The morning light fell in pale strips through the narrow windows. Agnes walked with her head down, a bundle of fresh linens in her arms and a basket hooked over her elbow. Her footsteps were soft as she moved through these halls without gathering attention.
She stopped before the door.
Knocked.
A pause.
Then the door opened a crack, and Septa Fryda's face appeared. Tired. Worn. But alert.
"Agnes," Fryda said.
Agnes dipped into a small bow. "Morning, Septa. I brought the cloth and things you asked for."
Fryda's eyes softened. She reached for the bundle. "Oh. Bless the Mother. Thank you, child."
She took the linens and the basket, turning to set them on a table just inside. The door swung wider with her movement, just a little, just enough.
Agnes stepped inside.
Her eyes moved fast. Quicker than thought. The table. The chairs. Nothing noteworthy in the outer chamber. The inner door, slightly ajar, leading to where Princess Maeg—
"Agnes?"
She froze.
Gael stood in the inner doorway, her silver-gold hair loose around her shoulders, her hand still on the door handle. She looked startled, her eyes wide for just a heartbeat before she composed herself.
Fryda spun around. Her gaze went from Agnes to the open door to Agnes again.
"W-why are you inside?" Fryda's voice was sharp now, the tiredness burned away by alarm.
Agnes's face heated. She bowed quickly, too quickly, her words tumbling out. "I only wanted to help, Septa. I thought… perhaps there was something more I could do. Carry something. Fetch something. Anything."
Gael moved closer, coming to stand beside Fryda. She looked at Agnes… not unkindly, but with a stillness that made Agnes feel seen in a way she did not want to be seen.
"That will be unnecessary," Gael said gently. "We will call if we need anything."
Agnes's heart knocked against her ribs. She should stop. She should leave. But her mouth kept moving.
"It's just…" she said, and her voice came out smaller than she meant. "Septa Maegelle. She looked after my cousin once. When he was sick with fever. My aunt still talks about it. I just… I wanted to help. To give something back."
Gael and Fryda exchanged a glance. A quick one, but Agnes caught it.
Fryda's voice was warmer when she spoke again, but no less firm. "The Mother will bless you for the thought, child. Truly. But right now, only family may stay."
Agnes opened her mouth.
"King's order," Fryda said.
The words landed.
Agnes bowed her head. "O-of course. Of course. I understand."
She backed out of the room, her face hot, her hands empty now. The door closed in front of her with a soft, final click.
For a moment she stood there. Breathing. Then her face smoothed. The flustered maid was gone.
She turned and walked quickly down the corridor.
Another maid waited at the end, leaning against the wall. She pushed off when she saw Agnes approaching, lifting a hand to stop her.
"So?" The woman's voice was low, but her expression was sharp with disdain. Her eyes ran over Agnes like she was something stuck to her shoe.
"How fares the greyscale princess? What are they keeping behind that door?"
Agnes looked down at the floor. The stones were cold and grey.
She said nothing.
The other maid waited. Then her lip curled.
"Can't even do a simple thing." The words were pitched just loud enough to carry. "Useless."
Agnes's nails dug into her palms. She kept her head down.
The maid leaned closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"My lady will hear about this. I already told her a dung-scraping maid like you was worthless. If you can't find out what the royal guests are doing, expect to be kicked out the moment they leave."
Agnes's throat tightened. She forced herself to bow.
"Please," she said, her voice small. "Please ask Lady Lynesse to grant me another chance. I'll do better. I will."
The older maid scoffed. "It's already a stretch. Giving a chance to serve the royal family."
She looked at her for a long moment. Disdain. Satisfaction.
Then she turned and walked away.
Agnes stood alone in the corridor.
Starry sept
The sun had climbed high enough to clear the surrounding towers. The stone blazed bright enough to hurt the eyes.
Below, the square had filled.
They came from the warrens and alleyways, from the fish market and the tanner's row, from the shadow of the Hightower itself.
Smallfolk.
Dozens of them.
More pressed in from the sides, held back by a line of guards in Hightower grey. The crowd murmured and shifted. A hundred restless feet shuffled across the stone.
"What happened?" an old man asked, craning his neck.
"No idea. The guard just pulled me off the street..."
Nearby, a woman tried to quiet her crying child.
A man with shifty eyes shifted in place. Then a loud, wet fart tore through the air.
The people around him recoiled, hands flying to noses.
"Fuck's sake, asshole!" someone shouted.
Others cursed him too. A small circle of empty space opened around the offender, who looked vaguely pleased with himself.
Near the back, a gang of young men with roguish grins pushed forward, shoving past an old woman who stumbled.
"Oi!" The sharp cry of a nearby guard stopped them cold. They froze, then slunk back, muttering.
Slowly, the restless crowd settled.
Eyes turned forward. Toward the white steps.
On the high steps, King Jaehaerys stood straight, Queen Alysanne beside him. Baelon stood a step behind, watching the crowd.
Behind them, the Hightowers arranged themselves. Lord Hobert, hands clasped before him. Lady Lynesse, her mouth a thin line. Ormund, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
A speaker stepped forward, a portly man in the grey-and-white of the Hightower household. He raised his arms and the crowd's murmur dipped.
"His Grace, King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
The words rolled out over the square. Some of the smallfolk bowed. Others just stared.
"Her Grace, Queen Alysanne of House Targaryen, the Good Queen… who is, and always shall be!"
Another wave of bows. A child tugged at its mother's sleeve and asked something too quiet to hear.
The speaker lowered his arms. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Meant to carry, but also to mourn.
"It has pleased the Seven to try their servant." He paused. "Princess Maegelle, who has dwelt among you these many years, who has tended your sick and blessed your children… has been taken by the greyscale."
The crowd stirred. A sound ran through them, half gasp, half sigh.
"She lies now in the Hightower, attended by her family. And…" he gestured to the king and queen, "Her family wishes to ask for your prayers. For your blessings. They have brought clothes and coin for the poor of this city, as an offering, as a plea to the Mother and the Crone, that their daughter might be spared."
He stepped back.
The murmur rose again, broken into pieces, scattered across the square.
A woman near the front clutched a small child to her skirt. Her face had gone soft, her eyes wet. "She held my child's hand when the fever took him," she whispered quietly. "Held it for hours. Sang to him."
Beside her, a man with a scarred cheek and a week's growth of beard snorted. "Royals get the rot too, eh? Same as us." But his voice was low, and he looked away when he said it.
An old woman farther back made the sign of the seven-pointed star. "Poor thing," she muttered again. "Poor thing."
"Let them through," the speaker called to the guards. "One at a time. Slowly."
The line of guards parted, creating a narrow lane. Just wide enough for one.
The first to come forward was an old man. His back was bent, his hands knotted with age. He wore a patched tunic that had been washed so many times the color had gone to grey. He shuffled up the steps, stopping well short of the king and queen, and attempted a bow.
It was not a good bow. He was trying, desperately, to imitate the courtesies he had only ever glimpsed from a distance.
The queen's personal maid stepped forward. Behind her, other maids held baskets and bundles. She took a folded tunic, simple, but good cloth, warm… and a small leather pouch that clinked. She placed them in the old man's trembling hands.
He stared at them. Then he looked up at the queen.
"M-may the princess," he stammered. He swallowed. Tried again. "May she… recover. Um. Quickly. Please."
He bowed again, just as awkwardly, and shuffled away.
The woman with the child came next. She kept one hand on her boy's shoulder as she approached, her eyes fixed on Alysanne. When she reached the spot, she knelt… properly, smoothly… and pulled her son down beside her.
The maid gave them their bundle. Their coins.
The woman looked up at Alysanne. "I will pray for her," she said. Her voice was steady. "Every night. Until she is well."
Alysanne's eyes warmed. She nodded gratefully.
The woman rose and led her son away.
One by one, they came. A fishmonger with scales still on his apron. A girl so thin her collarbone showed above her dress. A man with one arm, who took his bundle and muttered, "The Crone light her way." A young woman who dramatically burst into tears and had to be led aside by a guard.
Each received their gift. Each offered some awkward, heartfelt wish. Some blessed the queen. Some blessed the princess. Some just nodded and hurried away, clutching their new clothes like they might disappear.
Behind the royal family, Ormund shifted again. It was hot. His collar itched. He leaned forward, just slightly, and whispered to his mother.
"How long is this going to go on?"
Lynesse did not turn. She was dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief, the fine linen already damp. Her voice came out low and sharp.
"Shut up and stand straight."
Ormund's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to say something else…
Hobert glanced back at him. Just a look.
Ormund closed his mouth.
The line shuffled forward. The sun climbed higher. The smallfolk came, one by one, to stand before their king and queen, to take their gifts, and to offer whatever small blessings they had.
Back in Hightower
Aegon yawned as he pushed through the door. The exhaustion had recovered somewhat after the nap.
Then he stopped.
Gael sat on the edge of the bed, her hands moving as she talked. Beside her, propped against pillows, Maegelle was laughing. A real laugh, small but genuine, her shoulders shaking. Her face was different now.
The resignation was gone.
The acceptance that had settled over her like a second sickness had lifted. In its place was something else.
Hope.
"Oh, Aegon. You're here." Gael looked up, smiling.
Maegelle turned to him. Her thin left arm, pink and new, lay across her lap, her right hand resting gently over it.
Aegon smiled at both of them.
"Ready to begin the next round of treatment?" he asked.
Gael's smile faltered. "So soon?"
"Better soon than late." Aegon moved toward the table where his supplies waited. "The infection hasn't spread, but it won't heal itself."
Gael looked at Maegelle, then back at Aegon. She hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap.
"Can I… can I watch?"
Aegon paused. He turned to look at her, his expression wry.
"It will be bloody," he said quietly. "And not for the faint of heart."
Gael's eyes widened. A flicker of fear crossed her face.
"Oh." She swallowed. "All right then. I'll wait outside."
She leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Maegelle's cheek, then slipped off the bed and hurried to the door. It closed behind her with a soft click.
The room was quiet now.
Maegelle looked up at Aegon. Her eyes were steady. She nodded.
Aegon returned the nod and turned to the table. Fresh cloth, neatly folded. A clean metal pan. A knife, sharp and waiting. A clay flask filled with his concoction, the pungent smell already rising from the cork.
He picked up the flask, checked it, set it down. Then he turned back to her.
"I'll begin with the chest and ribs now," he said. Matter-of-fact. Calm as possible.
Maegelle blinked.
Then her cheeks flushed as understanding dawned.
"Oh." Her voice was small. "I… yes. Of course."
Aegon turned his back to her. "I'll wait."
Behind him, the rustle of fabric. Soft sounds of cloth being lifted, folded, set aside. He stared at the stone wall, counting the mortar lines.
"All right," Maegelle said quietly. "You can turn back now."
He turned.
She sat against the pillows, her upper body naked. One arm was pressed across her chest, hiding her breasts. The other arm, the thin pink one, rested in her lap. Her face was turned away, but he could see the flush spreading across her cheeks, down her neck.
She would not meet his eyes.
***
📜 Milestones:
200 Power Stones → +1 Chapter ✅
***
Thanks for reading!