Archive of Our Own

Dragonstone was a clamorous place, even when the Narrow Sea was fairly calm. The heavy thrum of wind against stone beat louder than Stannis' footsteps; he didn't hear Cressen approaching until the old maester was nearly upon him. He looked tired and stooped, his metal chain tangled in the cowl of his robe, and the smoky light in the turret stair reddened his ashen face. Stannis paused as they drew together, one foot waiting a step above the other, and nodded for Cressen to speak.

"I believe it contained now, my lord," Cressen said, his voice as thin as paper. "She will bear scars the rest of her life, but her lips and tongue were spared."

It was good news, if anything about greyscale could truly be considered such. People who survived it with frozen lips and tongues only lived long enough to starve to death, unless they learned to eat crushed foods through brass funnels or tubes carved from hollow reeds, and those who managed that could rarely speak and be understood. They suffered constant infections of the nose, and their teeth often rotted with the diseases that came from sleeping with an open mouth.

"And it will not spread further?"

"No, my lord."

Stannis ascended several more stairs, turning back to face Cressen at the arch of landing. "My wife has need of you." Selyse had sat with Shireen since the illness first began, but a fortnight of sleeplessness and worry had turned her as mawkish and gibbering as Patchface. "See that she stays abed a full day. She will be no use to Shireen at all if she frets herself into collapse."

"Yes, my lord."

Stannis paused again outside Shireen's door, his fingers resting on the dragon-shaped handle. Attending a sickbed was a tedious thing, woman's work, a task Stannis had avoided since a lung fever claimed his grandmother's life in his fifth year. He had visited Rhaelle Baratheon once before she died, his mother leading him to a darkened room that had reeked of medicines and soiled linens; the mint and mullein poultice on her breast had done little to ease her breathing, and the acrid odor had stung Stannis' eyes as she reached for him with a small, gnarled hand.

I should have closed the ports sooner. Three turns ago, Varys had mentioned rumors of greyscale in the more distant parts of Essos, but Stannis tended to take the whispers of spies and informants well salted. I should have burned that Meereenese pirate skiff in open water, instead of bringing the captain ashore long enough for him to refuse my offer of the Night's Watch. The man had laughed heartily when Stannis threatened to behead him; the last two fingers of his left hand had already been grey and stiff and dead.

His daughter's cradle was a monstrous thing, as was most the furniture in the castle, hewn from veined rock rather than wood and carved into the likeness of a dragon. The heavy chair beside it was made in a similar fashion, fitted with a red cushion pressed flat by Selyse's vigil, and Stannis turned it to make space for his longer legs, frowning as the clawed feet shrieked against the floor. Shireen barely stirred, her mouth pursing as she sought her thumb through the wrappings on her hands. Her bedding smelled strongly of mustard and limes, and her healthy cheek was still flushed pink from a recent bath in boiled sea water.

The candle on the table cast a poor and yellowish light, but it was enough for Stannis to see the scarring on the other side of her face. The skin there was grey mottled with black, as unevenly colored as a pile of coarse-ground pepper, and it looked thick and rough to the touch, raspy in the places where it was starting to flake and peel. She stirred again as Stannis studied her, making a sound that was soft and unhappy at once. The room was bitingly cold, the windows open to permit the sea air Cressen thought would hasten her recovery, and Stannis reached into the cradle and pulled her blankets up to her chin.

She was not a pretty child to begin with, and this has only made it worse. Stannis was not Robert, who could make men love him, who had won a throne and crowned himself king and written his name into the songs. The best he could do was leave prosperous lands and incomes for his sons and arrange good marriages for his daughters, but the men seeking Shireen's hand in the years to come would likely be scavengers, greedy fools who hoped her disfigured face would buy them lands and titles and gold. I would sooner give her to a motherhouse than sell her to a hedge knight like a cow for slaughter. Stannis paid little heed to the doings of the church, but ugly septas seemed to fare the same as comely ones, and the Silent Sisters never showed their faces at all.

A burst of wind rattled at the sash, carrying the sharp scents of salt and sand as it pushed past the window. Stannis tucked the blankets around Shireen's feet, then pulled another one over the top of her head, bald where Cressen had shaved it to lime-wash her scalp as a precaution. The motions made her frown, her small mouth twisting as she kicked her legs and brought one of her covered hands to her face once more. Her fingers were wrapped in linen to keep her from spreading the infection by scratching; that danger had likely passed by now, but Stannis left them as they were. Thumb-sucking was a childish habit, one quickly formed and not easily forgotten. Renly had been well into his sixth year before Cressen had managed to break him of it.

Shireen opened her eyes. They were Baratheon eyes, the same slate-blue as Stannis' father's.

"Go to sleep," he said quietly, leaning back in his chair.

She stared at him for a moment, then settled, yawning as she turned her healthy cheek against the pillow.