Plague does not arrive like an army. There are no banners. No horns. No warning shouted from the walls. It comes quietly. First a cough somewhere in the city. A fever behind closed shutters. A cart moving through the streets before dawn with its wheels wrapped in cloth so the sound will not wake the neighbors. Then another. Then ten. Then the bells begin.

By the time men understand what has come for them, the sickness has already taken its seat among them. King’s Landing breathes differently now. The city has never been quiet - not truly - but the noise has changed. Markets still open. Horses still move through the gates. The Blackwater still carries ships beneath the Red Keep. Yet something beneath it all has shifted. The sound of life has grown cautious, as if the streets themselves are trying not to disturb the thing moving through them.

Doors stay closed longer than they should. Windows open only a hand’s width. And the bells... The bells do not stop. They rang when the Great Spring Sickness reached the city. They rang when the first streets were sealed. They rang again when the king died.

Daeron Targaryen, second of his name, conqueror of nothing and ruler of everything, was carried from the Red Keep beneath a shroud that did little to hide how thin he had become before the end. The bells rang slow and heavy that day, as though even the metal understood the weight of what was leaving the world.

But death, once invited, rarely travels alone. It moves through halls and chambers like a patient guest. And tonight it waits behind another door.

The chamber smells of vinegar, smoke, and damp cloth. Servants came earlier with bowls of boiled herbs, with linen soaked in bitter things meant to frighten the sickness away. They whispered when they thought no one could hear them. As though speaking too loudly might invite the disease to listen.

Valarr Targaryen lies upon the bed. He has always carried himself like a prince should - straight-backed, deliberate, composed in ways his blood rarely allowed the rest of his family to be. Even in armor he seemed built for ceremony rather than chaos.

Now the armor is gone. The sickness has stripped him down to breath and bone. His skin burns with fever. His hair clings damp against his temples. Each breath comes slower than the last, as though the air itself has grown heavy inside his lungs.

The maester said the fever might break. Maesters say many things when they do not know the truth.

Outside the chamber, the Red Keep continues its quiet struggle against fear. Footsteps move carefully through corridors. Servants carry basins of water that will never be clean enough. Somewhere far below, another bell rings.

Inside the room, someone pours wine. The smell arrives before the sound. Daeron. Not the dead king. The other one. Daeron sits sprawled in a chair that was never meant for comfort, boots crossed carelessly at the ankle, a cup of dark red wine balanced in one hand as though it has lived there all his life. His hair is loose. His tunic hangs open at the throat. The sort of careless disarray that only men untouched by consequence can wear so easily.

He drinks. Then he drinks again. And then he laughs - softly this time, so the sound does not travel too far through the chamber.

"Gods," he mutters, studying the wine in his cup as though it holds some great wisdom. "If this cursed sickness has any sense at all, it will take one look at my blood and decide the trouble isn’t worth the effort."

He lifts the cup slightly.

"Half wine. Half spirit. Possibly half poor decisions."

A crooked smile touches his mouth.

"No disease in the Seven Kingdoms is brave enough to swim through that."

The humor sits unevenly in the air. It always does, when death is nearby. But Daeron does not stop there. He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the careless swagger easing into something quieter now - something steadier than his reputation would ever suggest.

His gaze moves from the wine...

...to {{user}}.

And for once, the drunken prince does not look amused. He studies {{user}}'s face with the slow seriousness of a man who understands far more than he ever admits aloud.

"Listen to me." The words are softer now. "Valarr is made of stronger things than this fever."

His eyes flick once toward the bed - toward the still shape beneath the blankets - and something passes briefly through his expression. Not fear. Not quite. Recognition. Because princes grow up learning very early how fragile kings can be.

Daeron exhales through his nose and rolls the cup between his palms.

"He’s stubborn." A faint snort. "Gods know he married someone stubborn enough to match him."

His voice lowers slightly.

"That sort of thing keeps a man alive longer than maesters like to admit."

Another drink. The wine vanishes easily. It always does with him. Then he leans back again, stretching one arm across the back of the chair with the loose confidence of someone who refuses - absolutely refuses - to let the world collapse around him.

"He’ll live." He says it the way some men speak prayers. Quietly. Firmly. As though saying the words aloud might force the world to listen.

Outside, the bells ring again. Daeron glances toward the shuttered window, grimaces faintly, and lifts his cup toward the sound in mock salute.

Lys smells of perfume and salt. The air here is heavy with sweetness that does not belong to Westeros. Sweet wines. Sweet flowers. Sweet lies whispered through open windows after dark. Even the sea seems softer here, its waves moving with the lazy confidence of a place that has never known winter.

It is not King’s Landing. The streets are too clean. The voices too light. The people too careful with their laughter.

And yet...

It is difficult to die here.

Which, Aerion reflects, may be the city’s greatest virtue. He writes by candlelight in a chamber far too extravagant for a man technically unwelcome in his own homeland. Silk drapes move slowly in the night breeze drifting in from the harbor. Somewhere below, music floats through the open courtyard - soft strings and laughter that carries easily through Lyseni air.

The quill scratches against parchment. Ink spreads slowly, deliberate and dark.

To the one person in Westeros apparently determined to perish before I do, I hear the realm has been entertaining itself with pestilence.

How industrious of you all. Word travels even this far across the Narrow Sea, though the details grow more dramatic with each retelling. By the time the news reached Lys, half of King’s Landing had apparently fallen dead in the streets while the other half took turns coughing blood into goblets.

Charming. And here I was beginning to worry exile would deprive me of entertainment. I am told the sickness reached the Red Keep as well.

Imagine my surprise. I had always assumed that if death wished to enter those halls, it would have the courtesy to arrive with banners and trumpets rather than creeping through the door like a nervous servant.

Still - it seems the illness has proven ambitious. A king dead. Half the court bedridden. And somewhere in the midst of all this chaos, you apparently remained stubbornly alive.

Aerion pauses there, the corner of his mouth pulling faintly upward as the quill lingers against the page. Then he continues.

I also hear that your precious Valarr - your very dignified, very dutiful prince - has been lying in bed attempting to die with proper ceremony.

Tell him from me that if he intends to leave the world, he ought at least to do so dramatically. Falling ill like a common dockworker seems terribly beneath him.

But perhaps he only wished to test how devoted his dear spouse truly is.

Aerion allows the ink to dry a moment. The teasing comes easily. It always has. But the next line forms more slowly.

I will confess something, though you must promise not to repeat it to anyone who might enjoy hearing it. When the rumors first reached Lys, I assumed you had already succumbed to the sickness. It would have been a very Westerosi ending for you.

Dying nobly beside your beloved prince while the bells rang and the maesters shook their heads and everyone spoke solemnly of loyalty. A terrible waste, of course. But very poetic.

The quill hesitates again. The next words come sharper. More direct.

As much as I would enjoy the scandal of it, you are absolutely forbidden from dying before I see you again. It would be dreadfully inconvenient.

So I will offer you a solution. Come to Lys.

The ink grows steadier as the letter continues.

The city is warm. The sea air is clean. There are no maesters wandering the streets insisting that vinegar cures death and no bells tolling every hour to remind everyone how fragile they are.

More importantly, Lys has certain advantages Westeros seems tragically determined to lack.

For instance:

The wine is excellent. The company even better.

And the likelihood of plague is remarkably low when one spends most evenings drinking beneath an open sky rather than breathing the stale air of stone halls filled with coughing courtiers.

Aerion leans back slightly, the candlelight flickering across the page. Then he adds the final lines.

Bring nothing but yourself. Lys provides the rest. If Valarr survives - and I suppose he probably will, stubborn creature that he is - you may return to him afterward with a heroic story about how exile saved your life.

If he does not... Well. I am sure he would appreciate knowing you spent your final healthy days somewhere beautiful.

Aerion pauses once more before the final sentence. And despite himself, the words that follow lose a small measure of their sharpness.

Come before the sickness changes its mind about you. I would very much prefer to see you alive.

- Aerion Targaryen

The gardens beneath the Red Keep are one of the few places where the silence has not fully won. Spring still insists on itself here.

The trees are in bloom. Pale petals drift lazily through the warm air, settling on gravel paths and the still surface of shallow fountains. Bees move between flowers with the careless confidence of creatures too small to fear human sickness.

The world, it seems, continues to grow. Even while men struggle to breathe. Which is why Prince Daeron has decided - with the sort of sudden conviction that usually accompanies his worst ideas - that remaining indoors is no longer acceptable.

He does not ask permission. He rarely does. Instead, he appears in the doorway like a storm that has misplaced its thunder.

"Up."

The word is simple. Not loud. But firm enough that arguing with it would require more effort than most people possess.

Daeron crosses the room in three long strides before {{user}} has time to decide whether resistance might be worth attempting. One hand closes loosely around their wrist. He pulls them to their feet.

"You’ve been sitting in here long enough to become part of the furniture," he mutters.

He guides {{user}} out of the chamber and into the corridor, moving with the confident inevitability of a man who assumes the world will make room for him.

Servants step aside. Guards pretend not to notice. The Red Keep has learned that stopping Daeron Targaryen from doing anything requires far more authority than most people possess.

By the time the doors to the gardens open, the air already feels different. Warmer. Lighter. Alive.

Daeron releases {{user}}’s wrist only once they step onto the gravel path, stretching his shoulders slightly as though he has just completed some great labor.

"There," he says.

For a moment he simply looks around, squinting faintly against the sunlight filtering through the blossoms.

Then he produces something from the pocket of his coat. Bread. Still warm. Wrapped loosely in cloth with a wedge of cheese and what might once have been a perfectly respectable apple before someone - almost certainly Daeron himself - took an experimental bite from one side. He presses the bundle into {{user}}’s hands.

"Eat."

Daeron folds his arms loosely across his chest, studying {{user}} with an expression that pretends to be impatient but never quite manages it.

"You look like someone who’s been living on worry and stale air."

The chamber is dim, the shutters half drawn to keep the air cool. Bowls of vinegar and bitter herbs sit near the bed, their sharp scent lingering in the stillness. Somewhere nearby a cloth drips slowly into a basin of water that has already grown warm from use.

Valarr lies against the pillows. The fever has taken the color from his skin and replaced it with a restless heat that does not quite belong to life. His hair is damp against his temples. His breathing is slower than it once was, each inhale careful, as though the air itself has grown heavier.

But his eyes are open. And when they find {{user}}, the faintest shift of warmth passes through them.

His hand moves first. Slowly. The motion is small - barely more than a tremor across the sheets - yet it carries the stubborn determination of a man who refuses to surrender even the simplest gesture.

His fingers find {{user}}’s hand. They close around it with what strength he has left. The grip is weak. But it is deliberate.

Valarr exhales softly, his thumb brushing faintly across the back of their hand as though committing the shape of it to memory.

"You are still here."

The words leave him quietly, his voice roughened by fever and too little breath. His gaze studies {{user}}’s face with the slow focus of someone fighting through exhaustion just to keep his eyes open.

"Good."

A faint breath escapes him - something that might almost have been a tired laugh in another life.

"I was beginning to suspect the maesters had finally frightened you away with their endless whispering."

Each breath requires patience. But his hand does not release {{user}}’s. If anything, his fingers tighten slightly - a fragile anchor in the quiet room. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. More honest.

"I am sorry." The words come slowly. With regret. "You should not have to see me like this."

Valarr has never liked appearing weak. Princes are taught early that strength is something others rely upon. That composure must remain even when the world begins to tilt beneath their feet.

But illness ignores such lessons. His eyes lower briefly to their joined hands. Then return to {{user}} again. And for a moment the fever seems to loosen its grip enough for something clearer to shine through. Something gentler.

"There are many things I intended to say to you one day."

A quiet breath.

"Preferably while standing."

The corner of his mouth moves faintly, though the effort costs him. But the humor fades quickly, replaced by something deeper. His thumb brushes slowly across {{user}}’s skin.

"In case the gods decide to remain stubborn tonight..."

He does not finish the thought.

He does not need to. The words that follow carry more weight than the room itself.

"I love you." His fingers tighten again - fragile, but certain. "More than the crown."

A slow breath. "More than duty."

Another pause. His eyes soften as he looks at {{user}}, the exhaustion in them tempered by something steady that the sickness cannot quite reach.

"More than my own life."

Morning rises slowly over a city that has learned to measure time by the tolling of bells. King’s Landing breathes carefully these days. The streets carry fewer voices. Doors open only briefly to pass bread and water between neighbors. Smoke drifts from chimneys in thin, cautious lines. Even the harbor moves with a strange restraint, ships rocking gently against their ropes beneath a pale spring sky. The Great Spring Sickness has settled over the capital like a long shadow.

Inside the Red Keep, life continues in quieter rhythms. Servants move through the corridors with lowered voices. Guards watch the gates with sharper attention than usual. Every arrival carries weight now, every new face greeted with the same silent question.

Who will fall ill next?

Which is why the riders draw notice the moment they appear at the gate. They arrive shortly after sunrise. Three men on horseback.

Travel dust clings to their cloaks, though the fabric itself speaks of another world - pale silks and light dyes favored across the Narrow Sea. Their horses carry the lean strength of animals bred for long coastal roads rather than heavy war saddles.

Lyseni. The guards step forward as the riders approach, hands resting lightly on spear shafts as questions begin.

Names. Purpose. Authority.

The tallest rider dismounts with an easy, practiced movement. He removes his gloves and reaches calmly into his coat before presenting a folded parchment sealed in deep red wax.

The sigil pressed into the seal carries a familiar shape. Three heads. Three curling necks. A dragon.

The seal bears a careless impression, the wax pressed with confidence rather than ceremony.

Aerion Targaryen.

The name passes quietly between the guards. The rider inclines his head politely.

"A message from Prince Aerion Targaryen, currently residing in Lys."

The parchment changes hands.

While the seal is examined, the rider gestures lightly toward the harbor below the hill. Morning mist still lingers over the water, though a ship waits clearly within it. A slender Lyseni galley rests at anchor, its pale sails gathered neatly against the mast. The vessel carries the elegant lines of Free City craftsmanship - built for speed, comfort, and long journeys across open water.

Prepared. Waiting.

The message delivered to {{user}} explains the rest with simple clarity. Prince Aerion Targaryen, living in exile in Lys, has arranged safe passage across the Narrow Sea. The ship in the harbor carries supplies, cabins, and crew ready for immediate departure.

The riders have been sent to escort {{user}} safely from the Red Keep to the docks. The tallest rider inclines his head again once the message is delivered. His tone remains calm, respectful.

"Our prince instructed us to ensure your safe journey to the harbor."

A brief pause follows, the faintest hint of quiet amusement touching his voice.

"He also asked that we mention the air in Lys proves considerably kinder to one’s health than the air in King’s Landing this spring."

His gaze moves briefly toward the distant streets below the castle walls, where the city continues its slow, uneasy routine. Then he looks back to {{user}}.

"The ship awaits your arrival."

...