Thank you, Oberon Sexton and emmiemac, for keeping me inspired.

The Great Death

Chapter 4

Rhae's room was empty, her bed still unmade. It was past midnight and on the light of the torch he carried the King saw that she had obviously lain in the bed before getting out. The bedchamber was dimly lit by a few candelabra and Daeron sighed, shaking his head. His granddaughter had been accustomed to sleeping in darkness long ago but now, like all children in King's Landing, she was scared of what she heard when she was awake, so she had gone back to the protection of light in her sleep. The door to the adjoining bedchamber was slightly ajar but Daeron didn't go in. Instead, he went back to the hallway and opened the main door. And sure, there they were, the candles here burning low but casting soft glow over the sleeping forms of the two girls in the bed. Rhae's silvery locks blended with Daella's newly cut dark hair.

For a while, Daeron stood on the threshold. Quarantine was of no use now and still he couldn't quite bring himself to entering. For a while, he just stared at the girls, trying to imagine what they would be like when they grew up. He was more worried about Daella – she had inherited her mother's kindness, the kindness that consumed her to an extent that didn't leave room for some healthy self-preservation. He still remembered the first years after Maekar wed Naeryne, his fear that this overwhelming kindness would bring out his son's worst instincts that Naeryne would not even try to protect herself from, thus making Maekar even angrier and lashing out at her… Fortunately, that hadn't happened but who was to say that Daella would have the same luck with her own husband? Being too good was dangerous. He had no such qualms about Rhae. He just hoped their lives would turn out happier than their parents'.

He shook his head. He was getting sentimental. Happiness had never been his priority. Not for himself. Not for his own children when, long ago, he had shaped their paths. Happiness? It's a tale for children! We're talking about responsibilities here. Whom exactly had he said that to? Did it matter? At one moment or another, he had made that painfully clear to all of them.

But he was old now. His journey was over. Surely he was entitled to some sentiment now?

He didn't know how long he had stayed like this. The girls did not stir. He wanted to go in, to run a hand over their heads but he did not dare.

Four doors away, Aemon stood at the window, looking at the city absently. Daeron stepped at the other end of the window and stared down. Immediately, he felt the shudder that never left him nowadays when he looked at King's Landing at night. In all his years, he had never seen his city so dark. Thousands of houses had been burnt down and only the Seven knew how many they would have to burn the next days; those who were intact huddled against the burned earth, their inhabitants too scared to even light a candle, as if that would show the sickness where they lived. Only the septs were brightly lit, as well as the tiny silhouettes scrambling in and out of them. Praying to the Stranger, begging for his mercy to them and their loved ones who had died… Daeron also prayed, for this nightmare to end. Yes, because the Stranger will so listen to you, Myriah would have snapped in helpless anger born by fear. This deafened dotard! In the middle of this crisis, he missed her more than ever since those first weeks after her death, the weeks of bleak disbelief that he had lost his companion in life since he was sixteen.

Aemon turned to look at his grandfather and his eyes immediately turned somber. He went all around the city, helping maesters care for hundreds of sick; maybe he saw some sign – too bright eyes, too high colour, a little more perspiration than what should have been – for the end that Daeron had started feeling edging closer a few hours ago?

"I am sorry," Daeron suddenly said. When he had packed off his grandson for the Citadel, he had never imagined that it included sending him in the midst of a plague with severity never known in Westeros.

"I am not," Aemon replied. Had he understood what the King meant? Or had he taken his words to mean something entirely else altogether? Either way, his reply felt reassuring to Daeron who was too tired for dealing with anything remotely unpleasant already, so he didn't delve further.

Aemon brought him a goblet of cold water. Daeron drank thirstily. "You'll take care of your father, won't you?" he asked.

The boy nodded. "I'll try," he said, looking unsurprised at this change of topic. "I am not very good at it, though."

Daeron stared down at the torches at the walls of the Red Keep. "It's okay," he said. "I… I am not very good at it either. And the Seven know how bad he is at being taken care of."

Aemon laughed. His grandfather's dry wit always pleased him. "I'll miss you," he said simply, bringing a little flame of warmth to Daeron's heart, for he knew that was true.

The Red Keep was silent. Half the court was dead and the other half was hiding in their chambers. Only a handful of servants hurried up and down, bowing to the King when he passed. The silence was so profound that the night breeze carried the whinnying of a horse from the stables.

Rhaegel was fast asleep. Aerys was so engrossed in a book that he didn't hear the door opening and Daeron didn't disturb him, although his heart sank once again. Westeros needed a strong, engaged King and Aerys wasn't it. But no one could change a man's nature.

In the hallway between the different wings he encountered Brynden Rivers and immediately saw how exhausted he was. Indeed, it was a miracle that he wasn't sleeping as he walked. The smell of smoke preceded him as always these days. Once again, he had been busy overseeing the burning of the bodies in the dragon pit.

At seeing Daeron, he started bowing. The King stopped him with a gesture. "Go to sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, there will be a new conflict, I fear." A few hours ago, he had made the decision to take away some of the Faith's resources to spend for maesters and feeding the sick ones. He didn't expect the Great Septon to take kindly to that. He had discussed it with Maekar but Brynden was still unaware, being away from the Red Keep.

Bloodraven shook his head. Weariness and lack of sleep had turned his eye entirely red. "No, I have to check…"

"Tomorrow," Daeron said firmly. "You'll check it tomorrow. Now go to your chambers, eat something and have a decent sleep, for once. That's an order."

He didn't actually expect that Brynden would follow it but it wouldn't hurt to try. If he kept going like this, he'd just fall down in the middle of one of his activities, those days.

To his surprise, there was still light in Maekar's solar. As he came near, he could make out two voices and felt profound relief that they sounded healthy, saying… He strained his ears. Yes, they were actually saying…

"Lying lion," Aelinor's voice came.

"Fishy fish," Maekar replied.

"Snoring sun."

"Grinning gryphon," he went on.

"Eager eagle," she countered.

The King shook his head and smiled a little, suddenly realizing what he was hearing. Once, when his children were little, it was their way to amuse themselves while learning their heraldry. Their tutors were outraged at this blatant disrespect to the various Houses. Daeron himself was not thrilled, although it had more to do with fear that they would blurt something like this in the worst possible moment. Myriah laughed his fears away. Of course, it was she who spanked the children when she caught them throwing balls of bread at the lords headed for the Great Hall… She never felt any remorse over that, Daeron thought. He had spanked them, too, but only rarely and he always regretted it later. Not Myriah. She never wrapped her head around the conception that it was indecent for royal couples to administer bodily punishments to their children in person – it was the tutors' job.

"Drooling dragon."

That made Daeron chuckle. They looked up and Maekar gestured for him to enter while Aelinor who had said the last bit blushed. "Did you mean me?" the King asked good-naturedly, still at the door, and she shook her head. "Well, I am very relieved."

She rose to curtsy; with sinking heart Daeron realized that the hobble that had become part of her life was clearly pronounced now that she was tired. With age, her condition worsened. One day, the limp might start impeding her movements very seriously, the maesters had said fifteen years ago. He was glad that he wouldn't be there to watch her in pain.

Maekar didn't even bother to rise and bow and that set the King for alarm. It was a clear sign that like Brynden, Maekar was near the end of his stamina. As angry as both would be at this comparison, those two did have something in common – no meager amount of mulishness.

"I'll leave you do with your time whatever you want," Daeron said. "But at sunrise, I want you at the Council chamber."

"I'll be there," Maekar snapped, offended by the insinuation that it might be otherwise. Daeron pitied the poor servant who would have to rouse him in the morning. Maekar obviously needed at least a week of good sleep.

"Father?" Aelinor said. "Is something the matter?"

He realized that they were both staring at him with the same concern he had stared at them only a few moments ago. Obviously, they couldn't see that he was not well and he was glad for it. He didn't want to spoil their last meeting with the feeling of doom. He smiled. "Other than insomnia? No."

"Thank the Seven," she murmured.

He turned to go. Then, he turned back and looked at them. "Dancing direwolves," he said and left. Behind him, they chuckled.

"May I sleep here?" he heard Aelinor asking as he was fighting his dizziness in the hallway, and he frowned. Maekar's response, though, set his mind at rest.

"You can. But I'm warning you, if you start snoring, you're going back to your chambers."

She laughed and Daeron felt stupid for immediately suspecting that she wanted to renew what had once existed between her and Maekar. They were just as exhausted and disheartened as anyone in the city and were just seeking support in each other. That was what kept them awake at this hour when the entire world was sleeping.

"As if you'd hear me if I did," Aelinor said. Then, her voice came small, shaking. "I'm afraid of the plague, Maekar."

"Everyone is, Aelinor. If I stay idle for a day, I'll probably start screaming in terror."

Now the hallway was no longer spinning in front of Daeron but he still did not move. He couldn't, had he wanted to. That was the first time he heard Maekar admitting any fear in… what, thirty years?

Aelinor laughed weakly. "I'd like to see that!"

No, you wouldn't, the King thought. It was strange how clear things were to him now, when the end was near. He had always thought that it was Aelinor who clung to Maekar because of the disappointment her life with Aerys had turned out to be. But in fact, it was Maekar who needed her more than she needed him because as neglected and disillusioned as she was, she was able not to withdraw into herself and that prevented her from turning bitter. Maekar had no such outlet. He was as implacable to himself as he was to others. He needed tenderness, yet he never accepted it. Except when it came from Aelinor. She was the only one he let near but his temper would never let him seek her out. She knew that and didn't turn it into a game of pride.

"Maekar?" she said again. "When it's over, we'll go riding into the Kingswood, for weeks. The city gates will be open…"

"There will be many happy and sad people," Maekar said, very wearily. "Wounds will heal over… We'll have the houses rebuilt. We'll forget about the sickness…"

Daeron fervently wished that they would. But he did not believe it. Still, it'll be good if they do, he thought as he was negotiating the way to his apartment that was suddenly so, so very long for his legs and eyes.

Till noon everyone in King's Landing knew that the King, too, had been infected with the dreaded sickness.

And the madness spread.

People were scared to meet their kin, avoided their friends. Kept to their homes, plugging every crevice and bolted every window, as if they were afraid that the plague might enter. Others went out in the streets and started screaming to be let out of the city, to be saved while they were still alive and healthy. A crowd attacked the Golden Cloaks in a barren attempt to seize control of the gates. A contingent of guards rode quickly down Aegon's Hill to stifle the riot. The septs were filled of people who prayed for Daeron's recovery, yet no one believed that it would take place. The few ones who had recovered had been young and strong. Daeron was neither.

At dusk, all the bells of the Great Sept started ringing.

And the King's body was not yet fully burnt on the pyre when sudden coldness made nobles and smallfolk alike look up.

It was the long expected rain that once fallen would not stop for days, the rain that would clean the city from the plague, the rain that meant recovery, life, hope. The rain that had only waited for the sickness to claim its most important victim.

THE END

N. Thanks to everyone for reading. I hope you enjoyed my take on the single most disastrous event that changed the course of history, much like the Black Death and then the sweating sickness did in real world.

N. 1. For anyone interested in my Targaryen series, you might want to have a look at The Death of a King. It's about the impact Daeron's death had on the "outsiders" of the family. I wrote it before The Great Death was even a thought in my mind.