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“He [Trystane] had redspots when he was four, I told you. You can only get it once.” […] No one under ten ever died of redspots, but it could be mortal in adults, and Maester Caleotte had never suffered it as a child. Arianne learned that when she suffered her own spots, at eight.
~ A Feast for Crows
There's some bitterness from Mellario about this, because as Prince of Dorne, Doran has been able to stay with his children and she has had to leave them.
~ GRRM
Arianne swiftly intercepted Trystane’s clawing, wandering fingers before they could reach his face. “You mustn’t scratch the spots. They will leave a hideous scar if you do.”
“But they itch!” her brother complained. “They really, really do.”
“You should think about something else, and then you will forget how much they itch. Think about playing in the Water Gardens again. Close your eyes, and imagine your feet running on the pink marble. Do you see them?”
Trystane refused to close his eyes.
“Trys?”
“I won’t forget,” he insisted. “I know I won’t.”
“Should I tell you another bedtime story?”
He nodded eagerly.
“Do you want to hear a story about Princess Nymeria, or Princess Daenerys?”
But Trystane did not want to hear yet another story about Princess Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. Or about Princess Daenerys and the children in the Water Gardens.
“Tell me a different story.”
“If you promise not to scratch your face, I will tell you another story. It’s a story Mother told me when I was ill with redspots.”
Trystane stared at his sister with disbelief. “When did you have redspots? I don’t remember that.”
Arianne laughed. “That’s because you were not born yet at the time. How could you remember something that happened before you were born?”
Trystane studied his sister’s face. “You don’t have any scar.”
“That’s right. Because I was a good girl and I didn’t scratch. Can you be a good boy, Trys?”
Trystane nodded, settling his head on Arianne’s lap. “Now tell me the story.”
“This is a story,” Arianne began, “about a lady and her shining prince.”
“Is she a princess too, like Princess Nymeria and Princess Daenerys?”
“She is not a princess. In the kingdom she comes from, there are no princes and princesses.”
“But what about the prince? Where is he from?”
“The prince comes from another kingdom far, faaaaaar away. He travels a great distance across the sea to –“
“To win her heart with songs and stories,” Trystane declared solemnly, repeating the words from an earlier bedtime story Arianne had told him.
Arianne smiled. “How clever of you to remember, Trys. But this is a different kind of story.”
“So the prince doesn’t win her heart with songs and stories?”
Arianne shook her head. “He is not much for singing, this prince. Or for telling stories. But it does not matter, you see, because the lady has grown weary of young men following her around, dancing attendance on her, sending her songs and verses, paying her endless compliments about the color of her eyes and the elegance of her wig. They are all much the same, these young men in her kingdom, she thinks. They claim to see her, to want her, but in truth, they see and covet her father’s great wealth even more. She is looking for something else, and one day, when the bears are dancing and the bells are ringing, she finds it. Finds him, rather. Her prince who shines so brightly in red, gold and orange.”
Trystane’s eyes had been growing smaller and smaller as sleep seemed to be beckoning him, but those black eyes were suddenly wide open. His attention was riveted on the dancing bears. “The bears are dancing? What bears? How many? Who taught the bears to dance?”
Arianne’s story digressed into the world of dancing bears for a long while, before Trystane finally asked, “What happens next?”
“To the bears?”
“Noooooo. To the lady. And her prince.”
“Well, she marries her prince, of course.”
Trystane nodded, satisfied. “And then they have babies,” he added, with certainty.
“Yes. How many, do you think?”
He quickly held up two fingers. “A boy and a girl,” he announced.
“Only two? Are you sure?” Arianne asked, tickling his feet and his stomach.
Giggling, Trystane said, “Two at first. And then … and then … and then later there is another baby.”
“A boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“A very special boy,” Arianne said, kissing her little brother’s forehead. “Do you like the story?”
He nodded. “But why didn’t Mother tell me that story? She told it to you.”
Because the shining prince, Arianne thought, turned out to be the silent prince, with many concealed secrets and an even more concealed self. And the lady had not yet discovered this fully, when she told her daughter this story, her own story.
“Maybe Mother forgot,” Arianne replied, keeping the gloomy thoughts to herself, keeping her expression cheerful for Trystane’s sake. “What stories did Mother tell you, when she came to kiss you goodnight?”
“She didn’t tell me any story. She just kissed me and cried. Sometimes she stared at me and then cried.” Then, in a whisper, Trystane asked, “Am I going to die, Arianne? Is that why Mother is so sad?”
She is sad because she wants to take you with her when she returns to Norvos, but Father will not allow it.
“It pains me as a husband and a father to refuse you, Mellario,” Arianne had overheard her father saying, “but as the Prince of Dorne, refuse you I must. The children of the Prince of Dorne must remain in Dorne, each and every one of them. It is my duty to ensure it. I cannot shirk that duty.”
It was not a thing Arianne could let slip to Trystane, however, to this vulnerable and defenseless little boy, even accidentally. “You are not going to die,” she replied forcefully. “Children don’t die from redspots, I told you that.”
“Then why is Mother so sad?”
“Because you are hurting, and mothers are always sad when their children are hurting.”
“Well, it doesn’t really hurt,” Trystane said. “It itches.”
“Does it still itch?”
“Not as much,” he admitted. Just before he closed his eyes and finally fell asleep, Trystane asked, “Do they ever see the dancing bears again, that lady and her prince?”