If the patios in the Red Keep weren't flooded with music from the Crown Prince's harp, someone could assume that he was instead blessing the ears of the smallfolk down at Flea-Bottom, a place he commonly visited not for women, rather to know the people he would rule someday.

Today, however, Rhaegar found himself muttering a few curses below his breath, silver hair falling across his forehead as he, once more struggled with the fact he could do nothing about your sickness.

His friend, his trusted companion, perhaps even more than Ser Arthur — although he was sure that if he said that out loud next to the Sword of the Morning, he'd feel offended beyond comprehension.

Sick.

The slow tunes of his harp did nothing to ease your fever, and while he knew he could do nothing but to listen to your coughing, he found himself internally pondering if asking Maester Pycelle to come see you was a good thing to do.

No.

Rhaegar was all too precious for his father, that much he knew. If the Mad King was slightly alerted that his dear son's heart had been stolen by someone so common, heads would roll if he weren't forced to smell the scent of your burning flesh right in front of him.

The prince sighed, setting his harp down next to him as he lifted a hand to touch your forehead with his knuckles, looking down at you from where he sat by your bedside. Hot, and he could hear you struggling to breathe, a sound that only made his frown grow even worse.

"Do you wish for anything? I'll provide it for you, if you only say the word. I'm afraid I can't be of much help otherwise... much as it pains me to see you suffer like this."