brushed the matted hair from her head, feeling the stringy locks coil around his fingers. He didn't dare comb through it, afraid he might cause Shaena pain. There were so many knots.
"Brother, if I should die–"
"You will not die," he cut her off. "Don't ever say that. You won't die. There is so much to live for." Gods, he hoped she didn't die. "Save your strength, sister mine."
It was nothing short of a miracle. Rhaegar pressed his palm to her forehead to make sure he hadn't dreamt it. Nay, it was true, the fever had gone down. Shaena slept peacefully, her chest rising and falling slowly, her breathing even and a little less shallow.
Rhaegar left her as she was and strode to the door, throwing it open. Those outside gave a start. "Where is Pycelle?" he demanded, paying no attention to that one servant girl who scurried out of his way. Understandably, they all feared for their lives. "Summon the Grand Maester," he told them, turning his back on the after and re-entering the bedchamber.
Without waiting for anything else, Rhaegar unbolted the windows and opened them wide, allowing in the rays of the sun and the first brush of cool, sweet air since he had entered his sister's sickroom. He leaned over, trying to drag into his lungs as much air as he could. The Seven knew he had missed it. Rhaegar turned to look at Shaena. She slept still. Her skin looked rosier in the daylight, her hair not quite so dull and her general appearance much improved.
And he was glad for it.
Pycelle took a long time to arrive and he was much annoyed to see that the confinement had been broken. He muttered something Rhaegar did not care to decipher and approached the bed cautiously. His gnarled fingers touched his sister's forehead. "Aye. aye, this is better. Much better." That he knew too. Rhaegar waited for something more. But Pycelle had no other words. "Your Grace, I must examine Her Grace." He might have insisted, Rhaegar considered, but in the end, it was not something he did.
Had it been him, he thought, he would have liked his privacy. So he left Shaena into the hands of Pycelle and stepped into the antechamber. The Queen, who had been undoubtedly made aware of the situation, came panting through the door. "Rhaegar," she called, running straight to him, wrapping her arms around him. "Is it true? Is my daughter saved?"
"Aye, she lives. I left her with Pycelle." And he should have liked to make for his own bedchamber too, to wash away the reminders of sickness which clung to him. But he could not leave. Not until he heard from Pycelle. As much as the man annoyed him, Rhaegar could not deny that he knew his craft.
And so, like before, he stood by his mother as they waited together. "Has father not returned yet?" he could not help but ask.
"Nay, the hospitality of Lord Bracken must be to his taste. It is wiser of him, you know, not to expose himself." By which one should understand that beside being a coward, he was heartless as well. Rhaegar acknowledged the answer with a small nod. His own daughter could have been dead and he chose to see to his own pleasures.
"There. I think I hear Pycelle coming," his mother said in the next moment.
And so it was. Pycelle, having examined his restored patient, was coming to them to tell of his findings. "Your Grace, my Queen," he bowed stiffly, coughing lightly. "I have done my very best and the Princess shall live." That brought a smile upon his mother's face. Rhaegar, however, could sense that something was not quite right. Pycelle rubbed his hand together. "And while she will live, I am sorry to say she will live without ever producing children. The fever has left her barren."
Rhaella gasped. "Nay, it cannot be. She is to wed Rhaegar. They should rule together."
"Alas, Your Grace, all the signs are there," came the artful mournful reply. "Besides, her illness had left the poor child weak. She has yet to wake up, so I might speak to her, but the damage may not have ended there."
"Buts hew ill live," Rhaegar pointed out. That was the important part.
"Aye, she will," Pycelle agreed. "I shall write to the King, Your Grace," he informed the Queen. "He will be glad to hear Her Grace is better, as he was ever concerned for her."
So concerned, in fact, that he had taken himself off to the gods knew where and had been patiently waiting, to see which fate would be bestowed upon his daughter. "Be certain to express our anxiety to have him back, maester," he could not help but say. "Shaena, most of all, has missed him terribly."
It was all a mummer's farce. Rhaegar had learned his role well enough and Shaena followed her own act adequately. Despite what Pycelle said, his sister had been strong. She would pull through and when the time came, she would rejoin him. If he knew anything about Shaena was that her sweetness was matched only by her shrewdness and stubbornness.
"I wish to see my daughter," the Queen spoke, pushing past the maester. "Rhaegar, you must see to your own rest. If I hear you have not gone straight to your bedchamber, I shall be very cross." Being sent to his rooms like a child might have not sat well with him at another time. As it was, he accepted his mother's concern.
And he was tired besides. What good would it serve to be running around when he was dead on his feet? "I shall see you soon, mother," he told her just before she entered Shaena's bedchamber.
His own rooms were waiting for him as he had left them. Rhaegar eyes the harp near the window. His fingers flexed. He would not play. After Shaena woke up, he promised to himself. He would play for her. Rhaegar sat down on the edge of the bed, stripping away his garments. He was more than certain they would have to be burned.
But, too weary to concern himself with anything other than sleep, he found his way under the covers, hid his face from the sun and slowly fell into a deep slumber.
"Look at her," the King growled, his thin, long-nailed finger pointing at the girl seated on the bed. "The fever has made her dumb." His words, however, did not seem to reach his child. Shaena was staring with something akin to wonder at the sunrays which played upon the wooden floors. "Gods be good. It would have been better had she dies. Barren and dumb," he hissed.
"Father, she can hear you," Rhaegar tried to intervene. "Shaena merely needs some time to came back to herself. The sickness took its toll on her." The fever had left her so weak. It was little wonder that a few days of relative health failed to restore her.
"Don't act smart with me, boy," his father snapped. "I know better than you. And I say she is useless. There, you see. She watches the sun," he sneered. "Why have the gods cursed me?"
It was all too well that Shaena seemingly did not understand. Rhaegar hoped she never retained a memory of it when she was better. Shaena cared, she always had, and even the words of a madman would cause her pain.
"We should leave her for now, to rest some more," Pycelle suggested.
The King was only too pleased to be taken away from his daughter. He was not entirely certain her illness had passed and the news that she was barren had obliterated any trace of interest he might have otherwise possessed. What good was a woman with a broken womb? No man in his right mind would wed her. She would forever be a burden upon her family. That line of thinking Rhaegar was familiar with. Barren women had few choices before them. Well, he would see to it that Shaena had her pick of choices.
His mother placed a hand upon his arm. "Pray do not look so cross. The King is not himself; the news has shaken him." Were he shaken to his death, Rhaegar though unhappily. His mother sat down next to Shaena and pressed a kiss to lively silver-blonde curls. "Do you like it, Shaena, the light of the sun? Shall I take you to the gardens soon?"
The chill has started to thaw and Rhaegar rather thought it would be summer soon. He looked at Shaena. It was impossible that the gods had saved her only to leave her a mindless creature in the process. She would be well, he told himself. She had to be. Perhaps once summer had come.
"You will not depart with the responsibility of caring for her, will you, my son?" his mother asked. "It shan't be as we planned. But she is still yours to care for."
What they had planned for. Rhaegar did not dare reveal the plans he and Shaena had made. It was best not to. He nodded to his mother's request. "She is my sister, no matter what."
"That is why I love you so, Rhaegar," Rhaella spoke gently, still holding her daughter to her.