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The Great Spring Sickness, the maesters had taken to calling it. A grand name for a grand dying. Half the lords in the Crownlands had perished from it in the last moon's turn, and more were falling still. Valarr had succumbed not three weeks past, and Matarys barely five days after. The last of Baelor's line, gone in the span of a sevennight and it was as if she had died with his sons.
Baelor had been hers in a way that none of her other children were. More Martell than Targaryen, that one. No purple eyes, no silver hair, none of the strange and troubling proclivities his father's bloodline was known for. He had been warm and laughing and alive in the way only Dornishmen were alive, as though the sun had gotten into his blood and would not let him dim.
Valarr and Matarys had taken after him. They laughed easily, as Baelor had laughed. They filled rooms with warmth, tracking sand and sunlight through halls built for shadow and ash. When they were together it was as though Sunspear itself had found some clever way to root and bloom in the drafty corridors of King's Landing, defiantly refusing to bow to the damp and the dark.
The sickness had taken them from her and now it meant to take Daeron as well.
It was a peculiar thing, this sickness. Sometimes a strong man would wake healthy in the morning and be dead by evening, struck down so swiftly it seemed less a disease than a judgment by the Father above. She remembered her grandson laughing at one of her jokes as they broke their fast, sunlight spilling across the table and catching in his hair. He had kissed her cheek when he rose and by nightfall his body lay cold beneath the sheets.
With Daeron it was slower. Four days past came the fever, burning hot enough that the fresh bedclothes were soaked through within hours. Then came a great cough that started deep in the chest and worked its way up until Daeron could barely draw breath without pain. Then the rash that spread across his skin, worst on his chest and arms. Within four days this thing had turned her husband, who enjoyed riding and hawking and walking the gardens of the keep with her, into someone who could barely lift his head from the pillow.
Grand Maester Pellisar had given him milk of the poppy and dreamwine and every other potion in his considerable arsenal, and none had made any difference. The fever did not break. It only climbed, and climbed, and Daeron with it, rising toward some invisible summit that Myriah could not follow him to.
Now she sat beside the bed with her hands folded in her lap; hands that were older than she remembered them being, though she supposed that was the way of things. One day you were young and your hands were smooth and the world was full of promise, and the next day you were old and your hands were spotted and lined and everyone you had ever loved was dead or dying.
Outside the chamber doors she knew that Maekar was waiting. Her son had come this morning, had stood outside the doors and asked (quietly, for Maekar, who was not a man given to quiet) if he might see his father. Myriah had told him no.
She loved Maekar, loved him as fiercely as she loved all her children, but she could not let him through that door. The bad air that carried the sickness still lingered in the chamber, waiting to claim another victim. She would not have her son stand here and breathe death into his lungs simply so he could say goodbye to a father who might not even wish to see him.
She did not fear it for herself. She had sat vigil beside Valarr's bed as the fever took him, had held Matarys's hand through his final shuddering hours, had breathed the same poisoned air that had stolen them both away. If the sickness had wanted her, it would have claimed her by now. But Maekar still had years ahead of him. Duties to attend to. Children of his own to raise.
Of course, there was also the other reason. The last words between father and son had been spoken in anger after Ashford, where Baelor had died in that stupid, pointless trial by combat. An accident, but Daeron had not seen it as such. Her husband, who had never in his life spoken harshly to any of his sons, who had been patient and gentle and inclined to forgive, had looked at Maekar after Baelor's death and said words that could not be unsaid. Daeron blamed Maekar, and Maekar blamed himself. To her knowledge, the two had not spoken since.
Myriah had not defended her son. She had told herself it was better to let the words pass, better not to widen the rift by choosing sides. There would be time later, she had thought. Time to mend what grief had torn apart. Time to sit them both down and make them see reason, make them understand that blame solved nothing and changed nothing and only left everyone miserable.
But time, it turned out, was not as generous as she had believed. Time lay curled beside Daeron's bed, slipping through her fingers. There would be no mending, only a father dying without forgiving his son, and a son left to carry that knowledge to his own grave.
So no. She could not let Maekar in. If she could give her husband nothing else—if she could not stop the fever, could not call back the dead, could not undo the forty years of work that they had put in this nest only to see it come apart in a single spring—then she could give him peace. She could sit with him in the quiet, and hold his hand, and let him go gently.
Mother above, hear my prayer, she thought. He has been a good man. He has been kind. Let him go gently. Do not make him suffer. Please. If you have any mercy at all, let him go gently.
She had brought work with her; a length of linen stretched across a wooden frame, and a pattern she had stitched so many times over the years that her fingers knew it without thought. A dragon coiled around a sun. The sigils of their houses, twined together. She had made this image a hundred times if she had to guess. On banners and tapestries and the hems of gowns. On the blankets she had made for each of her grandchildren when they were born. On the pillows she had gifted to Daeron on their tenth anniversary.
In, out, pull the thread taut. In, out, watch the pattern emerge. Red for the dragon's scales, gold for the flame curling from its mouth. Yellow and orange for the sun's rays.
It was late afternoon, or perhaps early evening, when Daeron stirred. "Myriah?"
Her hands went still on the fabric. She set the work down and turned to look at him, her heart beating too fast in her chest. He had been so quiet for so long that she had almost convinced herself he would not wake again.
"I am here." She reached out and took his hand. "I am here, my love."
Daeron blinked. His eyes moved around the room as though he were trying to place where he was. "Is it… is it evening already? I thought… I thought there was more time."
"Yes, love." You are dying. You have been dying for days. There is no time, nor is there a tomorrow. "Yes, it is evening."
"The wedding," Daeron said. He tried to sit up, and Myriah gently pressed him back down against the pillows. "The wedding is tomorrow. I must… I must prepare. I cannot… I do not want to be late."
The maesters had told her of this as well, how the fever took its victims back to other times and other places. Made them young again, or old again, drifting through the years like leaves on the wind.
"You will not be late. I promise you."
"Good, good—" He broke off, coughing hard. Myriah reached for the cloth beside the bed and held it to his mouth, murmuring soft, useless comforts as she always did. When she drew it away, the fabric was stained dark.
"I hear your father has called for the musicians already. Are they in the square outside?"
"Yes, he thought it prudent to have them practice before the ceremony." There had been no music in this place for weeks, no sound at all except sickness and grief and the march of death.
"It is beautiful," Daeron murmured. "I have never… I have never heard anything so beautiful."
A smile touched his mouth. It was a ghost of what she remembered from their youth; small and shy and almost hesitant, as though he were not quite certain he was allowed to be happy. Daeron had smiled like that often in the early years of their marriage. He had been soft, her husband. Kind to the point that she had wondered, sometimes, if the cruel tongues at court were right. If old Aegon had truly not been his father, if perhaps Aemon the Dragonknight had sired him in secret, and half the realm had conspired to pretend otherwise.
What a story that would have been. Her husband, son to the greatest knight who ever lived, the product of some doomed and beautiful love affair.
But it was lies. She was sure of that now, had been sure of it for years. Aegon had been Daeron's father, no matter how much anyone might have wished it otherwise. The cruelty in the old king's blood had simply skipped her husband, choosing to land instead in other places; in Daemon, in Brynden, even in the darker corners of Maekar's temper. But Daeron himself had been spared.
She lowered her eyes to their joined hands, to his face, so thin and worn and beloved, and she thought: This is the last time. This is the last time I will sit with him like this. The last time I will hold his hand. The last time I will hear his voice.
And so she said: "Dance with me."
"Dance?" He closed his eyes, opened them again. "I am… I am not very good at dancing, you know. My mother says I have two left feet."
"You dance beautifully." He had never been graceful, that was true. But there had always been an earnestness to the way he moved that she had always found endearing. He tried, and he did not complain, and he held her.
"I do not want to embarrass you," said Daeron. "In front of… in front of your family. They are watching. I know they do not… they do not think I am—"
"Hush." She forced a smile and rose from her chair. Her legs hurt—she had been sitting too long, and her joints were stiff and sore—but she ignored them. She helped him sit up, helped him swing his legs over the side of the bed, helped him stand on feet that could barely hold his weight. He swayed, and she caught him, her arms encircling his waist.
"I do not know if I can. I am… I am not strong enough."
"You are strong enough," said Myriah. "I will help you. Just lean on me. I will not let you fall."
They could not move, nor could they turn. They could not do any of the things that dancing required. But they swayed to music only Daeron could hear clearly and she held him close and let herself remember.
The music was there, if she listened for it. The great drums and lutes and harps that had played in the sept, the best musicians in all the Seven Kingdoms brought together to celebrate the union of Dorne and the Iron Throne. They had both been so young. Children, really, dressed up in silk and velvet and told to play at being future king and queen. She had been terrified that day; terrified of him, of the court, of the life that had been stretched out before her like an unfamiliar road with no map to guide her. But Daeron had taken her hand, and he had smiled at her, and they had danced, and she had thought: Perhaps this will not be so terrible after all.
And it had not been terrible. It had been difficult, yes. There had been pain and loss and grief enough for ten lifetimes. There had been nights when she had wept into her pillow and wished herself back in Dorne, back in the sun, back in the place where she was simply Princess Myriah and not Myriah the Queen of a Kingdom in misery. But there had been good things too. There had been laughter and warmth and the slow, sure building of something that mattered. There had been children. There had been him.
Daeron's face was against her shoulder and the swaying had stopped. He was too weak now, too far gone. She helped him back to the bed, laid him down gently among the pillows, pulled the blankets up around him with care.
"That was— " Daeron coughed once more. "That was lovely. Thank you."
"You are most welcome," Myriah said. She sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand again. "You danced beautifully."
"Did I?" He sounded pleased, like a child receiving praise. "I was afraid I would… would step on your feet. I always… I always worry about that."
"You worry too much. You are a fine dancer, my lord. Better than you give yourself credit for."
"You are kind to say so. Though I think… I think you may be biased." Daeron's smile widened, just slightly. "As fine as this all was, I think it is time for you to go."
Myriah blinked. "Go?"
"To your own chambers. It is… it is unseemly, you know. To spend the night with your betrothed only one day before the wedding proper." He coughed again, and this time the blood came even more freely. Myriah wiped it away and said nothing. "There will be evil tongues about. Whispers. I do not… I do not want anyone to think poorly of you, my sun."
The tears came at last, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. She had held them back for so long, but hearing my sun in his voice, broke whatever walls she'd build around her heart. He had called her that on their wedding night, a lifetime of love and hardships ago. They had been alone in the chamber for the first time, awkward and nervous and neither of them knowing quite what to say or do, and he had looked at her in that way he did and he had said: "You are like the sun. I did not know that before. But you are."
And she had laughed, because it was either laugh or weep, and she had said: "The sun is Dornish. You best get used to it."
"I will," he said. "I think I already have."
She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, trying to compose herself, but it was no use. "I will stay until you fall asleep, then… then I will go. I promise."
Daeron regarded her for a long moment. His eyes were glassy, the purple of them turned almost silver by the fever, but there was something gentle in them still. Even here at the very end of all things.
"If you are certain. I do not want to… to compromise you."
"You could never compromise me." She reached up with her free hand and smoothed the damp silver hair back from his forehead. His skin was burning beneath her palm, so hot that it almost hurt to touch. "Never, my love. You are too good for that."
Daeron closed his eyes. He was quiet for a long while, and Myriah thought perhaps he had drifted off. But then he spoke again, his voice even fainter than before. "It is so warm… is it always like this? In Sunspear?"
She nodded, though he could no longer see her. "Yes, my love. It is always like this. Always warm. But it will— " She had to swallow against the sob that was trying to claw its way out of her throat. "It will cool. Once you are asleep, once the sun sets… it will cool, and you will be comfortable."
"I am glad," he whispered. His breathing was slowing now, deepening, and she could feel the moment when his body began to let go; when the tension left his shoulders and his hand went slack in hers and he drifted down into whatever place the fever had made for him. "That is… that is good. I would like… I would like to sleep. I am very tired, my sun."
"I know." She kissed his forehead and felt her heart break clean in two. "Sleep well, my love. I will bring you breakfast in bed tomorrow, and we will sit together and talk about nothing at all. Would you like that?"
"Nothing at all... I would… like that." Daeron echoed, and then there was only breathing.
It went on much longer than she expected. Each breath came slower than the one before, with frightening pauses between. She found herself counting the gaps: One heartbeat. Two. Three. Four. Then his chest would rise again, a defiant thing, and she would begin the count anew.
Death came for the King of the Seven Kingdoms without fanfare. There was no rattle, no final word, no great moment worthy of the singers. One breath simply failed to follow the one before it. She counted five heartbeats, then ten, then twenty. His chest did not rise again.
The calmness she felt was surprising. She had thought that when the last thread snapped, the entire tapestry would unravel and leave her with nothing. But she was not broken, only tired and old. The grief would come later, she supposed. It would come in the small hours of the morning when she reached across the bed and found only cold pillows. It would come when she walked the gardens and no one was there to take her arm, when she broke her fast alone, when she heard some jest that would have made Daeron laugh and turned to share it with him only to remember that he was not there.
Maekar was there when she opened the door, sitting on the ground with his back pressed to the wall. He looked up when he heard her and Myriah saw the question in his eyes before he could speak it.
"He is gone," she said quietly.
Maekar's face did not change. He stood, blinked and nodded once. "Did he… did he ask for me?"
The lie was there, sweet and kind and exactly what a grieving son would want to hear. Yes, he asked for you. He forgave you. He whispered your name and sent his love. It would cost her nothing to give him that. One small untruth to ease a burden her son would carry for the remainder of his life.
But Daeron had made a practice of honesty in this family, even when it hurt. She would not stop now.
"No," she said. "He did not know where he was. He thought… he thought it was the night before our wedding. He was young again, in his mind. Nervous and hopeful and untouched by any of this."
"I see." His eyes flicked past her shoulder to the chamber behind, a single muscle working in his jaw.
Her son had always been like that, iron on the outside, with all the fire banked deep where no one could warm themselves by it. Even as a boy he had learned to keep his face still, to give away nothing, believing feelings were best held tight in a clenched fist. Myriah had watched men praise him for it, watched it harden into habit, and habit into armor, until she could no longer tell where Maekar ended and the mask began.
"He went peacefully," Myriah added, because she could give him that much at least. "There was no pain at the end. Only confusion, and then sleep. He did not suffer, Maekar."
"Good. That is... good."
They stood in silence, mother and son, and Myriah thought they must make a very sorry picture indeed. How have I failed so badly at this? How is it that I can sit with a dying man and ease his passing, but I cannot comfort my own child?
She held out her hand. The gesture felt stiff, nothing at all like the easy affection she'd shown Baelor, Aerys or even Rhaegel in his better moments.
Maekar looked at her offered hand for a long moment. Then, just as stiffly, he took it.
His hand was so much larger than hers, rough with calluses from the sword and mace, the fingers thick and strong. It swallowed her own completely. She thought of the last time she must've held his hand like this—when he was still small enough to need leading through the corridors. That boy was gone. This man had learned too well how to stand alone.
She squeezed once and gave him a small smile. I am here, it was meant to convey. You are not alone in this.
Her son did not smile back.