A huge thanks to emmiemac and Oberon Sexton for reviewing.

The Great Death

Chapter 2

Sometimes, the disease abated and everyone clung to hope. But it never stopped. It lost some of its strength in one quarter, only to strike another with renewed malice. In the city, the King's measures were applied with ruthlessness that no one had ever imagined Daeron Targaryen being capable of. People who had hidden the fact that their kin was sick or diseased were executed. Not like brigands – like soldiers, with swords, and that was the King's mercy for them. Houses were burned or had doors and windows walled up. The authorities started taking the sick ones to huge warehouses or other administrative building that were big enough. No one could go through the city gates in either direction.

And still the disease did not stop. People secretly took their belongings elsewhere to keep them – golden plates, treasured heirlooms, women's trousseau. The plague traveled from quarter to quarter. Families and kin died together, all at once. Mothers lost a few children in a single day; old people lost all their offspring in a week. It was truly a disaster that had ever been seen before. The buildings where the sick were carried soon overflew; the bodies were too many to bury with any kind of rites.

"We can't leave them lying there," the King said at one of the meeting of the Council. "We'll be just spreading the disease further… and faster."

No one disagreed; the Master of Coin rose and went to close the windows to block the stench which was reaching them all the way up to the top of Aegon's Hill, although their own dead were buried instantly.

"We need to… just dug them in, I suppose," Maekar said reluctantly.

That was the thought dwelling in everyone's mind but it was so horrendous that once hearing it spoken aloud, they all felt compelled to protest. "No rites? Sending them to the Stranger without even alerting him that they are coming?"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard laughed, not quite merrily. "I'd think that unless the Stranger is blind and deaf, he's already aware of so many people coming to him."

"The septons…" the King's Hand insisted.

"What?" Prince Maekar asked, well and truly surprised. "You mean that there are surviving septons who will have the time to raise objections? Well, they'd better not meddle if they know what's good for them."

A brief silence followed. And then, "It isn't just septons. People themselves won't stand for it. The faith in the Seven and the observation of rites is strong among some, especially in times of crisis."

That was something neither the King nor Maekar had thought about. But once they heard it, it made sense to them.

Not to Aemon.

"Do you really think people won't accept it, Grand Maester?" he asked, his eyes wide and disbelieving. For the last few weeks, he had become a fixture in the chamber and no one thought to question his presence. "It's for their own good, after all…"

"We are talking about the same people who, despite everything, keep moving their things around and the plague with them," his father said, angry that he hadn't been the one to think about that. "So yes, I suppose they won't accept it. We'll have to force them into it despite their fears that their kin will go straight to the seven hells and we'll anger the gods even further by neglecting the rites."

Bloodraven shook his head. "This will set them aflame. They simply won't let us do it, Your Grace."

"Who isn't going to allow it?" Maekar demanded. "My father is the only one whose permissions matters here."

"Yes, while he's King of Westeros."

In the blink of an eye, Maekar had his sword drawn out. He seemed to be barely containing himself from attacking the sorcerer. "How can you doubt that my father will stay King of Westeros?" His knuckles were white against the hilt. "You dare insinuate…"

"For the Seven's sake, Maekar, do take this sword back in," Daeron said, irritated. "Or I'll have to have you restrained and I'd rather avoid it."

Maekar looked down and seemed surprised to see the sword out of the sheath.

"His Grace does have many enemies." Bloodraven was looking straight at Maekar, as if the sword was not there at all. "Until now, I didn't think you were one of them."

This was the thing that really set Maekar off. He slammed the sword back in place and headed for Bloodraven with the obvious intent to settle the matter in a different manner. The Master of Whisperers just crossed his arms over his chest, quite unimpressed.

"If the two of you are planning to make me feel guilty at watching your bruised faces in the morning," the King said icily, "you are very wrong because I don't intend to pay attention to your little fist practice."

That made them come to themselves. Maekar returned to his chair. Bloodraven sighed. "I am only saying it as it is," he said. "Those who are losing everything will turn restive and in their despair might seek revenge from the King. Every day, there are new riots in the streets. We'll have to bury the dead under the protection of guard, otherwise…" He didn't finish but everyone understood him just fine.

Servants brought cool wine and the discussion went back to the matter of how and where they were going to bury the dead.

"I don't understand," Aemon said later when he followed the King to his chambers after the end of the meeting. "Why are Father and Lord Rivers arguing constantly? It isn't as if they are on different sides…"

Daeron sliced an apple and gave it to the boy. "Because they are both men of action who hate feeling helpless," he said. "And they never got along in the best of times, let alone the worst."

That was one of the effects of the plague – that it created animosity within one's own ranks. It was a smaller effect, to be sure, but a very real one. But Aemon couldn't understand it yet – for all his makings and extraordinary wisdom, he was still a child. There were some things that came with experience.

Aemon offered his grandfather a slice of the apple and Daeron took it.

"I hear that there are some wealthy sick people pay the maesters to attend them at home, instead of sending them to the hospitals," the boy said.

Almost a third of the houses in King's Landing were now hospitals.

The King nodded. "I heard about that, too," he said. "These maesters will be punished as accomplices."

Aemon busied himself with lighting the candles in the room. "Do you think Uncle Baelor would have approved?" he asked without turning back. "He was always ready to show mercy."

The King didn't answer at once, not because he was hesitant in his reply but because very few dared mention Baelor in front of him. It was as if he had never existed, that there had never been a Prince of Dragonstone, a Hand of the King named Baelor. He was surprised at how easily he faced this sudden mentioning. He hadn't realized how desperately he had needed to hear someone admitting that Baelor had lived. "Yes," he said. "I think your uncle would have approved. He knew that sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good. He showed mercy, yes, but he never did it when it would have doomed countless others."

Aemon considered this, his forehead creased. The hardness of his father vied with the tender heart of his mother. Daeron watched the conflict with interest and sympathy.

Finally, Aemon grew tired of trying to decide which was right. He sat down and looked at the King. "Your Grace?" he asked, suddenly uncertain once again.

Daeron closed his eyes, weary of alleviating everyone's uncertainties. Really, the boy might have gone to pester his father instead. Not really, though: right now, Maekar had gone in the street again. There were rumours about problems with the Golden Cloaks, of all things…

"You never seem to blame my father. For what happened to Uncle Baelor…"

Gods, but the boy was bold. No one had ever dared speak to Daeron's face about the tragedy that had befallen them all of a sudden. This was a different kind of courage, a different kind of dragon but a dragon no less. With a jolt that sent him sitting a little bit straighter, the King recognized himself. Daeron, as he had been fifty years ago…

"And what would blaming him change?" he asked. "What would you have me do? He's my son as well. I already lost one. No matter what we do, nothing can bring Baelor back. It was a mishap, I have no doubt." He paused. "He won't hear a word of accusation from me. He'll hear enough of those from others. Till his dying day."

Which might be closer than expected. Daeron shuddered.

The city was agitated. Children screamed at night, scared by the horrifying tales they heard during the day. No one dared leave their houses or even look through the door, except for going to the septs to pray and promise all they had in exchange for being spared. There were not enough graves and gravediggers had no time to bury each body separately, so they threw them in shared ditches. But there weren't enough gravediggers either – those who didn't die ran away. Even the tripled wage could not move them. So, the King's Hand started emptying the dungeons, promising murderers and brigands pardon if they undertook the dangerous task.

Despite the general air of fear, there were always those who preached and encouraged discontent. Wherever someone from the Red Keep moved through the city on their own, they considered themselves lucky if they escaped with their skins intact.

"Open the gates!" a young disheveled woman cried and threw herself against the guards who closed their ranks around Maekar's horse.

He had long ago given up on arguing and explaining why the gates should stay closed. And yet there were always those who crowded him and shouted for justice and mercy from the King, as if this blasted sickness was something arranged by the people on the Red Keep specifically for tormenting them. He felt horror each time he glimpsed the remains of burned out houses, yet he was furious at those who unknowingly helped spreading the disease by not observing the new rules. Pity and anger, horror and revulsion – he didn't know which ones were stronger.

Something hit him in the arm – because he refused to be cowered into going out fully armoured. Some shards of glass. He removed those of them he could see and looked straight forward, unwilling to confront the sight of those who held their children up to him and started howling like animals in their despair. Is this how you think to soften my heart? he raged inwardly. Have you really forgotten that beside your children, my own children are in this cursed city!

''What happened?" Daeron asked as soon as Maekar entered to give his report. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing," Maekar said and looked at his arm. Now he saw a shard of glass that he hadn't noticed before. "Just a shard of glass."

The King came near and removed it. "You must see a maester," he said.

"What for?" Maekar asked, surprised. "Oh this. It's nothing."

"It isn't. A maester should clean the wound and dress it. You were always quite careless about these things but I insist. I've seen how such tiny pieces can poison one's blood. I've seen people dying…" He broke off and stared at Maekar at a loss of words.

Because Maekar was laughing. He was laughing so hard that he couldn't quite manage a word. "Father, you can't…" he said and kept laughing.

"It isn't funny," the King spat.

"Father, if I die, it'll be from the plague, not a shard of glass." Maekar had regained control over his voice but not his laughter. "The Seven help me, this plague might just pass me over!"

Daeron kept staring at him for a while and then started laughing himself. "A shard of glass. I am sorry, I didn't mean to sound… A shard of glass. Gods, a tiny piece of glass…"

"It isn't funny at all," Maekar said, now shaking with laughter. "Why can't I stop?"

"Because you're at the end of your endurance," Daeron explained helpfully. Maekar knew his father was right and somehow, that only made it funnier. By the look of him, Daeron was feeling the same.

Their laughter was suddenly interrupted by a pale-faced servant who rushed in to tell them that Prince Valarr was at his deathbed.