Chapter 23
GALEN
The plague tore through the Capitol like a swarm of locusts, and despite his best efforts, Galen had yet to get a handle on the situation, and for good reason.
As soon as the gates and the ports were closed, the rumor about the plague spread like fire, and the people began to panic, despite his own continued assurances. They tried to flee the city, tried to run away, and for good reason.
Many alive today had survived the great plague from some decades ago, and the memories of the death and devastation that it had brought upon them were still fresh in their minds. With the air thick with fear and death, speculations and dread roamed over the streets of Kingslanding.
He was also stretched thin, as the Maesters refused to pay him any heed, and he had to drag his feet to make the acolytes or the maesters do anything, and that was if he found some time for it at all.
The Prince was rather demanding that he turn his attention to the King, whose condition continued to deteriorate with every passing day, and Galen wondered if it had truly been right of him to send Gael and the Queen away.
They had been gone for but a week, and already he was missing the Queen's overarching shadow and the Princess's gentle assurances and questions.
She missed Gael, missed her smiles and laughs, and her dutiful nature. But she was gone, and if the tears and the disappointment in her gaze were anything to go by, she would never return to his side.
He would miss her, but accepting her affections would have been a greater mistake. Gael was kind and innocent, and though she was beginning to see the world for what it was, she yet held onto the naivety that she could change it for the better.
But the truth was that they could not change the world. She was a Princess and him, a bastard born out of a broken. Healer or not, he was blind to see that one day his victories and actions would catch up with him.
He had accepted the Crown's offer to save them from the damnation, and to help as many people as he could, and her love threatened that. The court would not begrudge him befriending a Princess, but marrying one, it would not allow that.
Neither the court. Nor her family.
"You did well," and the disease and age had taken a toll on the King, who burned hot in his bed, while the smell of death lingered in his room.
"Convincing Alyssane and Gael to leave the city," he whispered, his words a mere whisper as Galen felt guilt tear him up for the death that he had brought.
For this was his doing. His.
He did not remember everything from his dreams, yet he remembered enough that this was a plague of his creation. That this tragedy was a change from his dreams brought upon this city and its people because of his existence.
And so, he felt responsible for this death and the thousands of other deaths that were set to happen.
"I only did my duty," Galen assured him, as he felt his skin and the King burned so hot that a normal human would have burned to his death by now, but the blood of Valyria still kept him alive, but for how long?
"It must not have been easy," he whispered, and Galen smiled in pretence.
"Why wouldn't it be easy?" he asked, as the King coughed up blood, again as the Stranger began to linger in the air.
"I may be old, but I have not yet gone blind," the King whispered, and Galens tilted at those words.
"Gael's affections for you are there for all to see, and your own care for her shows exactly what lingers in your heart," and he bit his lip.
"I will not put her reputation in jeopardy, your grace. There is nothing between us," he assured him, and the King did not speak for a second until the words finally slipped out of his mouth.
"Loyal and dutybound to a fault, just like your father," and Galen's eyes widened at those words, as his head snapped towards the King as those amethyst orbs narrowed.
"You lied to me that day," the King whispered as he motioned for him to sit down, as the servants all left them alone.
"You know who your father is, you know exactly who I see when I stare into your brown eyes," and of course, he knew.
"I did not desire to rely on the name or memory of a man who has never been a part of my life," for he did not wish for the King to see him as Barth's son.
"Do not hate him," and he did not hate the man, but he simply did not care about him. He did not know enough about him to hate him.
By all accounts that he had heard, Barth was a kind and gentle soul, loyal and just.
"He thought of you often, thought of the child and the woman that he had wronged," and Barth's true crime had been against his mother, and he had wronged the woman who had lost her employment and then her sanity and dignity because of him.
"The fault. It lies with me," the King whispered, and Galen could only sit and listen, as he was forced to confront a past he had hoped to never ever visit.
"So, if you wish to blame anyone for your misfortune, then blame me, curse me. Not Barth. Not him," and it was said that Barth had never found a friend more loyal than the King, and Galen saw that the opposite was true as well.
His father was long dead, and it would have been far easier for Jaehaerys to lie and lay all the blame for the misfortune and tragedy that he had suffered onto a dead man. Yet even after his death, he refused to turn against his old friend and counsellor.
"I blame no one," Galen lied, for he did blame the Gods above and a dozen other people, but his words could soothe the heart of a dying man, then he would lie all day with a smile on his face.
"So much like him," the King whispered again, as Galen helped him sip some water.
"You have my blessing," he added after some seconds of silence, as Galen's head snapped towards his face.
"What?"
"For Gael," he continued, and he could not believe his ears.
"Your grace, there is nothing between us...."
"Must you continue to lie to a dying man?" the King countered, as Jaehaerys turned away from him.
"My daughters, I was not able to do right by them. Saera, Viserra, Daella. I wronged them all, but I will not make the same mistake with Gael," and with that, he gave him a final glance.
And Jaehaerys had ruled for over half a century, and he had ruled well. It should have been obvious to him that whispers of the castle would all reach his ear.
"Care for her, Galen. Don't punish her for my mistakes," he said as he held his hand, and Galen nodded.
"I will," he answered after some hesitation, and for the first time in days, he felt a ray of hope pierce through the clouds of damnation and death that hung over him.
And as he got up to leave, he asked again.
"Why now?" he asked.
"Because you sent her away," the King countered.
"Because you chose to save her..."
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MYSARIA
Death was not new to her. It was an old friend, much like cold and hunger.
Mysaria had seen the world at its worst. She had been sold from city to city, and had watched the worst kind of human depravity, and in all her suffering and pain, none had come to help her.
Not one single soul.
She was young and thin. She had been a child, yet the world had abandoned her. This world. One filled with good and kind men. Yet none had come to help her.
It was why she had long begun to mistrust the goodness of men. She believed only in power.
Goodness. It was a facade. Nothing more. A lie told to those suffering at the bottom of this world, to keep them satiated as those above them languished in wealth, for it was not manners or virtue that ruled the world.
It was power, and for the first time in her life, Mysaria had it for herself.
Power, gained through the favor of a Prince. Power to ruin a life. To topple the symbol of goodness that had not been able to help a little girl who had been sold from one street to the next.
The plague had hit the city hard, and all those inside were the poorer for it. What little aid the crown provided was half eaten out by corruption, and the rest was hardly enough to feed a city of half a million people.
Starvation had yet to come, but it would. Yet desperation was already here. She could see it in the eyes of the girl gathered in front of her. Young and old, naive and experienced, each of them had desperation in their eyes.
They stood waiting for her to speak, for she was their matron now. The one who kept away the hunger, amidst the plague. Who kept their bellies full even as the girls from other brothels turned thin and frail, for she had the backing of a Prince.
"I have gathered you all here to tell you to sing a song," and it was said that the words spoken in a brothel could topple kingdoms, and what was one man in front of a kingdom.
She would topple him.
That healer—Galen.
"To all those who come to you seeking your pleasant company, I wish for you to sing a song about a man," and she slid down the round stairs, as she eyed her girls, most of them were young and untrained, having just landed on these shores.
She had handpicked them so that she would never have suffered that healer's kindness. Others, who remained, were like her, too broken by the world to care about a good man, when his ruin could bring them gold and food.
"You are to whisper about the plague and its devastations. You are to speak of hunger, and desperation," and she caressed the cheek of one girl, as she passed through them, wading in between them as matrons before her had done so.
"And you are to blame that one man for it. Sing how no other city was suffering as the capital, how the plague had come at such a convenient time for him to steal more from the Crown just for his own greed and ambition," and what she was doing was nothing new.
She had seen these games play in Lys, and Pentosh and Braavos.
"And who is this man?" asked one of the older girls, whose face had a small burn under her cheek, telling her that she was a runaway slave.
"They call him Galen," and many eyes frowned at that name, the newer ones looked around with creased brows.
"The Healer?" another asked, as Mysaria nodded.
"Yes," she answered, and she saw some hesitation in those eyes.
Had she missed one? Mysaria wondered. She committed her face to memory, reminding herself to keep an eye on this one as she asked.
"But why?" she asked.
"Because I say so," Mysaria answered with some heat, to remind her that she stood there because of her generosity. That she was fed because of her generosity.
"Because, while this city claws for morsels, I put enough food in your mouths to fill your bellies. So, you will do as you are told, and if you have a problem with that," and she was at the door, which she opened with her own hands.
"You are free to leave," and no one moved at her offer.
"I won't chase you," she offered, and yet still no one moved, as she waded through them once more and began to climb up the stairs.
She reached upstairs and saw the Prince standing there, looking over the city, and Mysaria came and stood beside him.
"Do you think this will work?" he asked, doubtful of her ambitions.
"They say that the Black Pearl of Braavos could bring about the demise of a Sealord," and that had nearly become true a hundred years ago.
"Galen is but a simple healer," she assured him, and the Prince eyed him with mischief in his eyes.
"But you are no Black Pearl," he countered.
"You are but a simple whore," he insulted, and she chuckled, for she had heard words far crueller than that.
"I am no Black Pearl indeed," for she was said to be so beautiful that men would take their lives at her words.
"But I am the whore of Prince Daemon Targaryen...."
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