A/N: Hey everybody. Things are quite busy, so this story has pretty much become my refuge, lol.

Some people were really angry over Garlan's marriage. Yeah, it's kinda creepy, but since Olenna did that in canon by marrying Margaery to Tommen, who was like 10 years younger than her, the precedent is set. I obviously don't approve, but you have to go in the morality of the world rather than reality.

Enjoy.

Chapter 64: The Red Plague

"What have you done to me, Oberyn Martell," groaned his paramour… half spat out.

Looking back at Ellaria, Oberyn smirked to himself. "Alright dear," he told Nymeria, all of five namedays. Gingerly, he edged her stance with his foot. "Crouch. Make sure your knees have a little give."

"Yes, papa," she chimed, looking as if on cloud nine for being trained by her father.

Kissing her forehead, Oberyn turned to his lover. "Yes, my sweet Ellaria. What is it?"

Rolling her eyes, Ellaria wore a put out expression - one only half caused by the fussy babe in her arms. "You're useless."

"That isn't what you normally say within our bed." He laughed as she glowered, but Ellaria accepted his hug round her shoulders and kiss of her hair. Truth be told, even in ire she loved it.

Didn't mean she still wasn't morose. "Last time I lived in this red monstrosity, I was arranging orgies to amuse myself. Now…" She gestured to Tyene, currently finding her father's dangling finger the height of hilarious. "Breastfeeding and swaddling clothes. And this is all your fault."

He grinned. "You love her… and me."

She huffed, but smiled. "Yes, I do."

"Papa, what's an orgy?"

Both looked up at Nymeria, who stared at them with wide, innocent eyes. "Something you won't learn about till you're far older," Ellaria replied, grinning at Oberyn. 'She's your daughter,' she mouthed to him. Oh, she is right.

The Tower of the Hand happened to sport quite plush accommodations, ones Oberyn took advantage of once appointed - made it less the prison cell that he viewed the office as. Thus, none of them heard Obara enter until she waltzed into the solar, covered in a sheen of sweat. "Seven hells," the older girl mumbled, plopping onto one of the chairs. She still wore her training leathers, needed for the cold. "That one is relentless."

Walking over and ruffling her hair, Oberyn chuckled at his eldest. "Uncle Lewyn still has fight in him, I see."

She shook her head. "Uncle is on duty guarding his Grace. It was Aunt Lyanna that I sparred with… gods help anyone that tries to fuck with her." When around his company, one picked up foul language quickly.

"You trained with Queen Lyanna?"

"Aye. She's always there, sparring with whomever is available… she's quite good at it, father. You should try sparring with her."

"Perhaps one day I shall." He turned to Ellaria. "Till next time, my love. The duties of the Hand never cease."

Ellaria nodded. "The king shits and the Hand wipes."

"Not the most depraved image I've endured in my life," he tossed to her, leading to both a swat and a kissy face from Ellaria.

Once the warmth of his paramour and his daughters left him, Oberyn's mind plunged back into the dark place it usually was. Only for Rhaegar would I do this. He enjoyed the scheming and politics, but the constant mundane matters that crossed the desk of the Hand… How did Tywin Lannister stand this? Simple, he was both a leader and a consummate bureaucrat - comfortable in both skins. Oberyn vowed he would only do this as long as Rhaegar needed, no more.

Such wasn't the only cause of his melancholy, stepping off the tower's stairs and jogging towards the main keep. The tension in the Red Keep was thick, emerging from the growing… distance between the Queens. What is up with them? Their relationship only weeks before had been both passionate and deep, the two unable to keep off each other. Now...

Consumed in worry and concern, Oberyn didn't notice the clinking chains and rail-thin form of the Grand Maester until they nearly collided. Nearly being the operative term, the Red Viper twirling around just in the nick of time as he did while sparring. "Grand Maester," he remarked. "My apologies, I did not see you there."

Qyburn chuckled, waving it off. "Only for those in the Citadel am I notorious. Elsewhere I am simply forgettable."

Nodding, if not truly understanding, Oberyn looked over the newly appointed Grand Maester - the first since Maegor the Cruel's reign to be directly appointed by the King rather than the Citadel. Unlike previous maesters that rose high in the conclave on scholarship, Qyburn was far different. Always busy, he scurried about the Red Keep and the city itself on some experiment or observation. Truly, watching him created more mysteries than answers, but he seemed loyal to House Targaryen above all else.

"If that is all, I need to be on my way…"

"No, Lord Hand…" Voice soft and friendly normally, now they held a… worried edge. "There is something that I've wished to speak to you about." He gestured towards a corridor. "May we continue this in my chambers?"

Raising an eyebrow, Oberyn figured that Lord Lucerys could use a bit of humbling by waiting for him, so followed.

All the detritus of the Pycelle suit of rooms had been converted into a haphazard storage room of the former Starfall maester's various studies that only he could decipher. Nearly half of all the scrawled notes and traced diagrams involved dragons, said to fascinate him. Rumors that Aegarax almost burned him alive for all the poking and prodding Qyburn did in his observations had reached the Hand. He believed them.

"So what does this concern, Grand Maester?"

Qyburn pointed to a large map of the Blackwater Bay region spread out on an artist's easel. Pins marked certain spots, concentrated at Duskendale and the Wendwater. "I've been getting ravens from the maesters of Stonedance, Sweetport Sound, Rook's Rest, and Duskendale - the changes in lordship have kept them harried, but they found this important enough to inform both I and the conclave in Oldtown." A frown marred his face. "It appears a strange new illness has reached our shores."

Oberyn crossed his arms. "Are you sure this isn't some smallfolk superstition?" In his travels, the Dornish Prince had only seen two instances of genuine magic - one by a Red Priest and his goodbrother's dragon. All else was inauthentic in his eyes.

Shaking his head, Qyburn gathered a stack of hastily scrawled notes. "No, it isn't."

"How?"

"Because I've seen it for myself."

The Hand said nothing, looking for any sense of deception… or the hallmarks of hiding deceptive intent, like Pycelle's bumbling old man act. He found none, only a fearful earnestness. Oberyn started to worry, his mind going to the worst eventuality. "Spring Sickness returned?" He shuddered at the idea of the great plague that nearly wiped out House Targaryen.

Qyburn shook his head. "No… it's strange, because I've only heard of this happening in the Rhoyne or the Lands of Always Summer." He poked at his notes. "The high Valyrian term translates to 'Red Plague.'"

Body stiffening, Oberyn had to keep from collapsing to the ground, bracing himself against the wall. "The Red Plague? Are you sure?"

"Aye. There's an outbreak isolated in Flea Bottom which the Goldcloaks barricaded on my orders." He moved to a map of the city nailed into the wall, more pins sticking out. "I visited with leather overalls, a leather hood, and thick breathing linen for the face, which I subsequently had doused with wine."

"Wine?"

"Dornish red to be exact." Qyburn chuckled. "Wine removes the vapors that cause illness, I've found… that and keeping clean." He waved it off. "Regardless, it's confirmed. Breathing difficulties, red rashes on the back and shoulders, and weakness of the limbs. From the observations of maesters past, death is certain for two out of three that get it."

"Elia had this… as a babe…" Gods, some of his first memories were of his mother wailing while alone at the stress of it all. "Isolated case from a trading cog… you're saying an entire building infected?"

"Three," Qyburn replied. "I'll need authority to instruct the goldcloaks on further measures…"

Oberyn grabbed a sheaf of parchment, taking a quill and writing. "I'll do you one better, Grand Maester. This is an order from me directly giving you full authority to stamp this out. Use of the City Watch or Household Guard included." Finishing the quick order, all it needed was his seal. "Gods help us if this gets out."

Qyburn shifted his feet. "Perhaps we should move King Aerys' wildfire stocks to the dragonpit, just in case."

Brynden Rivers' infamous act left a bad taste in Oberyn's mouth. "Do it."

Ned breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the godswood. Warmed by hot springs that centered in the large pond by the heart tree, as the last tendrils of winter began to pass towards a brilliant cloudless sky he enjoyed the warmth that hit his skin. Dancing around the familiar and the newly grown roots and bushes that lined the paths, Ned needed to be cautious. Ice strapped to his back, tucked in the crook of his arms was a bundle. The most precious thing to Lord Ned Stark at the moment.

Soon, the blood red leaves of the ancient weirwood came into view. "Here we are, dearest daughter," Ned whispered, smiling as Sansa shifted in his arms - snuggling into a more comfortable position. The gentle movements made him chuckle. Trying not to disturb her, he lifted Sansa up and kissed her chubby cheek, face the only portion of her not bundled to ward off the cold.

Wordlessly, Ned approached the face of the old gods. He slowly raised his hand and ran it along the smooth bark not disturbed for scores of generations. The most spiritual place in all of the North… where Starks since the beginning of their house had came to enjoy connection with the old gods. If only Lya had the same connection as this gives her in the capitol.

Sansa took that moment to yawn, cowlicks of hair the most fiery shade of red visible to the eye. She was so very clearly her mother's child, but still held the blood of the First Men. Looking up at Ned, the wondrous grey eyes said it all.

"Love you, little pup." Gently, he set her at the foot of the heart tree, making sure her form rested directly on one of the thick roots. This required her direct connection with the gods.

A ritual that all Starks had gone through as babes. His siblings, his father and mother before him, all of them - one that Lya's children and Benjen's, if he and Ashara ever had them, would need once they first journeyed to Winterfell. A blessing before the old gods, heralding them into their power and embrace.

Out of respect for his lady wife, Ned didn't require her to be here. She had already ordained Sansa in the Faith of the Seven, and he said nothing. This would be his task as he and Sansa were the last two wolves in Winterfell at the moment, all others to the south.

Cersei would have insisted she be here. He shook his head - no sense in torturing himself with what couldn't be.

Drawing his sword, Ned knelt before the weirwood. "Old gods," he whispered under his breath, head pressed against the cold metal of Ice's hilt - stabbed shallowly into the ground. "I bring to you a direwolf of house Stark, born of the North with the blood of your chosen people in her veins." Sansa gurgled and shifted around, which was a good sign. The old gods inhabited every living thing, and therefore an active life drew more of their energy.

Ned continued. "Sansa Stark is your devoted servant, heir to my house and a northern maiden as strong and kind as her aunt. Please bless her with happiness and a life worthy of her blood and nobility. On this I swear my fealty as Lord of Winterfell."

In his mind flashed a single image. Of a red haired beauty, fire-kissed locks flying behind her as she soared upon the air in something… laughing along with two others, one voice masculine and another feminine.

As soon as the image appeared, it vanished, leaving Ned with a fussy daughter demanding his attention. Something he was absolutely ready to give once sheathing his sword.

Outside the walls of the sacred place, the hustle and bustle of Winterfell continued without interruption - aside from the occasional bow to Ned as he walked by. No one could see any change on the surface from before the war. Ser Rodrik trained new guards as the master-at-arms, Vernon Poole and Maester Luwin negotiated with Wintertown shopkeepers and White Harbor merchants for supplies, and servants darted about on their duties.

There was a difference though. The attention-grabbing presence of Brandon and Lyanna were sorely absent, as was the steady hand of their father - Ned missed him every day, wishing for his guidance at the moment. The clang of mason hammers rang out through the air, both for the old keep being restored at his orders and the tiny building off to the side also being built on his orders. The former was well-received, the latter not so much… only the Lady's retinue appreciated the creation of Winterfell's first sept, but none of the others complained.

Ned had earned their loyalty, even if in certain cases it was… grudging. But they loved their lord - and their new lady, the tiny one whose eyes darted around from one stimulus to another, sharp and attentive. What wasn't to love about baby Sansa?

As he entered the keep, the sight of his wife made him remember how the presence of Sansa had softened their relationship - made them more comfortable in their routine. "Husband," she said, blue eyes lighting up as she took the little babe in her arms. "Where'd you take my sweet daughter?" The tone wasn't accusatory as she kissed Sansa's forehead, cradling her.

"Took her to be blessed at the heart tree. Normally it's done the day after birth, but…" Without Ned there, they had to wait.

Catelyn's new look was slightly accusatory - but she knew better than say what she wanted to say. "It's still too chilly outside for a babe."

Ned raised an eyebrow. "Sansa's of Northern blood. She can handle it if she's bundled up."

Wanting to say more, Catelyn didn't. "You have visitors in your solar… from Deepwood Motte."

"Lord Glover?"

"His brother," she replied. "And Gregor Forrester."

"Thank you for telling me."

"Go meet them, I'll give this little princess her lunch and tuck her in."

"Go ahead." Ned smiled and kissed Sansa's cheek… doing the same for Catelyn, though if was mostly perfunctory for her.

Passing into his solar, the two highborns seated before his desk stood, bowing. "Lord Stark."

Ned nodded to them. "Lord Robett… Lord Gregor." Robett Glover was a stern man, dignified but easy to insult and with a tendency to be craven - unlike his brother. Ned didn't appreciate his company, but for Gregor Forrester it was different. One of the less important noble houses of the North, they obtained a modest wealth from harvesting ironwood trees on their land. Gregor was brave and kind, earning him a marriage to the knightly House Branfield of the Crownlands. His goodbrother had been given Sweetport Sound for his loyalty to Rhaegar, so the Forresters were rising up in the world through their connections. Motioning for them to sit, Ned took a seat himself. "Let's save the pleasantries for dinner tonight, cut to the chase here."

Pursing his lips, Glover acquiesced. "Alright, Lord Stark. Your wife has insulted my house greviously."

Narrowing his eyes, Ned crossed his arms. "Watch yourself, Lord Glover."

Gregor Forrester interjected. "We mean no disrespect to your wife or yourself, Lord Stark." He glared at Glover, who merely glowered. "But a certain… decision by your wife while she sat in your chair during the Rebellion has… brought concern among those of Ironrath and Deepwood Motte."

"And what would that be?" Catelyn may have offended many in Winterfell while still a Tully, but since their marriage she was a proper Lady.

"Allowing the Starry Sept to send proselytizers and built septs within every keep in the north."

"A travesty and betrayal," Glover growled.

Stiffening, Ned hoped he hadn't paled from shock. Cat never told me… neither did Luwin… Something this major should have gotten to him somehow. "Is this just for Deepwood Motte, or have other keeps received septons?"

Glover… shifted his gaze. "Not yet, aside from the complement of White Harbor's Sept being doubled." Not completely worrisome, considering the city was the only place in the North where the Faith had a significant presence.

"There was a rumor that Lord Bolton received a septon and three septas on his land, but that they were murdered by outraged smallfolk," Gregor added. The explanation didn't hold water for either he nor Ned, given Lord Bolton's reputation.

"See! The people are close to revolt!" Robett Glover was far more thickheaded.

"Have the septons caused any crimes or undermined your authority, Lord Glover?" Ned asked.

"Well… no…"

"Then I can't do anything as of now. I'd recommend you try to counter their preaching with renewing the faith of you and your people in the old gods." The Glovers weren't the most pious of houses.

Reminded of that, he stood angrily. "You'll rue this day, Lord Stark." With that, he stormed out.

Gregor smiled wanly. "He's just worried. I'll make sure it's sorted out, but can you do anything, Ned?"

He sighed. "Matters outside the North must be taken into account, given where my sister now resides." With Rhaegar and the Faith frosty with each other, anything Ned did to the Starry Sept's emissaries would come back to Rhaegar and Lya. He had to play the game. "Forgive me, Gregor, but there's nothing I can do unless they overstep their bounds."

Once the Lord of Ironrath left for his quarters, Ned collapsed in his chair. "Gods, Cat…" Perhaps she hadn't changed after all.

Setting down the book that she was reading - the stylings of a northern bard from before the conquest - Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen saw Ser Oswell walk into the chambers. "Your Grace, Lady Ellaria is here as requested."

"Good. Thank you, Ser Oswell." The kingsguard nodded and departed back to his post. Barristan had him assigned to her while Ser Jaime had the rotating privilege of sparring with the King before his afternoon bath and dinner. Perfect for Rhaella's plans… if she had the will to go about it.

Dressed in an immodest gown exposing her leg with a slit and cleavage with a plunging neckline, the Hand of the King's paramour nevertheless curtseyed respectfully - knowing court procedure. "Your Grace."

Rhaella stood from her seat. "Welcome, Lady Ellaria. I am glad you came."

"One cannot resist the invitation of the Queen Dowager," she replied with a smile. "Though I am curious as to why." They both sat, Ellaria gladly taking the proffered chair facing Rhaella. "Both Queen Elia and Queen Lyanna are my close friends, but you and I are not known to be… deeply acquainted."

Nodding, the Queen poured them each a glass of Dornish red - earning her a raised eyebrow. "Prince Oberyn's mother developed the palate of both I and Joanna Lannister to it. Baffled our husbands to no end, given they weren't fond of your homeland." That earned a shared chuckle. "But to tell you the truth, Lady Ellaria, the… past arrangements of the court have cloistered me. It wasn't by choice, mind you."

"Of course. To me, it is obscene that someone as kind and beautiful as you were kept from her wishes and desires. Something I… rejected long ago."

"As is the reason that I wished for you to come - besides hoping to integrate myself further in my son's household." Ellaria leaned forward across from her, sleeveless arms pressing together on her lap, waiting for Rhaella to speak. Fighting an innate modesty, she cleared her throat. "It has not escaped me that you are an expert in the… arts of pleasure."

Eyes widening, to her credit Ellaria remained serious. "I have heard such things said about me, and most of them tend to exaggerate." She stifled a snicker. "Many wish to smear me to win favors at court, but I care little."

Remembering some of those stories, Rhaella blushed slightly - imagining such… wild displays of sexuality were incomprehensible to her. "I would like your… advice in how to please a man in that manner." The last words were practically choked out.

"Just a man? I've been told by my lovers that I know how to pluck the strings of many a maiden as well."

That only reddened the blush on the Queen Dowager's face, but Rhaella pressed on. "No, just one man. My own paramour… but you must swear to secrecy."

Eyes twinkling, Ellaria smiled warmly. "But of course. Just between us ladies." First Dacey, then Elia, and now Queen Rhaella. There could be quite a lot of coin in being such a matchmaker… though in this she'd more be a 'pleasure advisor.' "Who is your lover?"

Rhaella paused. "Jaime Lannister."

Now that truly surprised her. "Oh?" Arthur had a paramour in Dacey, and Benjen in Ashara, so it didn't shock her that Jaime partook in such. Who was another issue. "How far does this go?"

"I love him, and he me." In that, she was confident on.

Ellaria softened. "I am glad, your Grace. From what I heard, you deserve someone who loves you." The smile turned into a smirk. "Loves you repeatedly."

Her eyes fluttered shut, trying to calm both the embarrassment at discussing this and the lustful memories. "We've only… done that once. Not again because of Daenerys."

"Seducing a man while pregnant. Now that is impressive."

"It wasn't like that. It was… gentle. Sweet. And we haven't done anything but kiss since."

Ellaria snorted. "Please, look at me in the eyes and tell me you don't want to ride him until he faints." She waited a few moments. "You see, you do."

Rhaella opened her eyes. "Aye, I do."

Beaming, the paramour of the Hand leaned forward, motioning for Rhaella to do the same. "I think I know what you shall need to do, something I have heard Queen Elia refer to her… pleasure with his and her Graces. Namely 'Waking the dragon.'"

Darkness had descended over the Red Keep long after Ellaria had left Rhaella to her own devices - much to the Dornishwoman's displeasure, the offer to join the two of them had been rejected. Alone in her rooms, Rhaella shivered as she tied the dressing gown tight around her waist. The entire Red Keep was in a tension not seen since Aerys, filled with rumors of sickness and the persistent distance between the once inseparable queens. She felt them all, but at the moment Rhaella was preoccupied with another worry.

Gods… what if I am… subpar? Hers and Jaime's first time had been magical, but he took the entire lead. And had been gracious enough to let her take the reins. She led them to kisses, it had been her decision to let him sleep with her in her bed, and now she wished for them to become lovers, but what did Rhaella know about carnal pleasures? Aerys only took what he wanted, and aside from a brief dalliance of kisses with Ser Bonifer Hasty at a young age she was practically a maiden. Jaime… handsome as he was, he could have had anyone.

What if she wasn't skilled enough for him?

Rubbing a smattering of perfumed oils on her neck for the scent, Rhaella's mind was a stressful jumble. As was her wont in recent days, she went to the braziers burning in the corner of her chamber - finding the large spheres of stone that never ceased to give her comfort. Two dragon eggs, one gold with white swirls and another a pure blood red. Both sitting in the same coals that Aerys had placed them in.

There were others, kept in the King's solar and tended to by Melisandre, but these… Rhaella wasn't sure why she was drawn to them. It was as if a tiny whisper called to her. Begged her to come closer and closer… She always wished to ask Rhaegar about it, but he was too busy, forcing her to figure it out for herself.

Wordlessly, she gazed at the golden egg. Mesmerized by it.

Rhaella… Rhaella…

She was transfixed.

Your destiny is here. Fire and blood.

Something overcame her. Out darted her hands, slowly pressing against the scorching scales. She felt nothing.

Only warmth. One that swept through her body - filled her with fire. Working to banish the meekness Aerys beat into her.

Suddenly the door to the chambers opened, Rhaella pulling her hands back and turning, seeing the face of her lover. "Forgive me… your Grace," Jaime smiled. He had stripped himself of his armor, leaving nothing but his undertunic and trousers.

Fuck… he looked handsome. The fire was overcoming her, filling Rhaella's body with a sudden confidence and lust. She wanted him, and he was all hers now.

Jaime's eyebrow rose, seeing that her violet eyes had an odd glint to them. "Rhaella?"

Her name on his lips lighting the fuse, Rhaella strode several paces towards him before untying the dressing gown, letting it pool to the floor to reveal the nude body underneath. Smirking darkly as all words left his mouth. "Ser Jaime."

Gods, she was perfect. There was no hint she had ever been pregnant once, let alone multiple times. Waist taut, breasts still quite perky and large, she had worn her hair down for him and it truly affected him. Rhaella Targaryen was everything he desired and more. "I…." He really couldn't find his voice.

"You have been neglectful in your duties." Oh, she was enjoying this. "I have been quite lonely without my dashing knight."

"That's… not true. I have been quite attentive." He started to find his voice.

"Oh? Then why have I been denied the pleasures of the flesh that I so desire?" Without waiting for his response, she walked to him and tugged up at the hem of his tunic. "I am the Queen Dowager and you are the knight. You obey me."

The arrogant smirk that made her insides twist in desire returned, Jaime recovering. "I am yours to command."

"Good." The tunic came off, her hands resting flat against his chest. "Fuck me now." Elucidating the command, she kissed him, their mouths collapsing into a wanton meld of teeth and tongue that she herself initiated - much to her shock, not that she cared.

Wake the dragon.

With a strength that would have surprised her without the fire of the dragons boiling within, Rhaella shoved Jaime to the bed. "Take off your trousers," she commanded, voice low and commanding. Jaime didn't know where this Rhaella Targaryen came from but as he complied, his rock hard member scraped against the cloth… he liked it.

She quickly straddled him, both pleased to find her wet and ready. "My Queen…" he said reverently, which made her want him more. Hunger for him. Need him.

Joanna's son… her lion… the one person to truly love her.

The one person she truly loved.

Rubbing her core against his length, they both moaned. "I cannot wait any longer to feel this again," Rhaella insisted, reaching down and lining him up. She smiled filthily as his head pierced her cunt. "Is this mine?"

"Yes," he gasped out. "All yours."

"Good, because I'm not sharing." With that, Rhaella lowered herself onto him. Ignoring the pinch of his size, a wanton moan escaped her. Oh yes, this was what she desired. It felt complete. Grabbing his hands, she guided them to her breasts as she started to ride. "I am all yours too," Rhaella told him, a moment of tenderness piercing the fire.

There was nothing better for Jaime. He squeezed them, making her moan. Angling his hips so she could take him harder, the knight silently pleaded. Begged for her to go faster, harder. A mature Queen though she was, he knew her to be strong… found her strong before anyone else, and such surged her love for him.

Rhaella obliged, riding him harder. Faster. Rocking her hips as she rose up and down. Kessa… kessa… kessa! She burned hot with dragonfire, heat and pleasure just filling her.

Eyes rolling in the back of his head, Jaime gripped her hips tighter - certain he was leaving bruises the shape of his fingertips. The pleasure consumed him, pressure building. This was nothing like his previous experiences. He had only one other, Cersei, but while fun it wasn't this. The passion, the fire, the sense of being lost in lust and love for someone utterly spellbinding. She is perfect… she is a dream… "I love you," Jaime grunted, finally succumbing and shooting his seed deep into her.

Rhaella felt every drop, and whether it was that or his declaration of love that triggered her climax she did not know. Only that the waves undulated through and her quivering lips opened in a scream. "Fuck… I love you… gods…"

She collapsed atop him, both riding out their pleasure in a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin. Not caring how they got here, but knowing it was where they so wished to be.

"I don't think you should leave the keep anymore."

Dacey frowned. "Why?" she demanded of her lover, quirking her head with a cross look. "I might wish to purchase a new set of armor from the street of steel." Such just reminded her of the Valyrian steel mace Arthur gifted her for her nameday - promptly named Skullcracker by the gleeful warrior woman - and her ire softened.

A pained look crossed Arthur's face. "Our smiths in the Red Keep are far better than those people…"

He was cut off when Dacey placed her free hand on his, holding their young son tightly with the other. "Arthur… please tell me what is really going on?"

Purple eyes wary - the same look she had found on him when she and little Arthur surprised him in the White Sword Tower - he sighed. "There's a… sickness in the city."

"What kind of sickness?" Hadn't been what she expected.

"It's nothing," he dismissed. "Only affecting Flea Bottom so far, but I don't wish to risk you or the little bear." He leaned down to kiss the crown of his son. "Please, Dace?"

She looked into his gaze and nodded. "Alright… but it'll cost you a spar tomorrow."

He laughed and drew her into his arms - kissing her deeply. Gods, he was so passionate with her. It always made her weak in the knees.

Unfortunately, Arthur was on duty that night, so their bed would be lonely without him. Dacey hated it as she passed through the halls of the Red Keep, but could endure. Just meant that she and Arthur would be ever more passionate the next night… with her child in her arms, Dacey didn't wish to flush with lust.

The oldest of the newest brood in the Red Keep, little Arthur Mormont was an almost perfect blend of both his Northern mother and Dornish father. Large grey eyes but the coloring of the Sword of the Morning. "You are going to be so handsome, my sweet cub." Arthur only looked at her for a moment before he went back to playing with a dangling necklace that reached over the valley of her breasts. His father's favorite area as well. "The ladies will eat you up when you're older."

Arthur Dayne could have had a harem of girls following him around as did Oberyn - or Ellaria if Dacey was being truthful - but the Gods seemed fit to fashion him only for her. Dacey thanked them every day for it.

"If only you could have his name," she murmured, her son ignorant of it all. Rhaegar's rapid legitimization of him came at a price - he could never be a Dayne for no Kingsguard could marry, the only way around the oath. While she loved being with Arthur in any open capacity and her children bearing the name of the northern Bear filled her with pride, the fear their bastard status would harm little Arthur wasn't a small worry.

She hugged him closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. But Arthur's peers, Egg, Rhae, Baelon, and Dany and whatever other children came from Lyanna, Ashara, and Ellaria's wombs would accept him.

Finding the corridor to the royal wing - to which as the official Lady in Waiting to Her Grace she lived within - Dacey stopped suddenly. Craning her neck out, she managed to hear clearer the voice that stopped her… no, the soft sobbing. Who's crying? Quietly, she moved towards the sound.

The identity shocked her. Elia?

Perched on a bench on the personal promenade of the royal family, Elia's hands were crossed atop the stone bannister. Cradling her head as she cried softly. Using the solitude to let her feelings out. Gods, she hated herself for this - the last time she spilled true tears of frustration and heartbreak had been early in her relationship with Rhaegar. The first dismissal of Rhaenys by Aerys' profanity-laced tirades. But then she had been a young maiden, and now she was a strong Queen. How could she have regressed.?

Because your love is shunning you. Not for the first time did she silently plead the heavens for an answer to this. For something she could do to bring Lyanna back to her.

"Your Grace?"

Elia's head shot up, revealing her red-rimmed eyes even as she hurriedly wiped away the tears. "Dacey." There stood the she-bear, clutching Arthur's namesake in her arms. "I didn't hear you approach."

"I can see that…" she replied awkwardly. "May I sit here, my Queen?"

The thought to dismiss her being quite easy to Elia, she decided there wasn't reason beyond selfishness. She nodded, and soon felt the statuesque northern warrior sit beside her. Soon after, the babe reached out for a gold band on Elia's tanned arm, drawing a tiny smile to her face. "Reminds me of his father."

Dacey smiled back, kissing the crown of her babe's head. "Aye. The little one has Arthur wrapped around his little finger."

Biting her lip, Elia felt a supreme jealousy at getting to hold a newborn babe of her womb… and she hated herself for it. Dacey was her friend. "One would never think our Artie would be a father, but I can see he's a natural."

Giggling, Dacey covered her mouth. "Artie… he groans whenever I call him that, so I do it all the time." They both chuckled. Eyes flickering to the red-eyed Elia, Dacey took the chance to ask her question. "Why were you crying?"

Elia blinked. "I wasn't crying." Dacey merely raised her eyebrow, disbelieving the obvious lie. The Queen knew it was half-hearted. "I haven't been… in the best of situations regarding my family." Dacey wasn't Ash or Ellaria - a childhood companion she absolutely trusted - but she was at the level just below. "Regarding Lyanna…"

Sighing, Dacey knew it would come to this. "We all saw how… distant the both of you are recently - none of the servants, guards, or highborn staff like Arthur or I speak about it." She was worried. "Is it really worse than it seems?"

There was a silence, but she finally nodded. "I think Lyanna is ashamed of me… she doesn't speak about it at all, but I can see it in her eyes ever since Jon and Egg were almost killed." The memories of that fear combined with the current worries were seemingly destroying her. "We… we haven't made love since before it. She seems disgusted with the thought."

That didn't sound like Lyanna. While she didn't partake in that other than the one session with Ellaria, Dacey didn't find it disgusting. "I… I would be surprised if that was true."

"I thought the same. Now I don't know." She bit her lip. "Dacey, I need you to tell me. Are… relations between women as forbidden under the old gods as they are among the Faith?"

That was a hard question to figure out. "Well… I don't think there are any traditions against it - our faith doesn't have codified rules, only longstanding tradition and folklore passed down from generation to generation." She thought to her own House, the almost Dornish laws of succession. Her father Jeor had inherited Bear Island from his mother, father a Hornwood second son. "While we are expected to have families and marry, I don't think people truly care. With winter always harsh, there are greater worries."

Unfortunately, that didn't reassure Elia. "So it's me then." The tears returned, though she refused to sob again.

"My Queen… this will be but a rough patch. Both of you almost lost your children." Gods, if anything happened to little Arthur… "You've survived everything thrown at you."

"To be honest, Dacey…" Elia's voice was almost a murmur. "Somehow I have a feeling that this will be worse than all others." The voice still haunted her mind. It tore her apart, even as she kept it to herself.

"What do you mean? We already survived the worst."

Her answer came close to making Dacey's skin crawl. "There's always something worse."

She stood. "Don't tempt fate Elia," the She-Bear warned. "This will pass… I'm sure of it." Elia said nothing.

Lya… what's going on? Dacey would get to the bottom of this.

Fluffing up the ruffles of his shirt, Alerie Tyrell watched her son with a gentle pair of brown eyes. "Oh, my dear boy. You are so handsome for your special day."

Garlan groaned, eyes closing. "Mother, you know I would do anything to get out of this peacock doublet and back into my riding leathers." Long doublet extending down to his pelvis a dark green with golden swirls much like his late father was fond of, the shirt underneath ruffled in the sleeves as was the fashion of the pre-Rebellion balls of Oldtown and King's Landing. A longer, hanging sleeve was more in-style, but Garlan absolutely refused. The cloth itched and his narrow boots pinched regardless. "Couldn't we just marry in front of the Three Singers as is House Blackwood's wont? It's a much shorter procedure."

Alerie clucked, smirking at her son - he clearly got his wit from her side and she was proud at that. "That will happen in a week once the dignitaries of our bannermen depart, for the benefit of your bride's house. You know that…"

"Yes, yes, the rifts between the Faith and the Crown necessitate us to straddle the line to appease both," he replied in his best impression of his grandmother, which caused mother and son to chuckle together. Given how close they were to the center of the Faith in Westeros, appeasing them was needed.

The door suddenly opened, revealing his young and beautiful Aunt Lynesse - arrived here with the majority of his mother's family. "Forgive me, sister, nephew, but two little ones wanted to see you."

In Lynesse's arms was the squirming eighteen moon old Margaery, while young Loras ran out from behind her. "Mama! Gar-Gar!" Hugging Alarie's legs, the young future knight ran to his brother.

Garlan let out a cheerful laugh - completely genuine - as he picked up Loras, the boy's golden curls bouncing. "Well this has made my day." Some of the only joy the new Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South enjoyed these days were his little siblings. They were innocent and guileless, looking to him as an almost father. "How are we today, Ser Loras?"

His brother giggled. "Mama agreed to start my first swordsplay training soon!"

At that Garlan raised his eyebrow at his mother, who had taken Margaery from her sister and was giving her funny faces - much to Margaery's delight. "Is this true, mother?" He set Loras down.

Alarie smiled and went to her son's side, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Don't worry," she whispered into his ear. "The Master-at-arms will keep his activity to a minimum. Simply getting him used to holding and carrying the blade."

He was relieved. "Good, good." Smiling, he looked down at his baby sister. "Well Marg, eager to see your brother get married today?" Getting married today, at four and ten… seven hells.

"Gar… Gar…" she babbled his childhood nickname, clearly taking this better than he was. Unable not to feel joy at his little sister, Garlan pulled Marg into his arms, lifting her up. Don't worry, Marg. I promise that you'll get to choose your husband. A large promise to make to his sister, but one he had every intention to keep.

She looked at him with her youthful ignorance, refreshing if anything.

Before Garlan knew it, he was posted at the front of the castle sept, standing with the Septon as the inhabitants of House Blackwood - the house of his bride - and House Fossoway of Cider Hall - the house of his bride's late husband - proceeded up the walkway towards the front of the well. The young children and maidens of Lord Blackwood's loins seemed pleasant enough, while his soon to be goodsons were anything but. Tanton Fossoway's three boys, the eldest Garlan's age while the others were much younger, stared at their mother's betrothed with little disguised ire.

Just perfect. From the other side of the well, his mother and grandmother urged him to stand straighter, while his grandfather, uncles, and aunts - Lynesse most among them - smiled. Thank you. He was grateful.

And then the moment of truth happened. At the first glimpse of Lord Tytos Blackwood stepping into the sept - face sour as would any devout follower of the Old Gods - his breath hitched. Garlan's eyes fell upon a slender, dignified figure arm in arm with Lord Tytos. Melissa Blackwood. My bride.

The sister of the Lord of Raventree Hall didn't look her age of one and thirty. While clearly a mature lady rather than a shy maiden, her skin was smooth and cheekbones sharp - truly a beautiful woman. No longer a maid, she abandoned the usual cream of purity and instead wore a dark red gown with white and black etchings shaped like branches. It fit her slender figure quite snugly.

In spite of himself and his nerves, from how his trousers strained Garlan's body had no qualms that it liked his bride. He tried to hide his blush, hoping no one noticed.

Lady Melissa looked composed, standing straight and offering a loving smile to her three sons - one not reciprocated at all. But as she approached, Garlan noticed her piercing blue eyes just as nervous as he was. Her brother handing her off and taking his place across the corridor from Olenna, Garlan hesitantly reached out to take his bride's hand in his. She squeezed it back as the Septon began his recitations.

Little did he remember of the feast, only snippets. The chorus of toasts in his name, Garlan refusing the wine in favor of cider from Highgarden's orchards. Dancing with his wife, to which was followed by his mother and grandmother while Melissa took his Grandfather and her eldest son, the latter's loathing of Garlan seeming to only increase. The words either newlywed spoke to each other - simple banter, each attempting to grow more comfortable with the other.

It partly worked, as much as a man of four and ten and a woman of one and thirty could forge a marital bond.

As such, his head was clear and heart pounding as the gathered women of the feast were carrying him towards the bedroom, laughing and whooping the cries of the drunk. "Time to become a man, oh noble Lord!" Aunt Lynesse… why? The girl was adventurous and full of mischief as she led the others towards more ribald action - the fact that he knew his aunt loved him kept Garlan from being too irritated.

Not that the other girls needed any excuse. His cousin Desmara Redwyne kept smacking his ass and laughing, while a clearly sloshed Delena Florent tugged at his doublet, urging her cousin Selyse to do the same. Those were just the faces he recognized.

When finally deposited in his bedchamber, his doublet had been torn off, shirt half unbuttoned, and trousers rumpled but was otherwise modest. Wanting to mumble a curse, all words escaped him at the sight of his wife.

Melissa Tyrell sat on the bed, equally rumpled but whose dress remained intact. She leaned back, hands bracing her while looking at him - one eye covered by a curtain of raven hair. She was beautiful, and from his manly desire and boyish nerves Garlan was rooted mute and unmoving.

Seeing her youthful husband in this state, Melissa pushed her hair behind her ear and smiled at him comfortingly. "Garlan, dear?" They mutually decided to refer to each other's first names. "Come here." She stood, beckoning him to come forward. Recovering some of his composure, he did so. Smartly, she hugged him beneath his own arms - they were the same height. "Your grandmother told my father that you are… not experienced with a woman's touch."

He flushed red, only partially soothed by her soft skin and gentle fragrance against his cheek. "I… I've kissed and touched… but…"

"It's alright, I understand." She pulled back, cupping his cheek. "We have no airs anymore, so allow me to take the lead." For Melissa, her brother's schemes to earn a much better match for her were unwelcome, especially when a boy young enough to be her son was chosen. But Garlan seemed genuine - kind and handsome. Considering Tanton had been a neglectful, arrogant man that gave her no pleasure, what woman wouldn't want a virile young man as a lover? "If it pleases you?"

Garlan, gulping, nodded. "Aye, Melissa. Just go slow for now… till I get the… hand of it." He almost croaked, both from nerves and desire. At her chuckle, she pulled him into a kiss.

And take the lead she did, gently but forcefully pushing him to the bed and straddling him - their clothes discarded behind them. Their kisses grew full of lust, a feeling they both had for the other in lieu of romantic love or the deep comfort of those longtime married. When Melissa finally lowered herself upon him, Garlan felt his world melt away. It was only the two of them in that moment, her finishing the coming of age that the Battle of the Bells had started, heralding the coming of the newest Lord Tyrell.

After, where he had taken the lead and brought her to shatter twice in succession, Melissa slept curled in his arms while Garlan stared at the ceiling. Mind lost in thought. He hadn't chosen her out of love as he truly wished, but perhaps they would become as his father and mother did.

Garlan felt sleep overtake him, soul removed of much of his burden.

"Gods…" murmured Nymeria Sand. "She's almost as good as father."

Arms crossed, the oft acerbic Obara Sand was quite hard to impress - but the female fighter before her clearly had. "Who knew the North could produce those that rival our glorious ancestor?"

Rhaenys clapped her hands. "That's my muna!" In that moment, all she ever wished to be was a warrior like Lyanna.

Sweat slippery on her forehead, Lyanna darted back several steps. Her muscles ached and burned and she needed a moment's distance. Her breaths heavy in the late winter's cold. "Problem, your Grace?" commented Lord Alliser Thorne, pacing like a lion overlooking a wounded deer. "We can stop if you like?"

Lyanna's eyes narrowed. The newfound Lord of Duskendale and acting Master-at-Arms was eminently loyal and respectful, but under that one could tell his general disdain and low mettle for female fighters. Nothing she hadn't endured her entire life. "Not in your lifetime, Lord Alliser," she replied evenly, spinning her blade back into place. It wasn't as fluid in her hands as Wolfsbane, but just about. "I don't intend to lose."

"We'll see about that." Clutching his own greatsword in two hands, Alliser quickly closed the gap to lock blades with his Queen.

And such was what Dacey Mormont walked in on. Dressed in boiled leather and her chestnut hair tied back in a tight ponytail, Lyanna traded blows with Lord Alliser, using her innate agility to avoid the powerful strikes and lunges. Dancing away from Thorne's attacks.

"Lady Dacey." She looked down to see Oberyn's two girls around their cousin. They seemed… a cross between bored and amused. "How long with her Grace keep toying with him?"

Smirking, Dacey watched Lya duck back, allowing her to parry a slash. "I give it a minute."

Obara shrugged. "I give it eleven seconds."

Turned out that Obara was closer in her prediction. Feinting left, Lyanna spared a split-second for a smirk as Lord Alliser took the bait. Swinging wide but missing as she lunged right and tripped up his legs. With a cry, Thorne toppled to the ground, soon finding a sparring blade pointed at his throat. "Yield?" Lyanna said smugly.

Sighing, Thorne nodded. "Aye. Yield."

Claps resonated from the few watchers. "Good show, your Grace," Barristan called out.

"Go muna!" Rhaenys cheered.

Ever the lady, Lyanna helped Thorne up. "You are a worthy opponent, Lord Alliser."

He nodded. "Aye, and you fight with the skill of three knights. I am impressed." From him, that was genuine and not faint praise. "I'll fetch over a jug of wine." He motioned to the servants.

"Water please," Lyanna called out. Turning, she ran into Dacey holding out a washcloth. "Dace… oh, thank you." Taking the cloth, she wiped her soaked forehead. "Was looking for one of these."

"Always ready to help, my Queen," Dacey replied. "Are you doing well?" There was not any decent way to approach the subject - especially with Rhaenys around - so Dacey intended to be quick and blunt about it.

Lya shrugged. "As well as can be… there seems to be some sort of black cloud hanging over all of us." What with Oberyn's increasingly hushed conversations with Rhaegar, increased military presence in the city, and Qyburn issuing bizarre directives about baths and washing, she couldn't parse it. Not to mention… Lya shook her head. She wouldn't think about it.

But unluckily for her, Dacey wasn't going to let it go. "Does that involve Elia?"

Eyes finding her friend, Lyanna narrowed them. "No, we're fine." Liar. "I'm not talking about it."

"You have to. I need to know as your friend." Dacey placed a hand on Lyanna's. "I already heard her side of the story, and I…"

"Wait… she talked to you about me?" Lya was shocked.

"She's going for you."

"She's undermining you."

"No love... wants to destroy your son."

"A threat he is."

The voice, it bombarded her. Crippling her with its malevolence. In her pain and worry, a dark thought came to her. "Is she trying to turn you against me?"

Dacey's heart pounded. "No… it's not like that at all…"

But Lyanna wasn't listening. "Was this all a game to her?" I thought she truly loved me… The guilt of it all was predicated on that, but was it all for nothing? Was she simply seduced? "Gods… I'm a fool…"

Before she could speak any further - before Dacey could interject and stop the situation from spiralling beyond recognition - a crash of pottery and liquid startled them both. A jug of water had shattered upon the tile, spilling its contents and scattering shards of pottery in all directions. "Watch your clumsiness!" barked Thorne, scowling at the young servant currently leaning against one of the columns.

On second glance practically holding himself upright by clutching to the column. "Apologies…" he murmured, shivering. "My Lord… your… Graces…" Each word seemed to be agonizing to speak, a sheen of sweat covering a clammy face. He breathed hard, almost wheezing.

Blinking, Lyanna took a step forward. "Are you alright?" She didn't know this servant, but was always kind to them. One of the reasons the staff adored her.

Knees wobbling, the servant's eyes were bloodshot as he met Lyanna's gaze. "I… I… I…" Without warning he coughed out a spray of blood. Shaking all over, his knees finally gave way and pitched to the ground, sprawled out motionlessly.

Lyanna gasped. "Fetch Maester Qyburn!" she cried, attempting to go to his side, but Dacey stopped her. "What are you doing?"

"There's a plague, Lya," Dacey whispered.

"Don't go, your Grace!" Barristan added, the brave knight himself stepping further away from the dying man.

Darting forward before her cousins could react, Rhaenys approached the servant. "Muna, his shirt is all red…"

Processing all told to her, Lyanna's maternal instincts kicked in. "RHAE!" Hearing her muna scream, Rhaenys stopped in her tracks. "Get over here, now!" Without further prompting she ran to Lyanna, who hugged her protectively. "Stay away from those like that, alright?"

Rhaenys was trembling herself. "Alright, muna."

Thorne for his part was ashen. "Bloody rash, breathing difficulties… it's the Red Plague." He waved at two of the guards. "Bring torches and pitch! We're burning this body - all gates to the Red Keep are to be sealed at once!"

Too little too late.

The Red Plague had come for House Targaryen.

A/N: Not good at all.

While the coming plague can't end any way but horribly, there were some good moments in the chapter. Rhaella finally gets her groove on - she deserves happiness.

Garlan will have to live with Olenna's manipulations for him - hopefully he'll make the best of it. Could def be worse.

If I get 35 comments, I'll post on Friday.