Chapter 27
Garlan was tired as he knocked on the doors of another house. He had barely slept in the last few days, as he toiled to help his saviour and friend. Garlan owed his life to Galen and was happy to do anything he desired of him, whether it be cleaning shit from sewers or asking questions and inspecting homes.
Many feared death, but Garlan had long come to accept the shortness of life and considered his life a gift from Galen, who had saved him from Greyscale all those years ago.
The door opened, and he saw a woman staring out at him.
"Hi, my name is Garlan and I am here on behalf of the Hea…"
"Go away!" the woman screeched, much to his horror, for she was not the first woman to say that to him.
"I am afraid I cannot. I need to ask you a few questions and have a look at your house…"
"Don't you hear me! Go and leave us alone, you ungodly heathens!" and he sighed as he pushed his foot in the door.
"Please, I am only trying to save you…" But suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked back to see half a dozen men surrounding him.
"Did you not hear her? She wants nothing to do with you and your ungodly healer," one of them snarled.
"He is not ungodly. Galen is only trying to…"
"Take everything we have. Do you really think that we don't know what he is doing!" the other added, and for a few days now, he had watched the eyes of the city turn hostile to him and his friends, as they grew bolder and bolder in their anguish.
"You and your friends get all the food while we starve on scraps!" and hunger had a way of changing people. He knew that better than anyone else.
"That is why I must ask her some questions and inspect her house so that we can bring this plague…"
"LIES!" they roared together.
"This is no plague! This is punishment from the Seven! Punishment for forsaking the gods and believing an ungodly man!" they added, and the group had grown to a full dozen as other men began to join.
"Have you not had your fill with all this death?" "You killed the KING!" "Traitors!" "LIARS!"
"THIEVES!"
BANG!
And a stone came at first, taking him by surprise, as Garlan hit the ground, scarlet filling his vision.
"DEATH!" "DEATH…." And then another and another, they did not let him utter another word, as pain ripped through his body as he was pelted with stones and steel and whatnot, until he fell to the floor bleeding and pleading.
"Please stop! We are only trying to help!"
"Please...."
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BALON TARGARYEN
The Stranger had made a home for himself in Kingslanding.
Hundred died by the day, and though that number was too painful on its own for Baelon, it was the death of his father and King that tore him up. They had expected this for a few days, as both maesters and healers began to shake their heads in pessimism, as her father's ailment refused to settle despite their best efforts.
And now he was dead. He stared at his corpse as he stood there on vigil, wondering about Daemon's words—wondering if his father's death was truly an act of destiny or design.
Galen had been kind to him, and there was no denying the young man's brilliance. But he wondered if there was a hidden maleficence in his actions, given his history with his family. Was he innocent of the schemes that Daemon accused him of? Or was he an enemy hiding within their ranks, hollowing them out as he put forward the agenda of Corlys Velaryon?
CLACK!
The doors opened behind him, and Baelon stood in the Sept, hearing footsteps from behind. As he turned, he saw Daemon come to stand beside him. His second son had been the cause of many headaches for him over the years, yet now, in this troubling time, he was the only person who stood beside him.
"I did not think that you would come." Balon asked, and he had never missed his brothers more than in that moment, as his son glanced at him.
"Of course, I would come," his son added somewhat heatedly.
"He was family," and at least he was filial, if not a good husband.
Baelon would never understand Daemon's aversion to his wife, for he considered the Lady of Runestone a woman of acceptable beauty and intelligence. She was capable as a lord and a famed huntress, and he had thought they would get along well, much like his mother. However, in the end, the two became like oil and water, refusing to blend, despite the encouragement and pleading of the entire realm.
"You should go," Daemon whispered, shaking his head.
"No. I will stay," for this was the least that he could do for the man who had given the realm his entire life.
"Letters have come from Dragonstone," Daemon whispered, pleading as Baelon refused to leave.
"Let me stay, Daemon," he spoke as he looked his son in the eye.
"At least until I can be sure whether it was destiny or design that took my father from me," and Daemon's eyes widened as he understood the implication of those words.
"So, tell me if what you spoke to me on that day is true or not," and Daemon did not speak at first, before he answered with a nod.
"It is," Baelon said, closing his eyes as rage replaced sorrow, and his fists balled up.
"How can you be certain?" he asked, and at that, Daemon took out a parchment from his pocket and passed it to him.
Baelon unfurled it and found himself looking at designs for a contraption that he had never seen before.
"My men found him using one of those in one of the rooms that was littered with mold, and barks and other materials of all kinds," and Baelon did not understand what it was.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's a device called the 'near eye'. It works opposite to a far eye, in the sense that it allows one to see and separate little things that would usually be unseen by the naked eye," and that sounded rather unique.
"And what use could this be?" he asked, and Daemon.
"I had the same question, so I reached out to Mellos, and he confirmed my suspicion," Daemon began, as his heart sank.
"He presented the idea for the device at the citadel as well, though they all thought it to be nothing but fiction. According to his own words, this device could allow one to isolate the small particles that he believes are the source of disease," and in a second it all clicked together, as Baelon realized his ploy.
"And who do you think brought him that device?" Daemon added, and he knew the answer to that already.
"The Velaryons," he guessed, and he was right.
"It was one of his old accomplices who had been a part of Corlys Velaryon's crew for some five years now," and so Daemon's fears were genuine. They had thought Galen an angel, and yet a devil hid in that body.
"I have asked my men to keep an eye on this man…"
"Bring him in," he ordered, for he could ignore it no more.
"What?" Daemon asked.
"Bring in this accomplice of his and let him rot in the Black cells," for then they would have definite proof of Galen's crimes, and then Baelon would see the bastard hanged for what he had done.
"What of Galen? He will know that we are onto him?" Daemon argued.
"Leave him to m…" but the doors behind him swung open once more, as a servant entered the room.
"Forgive me, my lord, but I must speak to Prince Daemon…" the servant implored, and he nodded as Daemon walked back as the servant whispered something in his ear.
"The accomplice," he began as he turned towards him.
"He has been killed…."
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GALEN
Death had a way of numbing you to itself.
And for a man surrounded by it, Galen had long become too accustomed to it to feel anything. It registered with him. The stopping of the heart, the stilling of the eyes, the chill of skin, the hardening of the joints, and the vanishing of reflexes.
Yet he hardly ever felt anything by it. He had seen too much of it for it to mean anything but a cruel jape from the Gods themselves.
And if one death was a jape, this had to be an entire skit, for in front of him lay over a dozen bodies. Dead and unmoving. Killed by the very people they were trying to save.
They had been his friends. His comrades. They were not healers or soldiers. Yet they had volunteered for him, for this city, and yet now they were dead for the crime of trying to help.
"How?" he gasped, as he pulled away the cloak from his dear friend's face and saw half of it crushed, and the mob had continued their brutality even after he was long dead.
"The people, they are angry, my lord," the guard whispered, his tone laced with fear and pain, for he knew some of them as well, having done the very work that these people had done.
"Hunger and starvation are prevalent, and the people are blaming you for it all," he continued, and he did not know what to say.
"Why?" he asked, his head snapping towards the city guard.
"It is not my job to feed them, yet still the Hospital feeds thousands a day," he nearly screamed, and the guard's eyes remained rooted to the ground, as another guard added.
"My lord, the people blame you for everything," he added, speaking where his comrade could not.
"The plague, the disease, the death, the hunger," he listed, as he could do little but be surprised by their callousness.
"They think that this is a punishment from the Gods. That your defiance of the Seven is the reason for all this death and misery," and he wanted to laugh at that, but he could not, for in that moment he understood it for what it was.
A plot.
"They also blame you for the King's death," and amongst it all, he had forgotten about that. Such was the nature of death, for it did not care whether you were a King or a peasant, a young innocent child or an old, cruel man, for it was unforgiving in its coming.
"They believe that you conspired to do it all," and so that was the plot, and with that, the doors opened, as one of his apprentices came running to him.
"My lord! My lord! The healers! They are all gone!" and he felt the world crumble, as the shock of it all got too much for him, as he thought a chuckle escaped his lips.
"I see now," he whispered, as he saw the plot and its genius. And the plague had made him somewhat blind to the politics of his life, for he had hoped that amidst this crisis of death, his enemies would have the heart to see the necessity of his work.
But he was wrong.
He was a fool to believe in the goodness of men, and now thousands shall pay the price for it.
"What are we to do, my lord?" Byron asked as he walked past him.
"You are going to leave," he whispered to Byron, as he gave the young man a warm smile.
"But…" and he ordered a bit forcefully.
"Go, I am afraid this place is no longer safe," and he became quiet for a second before he asked again.
"And what of you, my lord?" he questioned.
"I am going to do the only thing that I do…"
"...I am going to heal as many people as I can!"
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And so, when Daemon Targaryen walked into the half-built hospital with the castle guards, he found a sole healer caring for more than two hundred souls all by himself, and those brown eyes narrowed upon seeing the young Prince, as the guards all surrounded him.
"Healer Galen, you are coming with me," the Prince announced with a mocking smile, yet he saw no fear or hint of defeat in those brown eyes, as the Healer stared at him and spoke the following words.
"So, you were a part of this as well," Daemon Targaryen said, frowning as the Healer scoffed and spoke in a dismayed chuckle.
"To think that the Rogue Prince and Otto Hightower would both come together…."
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