Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 101: Contemplation, Self-Reflection (Part 1)

—At King's Landing—

Red Keep — Royal bedchamber...

Sansa rushed throughout the Red Keep, lifting the front of her dress to avoid tripping over herself as her mother Catelyn and Shae moved to keep pace with the visibly distressed Queen. When Ser Olyvar hurriedly informed her that her husband, King Daveth I Baratheon—who remained bedridden due to serious illness—had suddenly stopped breathing... all color drained from her face. Catelyn and Shae held Lyonel and Cassana in their arms as they moved to keep up with Sansa, all the while the twins were bawling their eyes out.

"*Waah! Waah!*"

Please no, Sansa panicked, feeling her heartbeat tick a bit faster.

Eventually they reached the bedroom to find dozens of septas and Grand Maester Pycelle tending to the unresponsive Daveth, with Tommen, Margaery, Myrcella, Trystane, Jaime and Barristan watching over him.

"Move! Gods have mercy; get us some more ice he's burning up!" Septa Rosyn shouted. "We need to bring His Grace's temperature down! And clear out his trachea of any harmful fluid so the King can start breathing again!"

One of the healers pushed Grand Maester Pycelle aside and repeatedly pressing up and down against Daveth's chest, trying to jumpstart his heart. "One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand... Come on, Your Grace, breathe!"

"Please be alright, brother," Myrcella's voice shook.

Trystane placed a hand on Myrcella's shoulder, doing whatever he could to calm her down to ease her distress. Tommen felt helpless at the medical staff's attempts at resuscitating the motionless Daveth, with Margaery exchanging an uncertain (yet curious) glance at Pycelle.

The room doors flung open and in came in a stumbling Sansa, her long auburn hair was messy with a few bangs hanging in front of her face. Catelyn and Shae were not too far behind her and entered into the room as well; Catelyn was equally surprised at the sudden state of affairs—piecing the pieces of the puzzles together when her eldest daughter informed her of her son-in-law's condition; one septa wore a pair sanitary gloves on both her hands and stuck two fingers down the King's throat, trying to clear out any residue.

"Daveth..." Sansa piped.

Pycelle looked at her. "Oh, uh... Your Grace, we-we're doing everything we can, but, as you can see... the King is not responding. Oh, but rest assured we—"

The Queen didn't listen and moved to the bedside, brushing right past him. "How is my husband? What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"He's got severe pneumonia, Your Grace," Septa Rosyn answered while dabbing cold wet washcloths on the King's forehead, "but I've never seen an infection like this become so acute or aggressive."

"Can you do something for him?"

"We're doing everything we possibly can. It's only a matter of time before—"

"Before what?!"

Septa Rosyn shook her head dreadfully, not liking what she's about to say next. "Your husband... He isn't just ill, Your Grace. He's dying."

Sansa's eyes widened, her eyebrows sloped outwards and her mouth dropped in disbelief, shocked and horrified—her mind having a difficult time processing the information. Her hands slowly shook and her distress levels rose greatly. "What...? No, no it can't be," voice trembled islently. Instead of giving into despair, the Queen furiously shook her head. "No, I-I won't let it happen! Tell me, Septa. What do I need to do?"

"*Waah! Waah!*"

Pycelle looked at her. "Ah, uh, your-your desire to help save the King is.... admirable, Your Grace, but if the sickness has grown more aggressive as the, uh, kind Septa believes... then-then I'm afraid there's nothing to be done."