Outbreak

The door burst open with a powerful kick. Tyrion looked up from his notes on Petyr Baelish and the Crown's finances to see Jaime carrying a frail thin figure in a monk's coarse plain robes, before placing the man down on the wooden table, shoving aside parchment, quills, and unlit candles. A small pot smashed on the stone floor, the hinged silver top leaking black ink.

"Tyrion, I need your help."

"Clearly. Wait - is that Lancel?"

Jaime nodded. "He is very sick."

The man was all skin and bones, and the skin was hot to the touch. Tyrion examined the red spots and swollen black bumps on the neck, arms and chest. He had read about such marks before in scrolls and what little he knew was quite alarming.

"I am a dwarf, not a healer. Why did you bring him here?" Here was Tyrion's personal quarters at the Red Keep.

"I asked for a maester. There were none at the Sept of Baelor. The septons and septas were absolutely useless. All they did was pray to the Father and Mother for mercy."

"That's what septons and septas do. They pray. A few might be able to set bones, bind wounds, or even deliver a child but their work is to save souls, not lives. In Westeros, the arts of healing are taught by the Citadel."

"He needs more than words. He is burning up."

"Jaime, we are not at Oldtown. Maesters are assigned to castles. There is only one castle in King's Landing, and Pycelle was strangled to death there."

"There is only one maester in the entirety of King's Landing?" Jamie asked aghast.

"No. But a maester would have to abandon his seat to accompany their Lord. And a few great houses with an old maester might have a younger replacement to train. They study for years to forge links and attain their position so they are loath to abandon their castles. There are those who are disciples and acolytes, or even nobles who have dabbled in learning. Father has some in charge of his ravens. But whether they know the arts of healing sufficiently to help Lancel is another matter."

"Can you help him?"

"I have read books on medicine. But I doubt that is enough." Tyrion put the parchment, quills and ledgers away.

"He is our cousin. We can't let him die, despite what he has done."

"What Lancel has done? You mean, sleep with our sweet sister."

"He poisoned the king, and he slept with Cersei as a reward." Jaime said bitterly.

"No one can prove that. He gave Robert Baratheon strongwine to drink during a boar hunt. Many squires carry food and drink for their knights and lords."

"Lancel told the High Septon. He confessed his sins."

"Then we're fucked." Tyrion said before perking up. "Well, it might not matter. Podrick."

His squire came in, awaiting orders. Pod stared down on the ground, not daring to meet the eyes of either Lannister brother.

"Buy as much kingscopper, milk of the poppy and dreamwine you can. All the healing herbs you can find from the apothecary near the castle."

Jaime waited to speak until the shy boy left. "What did you mean by that?"

Tyrion filled two goblets of wine and guzzled the first down. Fortified, he raised Lancel's left arm. A swollen lump, about the size of a small egg, was revealed in the armpit under the stained shirt. "This was seen last in King's Landing ninety years ago. The Great Spring Sickness. It lasted over a year. Killed four out of ten in the capital."

"I didn't know. I shouldn't have brought him to the Red Keep." Jaime realized.

"No, you shouldn't. But it might not matter. The Spring Sickness killed King Dareon the Good, and both his heirs. I am sure the Targaryens tried and failed to prevent the disease from entering the Red Keep. The best we can do is to give him food and drink, keep him warm, and bath him in cool water when his fever burns. The herbs may help. What happened at the Great Sept after Lancel fell ill?" Tyrion started on the second goblet.

"A few brothers tried to help but most refused to come close when they saw the bumps on Lancel's skin. Many sparrows fled out the doors to the plaza. And as for the High Septon, he was nowhere to be seen. He may have retreated back to the one of the crystal towers or the vaults in the catacombs. I do not know. They were all afraid - the septons, the septas, the sparrows, the begging brothers, even the knights."

"They have every right to be. But running will only spread the disease further, and hiding in a crowded sept will not save them. Prayers did not help in the past. "

"We are going to be blamed for this. The Faith and the smallfolk will say it was the Lannisters conspiring with the Freys that bought the plague." Jaime realized.

"Yes." Tyrion nodded, as he reached for the bottle. "But they will blame Joffrey and Lord Tywin first and foremost. Lords and smallfolk do not rebel when they are busy dying."

Strong sturdy hands brushed the scalp, weaving the double sided ivory comb through thick curly brown locks. Margaery had many servants and maids but only her handmaidens attended her hair. This was the one she trusted the most with her grooming and attire. Margaery dearly loved Elinor, was fond of Megga, and doted on Alla like a sister, but this lady could keep secrets.

"Mira, are you happy here?"

The handmaiden stopped in surprise but then resumed combing. "Of course, your grace. Not everyone can say they serve a queen."

Margaery was not queen yet. For that, she would need to wed Joffrey. She pushed further. "But do you miss the North?"

"Highgarden is so lovely, your grace. Ironath is smaller and far more rustic, more a ringfort and earthen palisade than a great keep. But I miss my family and the Wolfswood. My mother always said that the wolves that roam the woods only attack enemies of the Starks."

"Is your house close to the Starks?" Mira's dark eyes turned wary at the question. That was good, Margaery thought. Better a cautious servant than a fool.

"Ironath is close to Winterfell but House Forrester is a minor house, sworn to the Glovers of Deepwood Motte. But my father, Lord Gregor, was proud to be friends with Ned Stark. Two of my brothers, Rodrik and Ethan, fought for Lord Robb in the Riverlands. Before the trouble with the Reach, they sent me ravens, talking about their adventures in the war. Ethan boasted that they had brought Jaime Lannister down from his horse at the Whispering Woods. And Rodrik claimed that Jon Snow entrusted them with an important task."

"Do you believe them?"

The dark haired girl laughed. "Northmen like to brag, like all men. I think they did well in the fighting. Father trained Rodrik for battle from a young age. But I don't know about any task. They would certainly not share the details in a letter. And after the Battle of the God's Eye, I have only received one raven, saying they were all safe, after the taking of the Twins."

"Mira, I have a task for you. I need you to bring a message to the Starks, and assure Robb Stark and Jon Snow that the Tyrells are not their enemies."

"But the Tyrells are their enemies. You fought them at the God's Eye." Mira might have spent three years in the South, but she still retained the accent and the famous bluntness of the North.

"I did not. I wanted peace between the Reach and the North."

"Pardon me, Lady Margaery. You will become Queen to Joffrey Baratheon soon. The North will never forget that he chopped off Ned Stark's head. Joffrey had Lady Sansa beaten at court for her brother's victories, and tried to kill Lady Arya and her wolf in the riverlands. Sending a raven or a letter with me to Winterfell would be pointless. Even my family would accuse me of having mixed loyalties or being a spy for the South."

"This is the truth, Mira. I want the Starks on my side, not Joffrey's. I do not trust him either. When the Starks come South again, I want them to know they have an ally in me."

Mira put away the comb and the unguents. She began to work on the braids. "Your grace, words are wind in the North. The Forresters are a minor house. Father became a squire only because he beat a Glover in arm wrestling. But Ned Stark called Lord Gregor a friend because they fought together at Pyke. My brothers bled for Winterfell, and that's why they are honored by Robb Stark and Jon Snow. That is why the North follows the wolves. The Starks believe allies become friends on the battlefield."

Margaery's head throbbed in annoyance. Surely, there were ways to forge alliances besides fighting in battles. In the South, there were marriages, feasts, balls, fostering, and serving as pages or squires. In the North, it seemed that all the men liked to do was beat each other over the head with pointy sticks. "Wait, Mira. You said two of your brothers served Lord Robb in the Riverlands but you told me once that you had three brothers."

Mira turned red. "I have four brothers but Ryon was a babe when I left Ironath. My second oldest brother, Asher - he is the best fighter of my family. Asher was always wild. A good brother but a bad son. He fell in love with a Whitehill and bloodshed ensued. My father exiled him to Essos."

"And what does he do there?"

"A sellsword. The Company of the Rose."

"What is the Company of the Rose? Why have I not heard of it?" Margaery's interest was piqued. She trusted roses, not lions or stags.

"Not the gold rose of Highgarden. The blue rose of Winterfell. Men and women of the North who chose exile over bending the knee to the dragons. Legends say they were founded by Brandon Snow, Torrhen Stark's half brother."

"And how do they feel about the Starks?"

"Always Loyal. Those are their words. Even though they have been in Essos for generations, Northern blood flows through their veins. My brother says they long to return home."

Margaery made up her mind. "I want you to find your brother, Asher. I want to hire the services of the Company of the Rose."

"They won't fight for you against the Starks." The girl warned.

"I won't ask them to do any such thing. I want them to fight for the North so that Jon Snow and Robb Stark know that I am their friend, not their enemy. This is a very delicate mission. No one can know. You must use your very best judgment."

Mira Forrester nodded. "Yes, my queen. The Company of the Rose winters in Braavos. I will take a galley from the docks as soon as I can."

Her city was suffering. The Queensguard and her advisors tried their best to keep the news from her, but Daenerys knew. Even high up in the Great Pyramid, she could see. The custom of the Ghiscari was to bury their dead in tombs of brick and stone, placed in a wooden coffin. The crypts had stairways, arches and vaults so that those who passed could enjoy the after life with their servants and slaves. The great families had funeral rites and games, and then were buried in the Temple of the Graces, a huge flat structure with golden domes.

The dead were now burned to stop the spreading of the plague. At night, Meereen glowed with the red and orange of funeral pyres. The Ghiscari priestesses were angry but that could not be helped. Daenerys had not freed slaves to please the Green Graces or any of their disciples. Against the council of many, she brought smallfolk into the lower levels of the Great Pyramid. There, the few healers and wise men not beholden to the priestesses helped who they could.

She had an odd stroke of luck. Meereen, like most of Slaver's Bay, was always warm. In the past week, a heat wave had settled and the city baked, the sun scorching at noon so that the people slept during the day, and only rarely went out at night. A slave who had studied at the House of the Red Hands told her that such dry heat would slow down the plague, for it was too hot for the fleas and rats that spread disease. When she heard that, Daenerys had bought litters of cats to roam through the Great Pyramid.

But none of this stopped the epidemic. When the rains returned, and the city cooled, the plague would burst out of control, like a raging fire ready to devour the lives of everyone: rich or poor, slaves or masters. Farming and trade had been disrupted, so soon, Meereen would struggle to feed its people. A frowning Daenerys stepped down to the audience chamber, to speak once more with the graces and merchants.

"Khaleesi, you should smile more. Tell these old women to die in their own pyramids." Jhogo quipped to the chuckles of Aggo and Rakharo, her two other blood riders.

"They blame me for bringing the plague, blood of my blood."

"What is there to blame? In cities, men get sick. This is known. The Dothraki have only one city, close to the Mother of Mountains, and for much of the year it is empty, save for children and old women. Let us ride to the Great Grass Sea where we would be free of this plague." Aggo said.

She was sorely tempted by Aggo's words. If she had only Dothraki followers, Daenerys might have done so. Her dragons and khalasar did not need a pyramid. But she also had Unsullied, craftsmen, farmers, scribes, eunuchs, and young boys and girls trained as pillow slaves. They needed towns and cities to live. She would not abandon them to their fate.

The hall was full with priestesses and nobles, the elite of Meereen. The Shavepate glowered at Hizdahr Zo Loraq, the appointed spokesperson of the great families. Hizdahr wore a dark green tokar that hung over one shoulder, revealing a weak soft chest and two flaccid nipples. His thick necklace, jade, rubies and gold, matched his earnings and the fringes of the tokar.

"My Munificence, we have come to ask that the fighting pits be reopened. The Great Pit of Daznak, the pit of Grazz, the Golden Pit - these have remained empty since you have come to Meereen. The pits will draw trade and fill the coffers with coins from the ends of the world. No arena in the world is better known than the fighting pits of Meereen."

"You have asked this before. I may consider opening the pits in the future. But my first concern must be the plague." Daenerys answered.

The Green Grace's bitter words were delivered with a voice of honey and oil. "The plague has come because you have failed to honor the customs of Meereen. Fighting in the pits is more than bread and circuses. The ancient art of pitfighting is a blood sacrifice, a display of courage, strength and skill pleasing to the gods themselves. Bring it back or else the city will suffer."

"If the contests were just gladiators versus gladiators, I would consider it. But the crowd loves blood. There are also battles of slave children with daggers against beasts. There are pits with dwarves, cripples, the old and weak. Many more children died than trained fighters last year." Daenerys said.

"You would deny Meereen our past. The gods of Ghis have sent the plague to Meereen for your pride." The Green Grace declared.

"That cannot be." A dusky skinned girl replied. "The plague has struck Yunkai, Astapor, and Volantis. The sailors also claim that Lys, Myr, Pentos and Tyrosh have also been hit by illness. Those last four cities have no fighting pits."

"Do not speak to your betters, girl." The priestess hissed.

"Missandei will speak to whoever she likes. And you are not her better." Daenerys snarled back. "She is right. A plague has come to Essos. I did not bring it."

"But you cannot cure it either. It will come back - again and again. The dragons, the Dothraki khalasar, the army of Unsullied, they can do nothing. You will watch as your people die. What will you do, when the bodies of the slaves cover all of Meereen?" The Green Grace said.

"You presume too much." The speaker was garbed in a long black hooded robe. Her eyes could be seen behind a dark red lacquered wood mask, and Daenerys remembered those eyes shined with a strange light in Qarth.

"Who are you? Some Red Priestess from Volantis?" The Green Grace sneered.

Daenerys knew the woman. "Quaithe. I met you with a merchant prince and a warlock. I killed one, and burnt the other. Why are you here?"

"I have a gift for you, Mother of Dragons." Qaithe held something small in dark hooded hands.

"The gifts of witches are poisoned." Ser Jorah said.

"Khaleesi, better a man drop his arakh or flee from his horse than trust in the promises of magic." Rakharo, the most senior bloodrider, said.

"I am not a witch. I am a shadowbinder. And this gift will save your people, if you let it." The masked woman held high the stub of an obsidian candle, the dark glass half burnt. And the magic sang out to Daenerys Targaryen.

Lancel Lannister died six days later, in a small dusty chamber in the now empty Maidenvault. Podrick Payne poured a trickle of milk of the poppy down the copper funnel inserted between Lancel's lips. The breathing turned from gasps for air to steady relief and then faded entirely.

Tyrion and Jaime stayed at the doorway. They were the only Lannisters who visited as their cousin lay dying. Cersei and Lord Tywin never came. Uncle Kevan saw his son once, in the very beginning, and then retreated, afraid of catching the plague. Martyn and Willem, Lancel's twin brothers, also stayed away. Whether that was on the suggestion of their father Kevan, or their own fear, Tyrion did not know.

The Faith abandoned Lancel in his hour of need. Despite Tyrion's best efforts, no septon came to administer last rites, and pray for mercy and the sanctity of the soul. So many bodies were delivered to the septs every day that there was not enough consecrated ground to give burial. Much of that ground would be taken by the holy brothers and silent sisters who had fallen ill. Quite a few of the Most Devout had attempted to leave the city and were caught and delivered back to the High Sparrow. Tyrion had no doubt that these fat and corrupt priests would receive the fate they so dearly hoped to avoid, being forced to dig trenches and handle rotting corpses.

King's Landing had turned mostly quiet. Men and women avoided each other, and servants only went out to buy food and drink. Some alehouses and winesinks did brisk business as a few fellows, lusty and foolish, believed that the cure to the plague was to drink and make merry. Those celebrations ended abruptly when they discovered a plaguebearer in their midst. The sick were abandoned by neighbors, family and friends. Often, servants stole what they could before fleeing their former masters. Many who died in their homes were revealed only by the smell of decaying bodies. And this was still early, Tyrion thought bleakly. Life would get worse.

"Uncle Jaime, Uncle Tyrion."

The brothers turned to see a young blond haired boy, holding a crimson handkerchief that covered the plump face up to the green eyes. Jaime spoke first. "Tommen, what are you doing here? Your mother will be angry."

"I wanted to see Ser Lancel. To bid him good-bye. Has he….?"

"Lancel is gone. He is with the Father and Mother Above in the Seven Heavens. Jaime and I will stand vigil."

"Oh…" Tommen gulped. "May I say a prayer for him?"

Tyrion nodded and Jaime warned the boy not to approach too closely.

"Father Above, judge Lancel justly." Tommen frowned. "I have no crystal to place on his grave."

"Even the Sept of Baelor will run out of crystals for the dead. Although the Faith will need less crystals for septons going forward." He quipped, thinking of the Most Devout.

"Tyrion, there is no point of frightening him. Tommen, the plague will pass."

"Yes, but not before disease kills many, many people. There is no point of lying to Tommen." The royal family only left the Red Keep rarely and then with a large contingent of guardsmen. But the suffering in King's Landing was too great to be hidden.

"I heard Joffrey talking to Grandfather. He demanded to know why we haven't left the city."

"That would be a terrible idea." Jaime said. "Joffrey would be forever known as the King Who Ran. And if we left King's Landing, the other nobles would vanish too."

Tyrion thought the second was his father's main concern. If the Tyrells returned to Highgarden, Lady Margaery might never come back. Without that alliance, and with the Iron Throne strapped for gold, Joffrey's reign would be short indeed. Tyrion wouldn't care, but he had no desire to lose his head in the aftermath.

"I am frightened, Uncle Jaime. Joffrey says the plague will come for me." Tommen squeaked.

"His grace has a wonderful way with words." Tyrion patted his nephew's hand. "Your fear is understandable. Courage is not boasting about strength. It is enduring the hard things of life."

"You are stronger than you think, Tommen." Jaime said. "And you will survive."

Tyrion hoped that he and Jaime had not just spoken some empty words.

A meeting had been called a few days after Lancel's death. Joffrey had summoned all those with any skill at healing to the Great Hall. There were more maesters in the city than Tyrion had initially suspected. Many served the Reach lords, like Ballabar and Lomas for the Redwynes and the Tyrells. Others were from nearby holdfasts and castles in the crownlands. There were also acolytes and disciples among the crowd, and some of these were quite young.

Tyrion sat with the other members of the Small Council. Uncle Kevan's stoic face betrayed no grief over his son's recent death. Mace's eyes fluttered around, watching his family with concern, even though they were protected by Tyrell guardsmen. Prince Oberyn gazed intently at the speaker, a large fat and old man, who bore a strong resemblance to Lord Mace.

"Your Grace, I can explain why this epidemic has afflicted King's Landing. I forged my silver link many decades ago and have studied with the finest maesters in the Citadel. The plague has arisen from miasma!" Gormon Tyrell announced in triumph.

"Mia What?" Joffrey shouted. His nephew seemed to believe that yelling was akin to wisdom.

"Miasma, my king. A noxious form of bad air. Poisonous vapors that come from rotting things, fetid swamplands, tainted bodies, and all sorts of foul odors."

"Idiot." Oberyn snorted. "But then what can you expect for most Tyrells?" The Dornishman kept his voice low, so only Tyrion overheard his comment.

"Did the Northmen bring this miasma to King's Landing? We know that Jon Snow is a master of the dark arts and controls wolves, ravens, and all sorts of beats. He could have cursed us!"

"Uhhhh." Gormon replied to Joffrey's rant.

"No ships have sailed from White Harbour to King's Landing in many moons. If disease is caused by miasma, how could the Northmen be responsible?" Tyrion asked.

"Every plague in history has begun in Essos. That is why the Great Spring Sickness and the Shivers began in the eastern cities before reaching further West. The only exception was the Gray Plague but that was a galley that travelled from Pentos directly to Oldtown without docking at King's Landing or Planky Town." A slender brown skinned boy said.

"Snow could have used dark sorcery to cast a spell from afar." Joffrey argued.

"If Jon Snow could cast a spell, he would have done so during the war. Not half a year later. A plague would have been far worse then." Tywin said, much to the king's anger.

"If you are right, Maester, that sickness comes from miasma, then what can we do about this?" Ser Kevan asked.

"We need to cleanse and scour the air. This miasma, with its foul odors and deadly mists, must be driven away. If King's Landing is clean and pure,"

The Queen of Thorns interrupted. "King's Landing is a shithole. There is not enough rosewater and lavender in all of the Reach to make the city smell better."

"Perhaps not the city, but the Red Keep and the dwellings of …"

Gorman was again interrupted. "But that cannot be right, Maester."

"What is your name?" Lord Tywin asked, peering down at the brown haired man with a pug nose and wide face. The young man wore red apples on his sleeve.

"Owen Fossoway of Cider Hall. There is no proof of this miasma. Nothing explains why air would spread disease. Archmaester Ebrose believes it must be something else."

Gormon snorted. "But Ebrose has no idea what that is."

"No, Ebrose requires evidence and not just unproven theories. If miasma was the true cause of disease, then disease should not spread if there was no odor. But would any man, even one who had bathed in rose water, touch the open sore of a plaguebearer without gloves? Blood and pus will carry the disease along. The smell in the air would not matter."

The old maester stammered back a long winded, hard to follow explanation, but Tyrion thought the young Fossoway made a great deal of sense. Cleaning the air would not matter when there were more and more dead and unburied bodies every day. He shuddered, thinking of the thousands of smallfolk clustered around the Sept of Baelor.

"Enough of this claptrap about miasma. Where else has the plague appeared?" Joffrey yelled.

"The port of Duskendale is closed. A trading galley from Tyrosh was burnt at the harbor and the captain and oarsmen killed for fear they brought the plague. There are also outbreaks reported in Sisterton and the Stepstones." Ser Kevan said crisply.

"The plague has come to Oldtown. All sailors must stay and lodge in sight of the Whispering Sound. The Starry Sept, the Hightower, and the Citadel are sealed off." Mace said.

"Lannisport has been hit badly. Thousands have died already." Tywin said. Tyrion shook his head. That raven was several days old. The toll would be rising.

"Planky Town, as well. Our castellan believes that it was a Braavosi cog that first carried the plague to Dorne." Oberyn said.

"What about the North? And the Riverlands?" Joffrey demanded.

"The Rivermen have stopped any travelers from using the kingsroad. And we have little knowledge of what is happening at White Harbour. If there is an outbreak, then the captains have not spoken much about it." Kevan said.

"We should take a ship, fill it with the sick and dying, and send it to White Harbour. Let the Starks deal with the plague. Better yet, land several galleys on the Northern shores." Joffrey gave a sharp, nasty laugh.

"And what captain would sail such a ship? Men die from the plague in a few days. The ship might crash at the Gullet, or even be wrecked in the Crownlands." Tyrion said.

The king sneered like a child denied a toy. "You have mentioned several ports, but not Gulltown. Has the Vale seen the plague?"

Ser Kevan exchanged a quick glance with Lord Tywn before speaking. "An odd letter has come from the Vale. One, that is frankly hard to believe. Lord Baelish writes that he has discovered a way of defeating the plague."

"What? Is that possible?" Cersei said.

"Who is this Baelish? Is he a healer?" Gormon asked.

"A coin counter and a whoremonger." Olenna Tyrell said.

"Then how could such a man cure the plague?" the befuddled old maester asked.

"Baelish claims that Gulltown is completely free of disease. He says that learned men from Essos have imparted secrets to treating disease." Kevan added reluctantly.

"There are no such secrets. The plague began in Essos. Ships from the Free Cities carried the disease to Planky Town and likely King's Landing." The slender dark skinned man said.

"The Essosi are skilled at many things, but our maesters match their healers. Alleras is right. There have been far more outbreaks in the Free Cities than Westeros." Owen Fossoway said.

Joffrey clapped his hands. "ENOUGH. Tell Baelish to come to King's Landing. I command him to cure the plague in the name of the Iron Throne."

Tyrion, like others in the Small Council, doubted these claims but the King's orders carried the day. He wondered, not for the first time, what game Littlefinger was playing.

The old knight placed the breastplate carefully next to the vambraces and pauldrons in the sea chest. That morning, the plate armor had been lowered into a barrel of dry sand and then polished and oiled carefully, checking for any signs of rust and brushing the steel to make certain there was no sand, tears or rips in the leather straps and metal rivets. A dozen freedmen would have volunteered for the task but Ser Barristan Selmy had always cleaned his own armor, shield and arms. The steel shield, sword, and dagger had already been put into the chest, wrapped up in wool and linen, to keep them dry at sea.

Ser Barristan wore a thick brown cloak, hooded to cover his white hair. He carried a stout oak quarterstaff, shod with steel at both ends. The staff was deadly in his hands, although he looked to all the world like an old man. The brown cloak hid a thin mail hauberk that reached to the thighs and sleeves. A talented smith freed from slavery in Astapor crafted the chain shirt, and the quality of the work equaled any master armorer on the Street of Steel.

"Ser Barristan, do you need any more gold for the journey?"

He looked up to see the young scribe with golden eyes and long black hair. "No, my lady. A knight in exile does not need much coin."

"Ser, Myhsa is not banishing you from her court. She is sending you on a mission. The others of the Queensguard cannot go to Westeros. Only you have the hope of saving Meereen from the plague."

"I am a simple knight, Missandei. I am still not certain what her grace expects me to do. She says to go to a certain place, but why? What for?"

The girl clasped her hands in thought. "This one does not know. But the queen - she took the candle from the witch. And the queen knows."

"And are you certain it was a Valyrian candle?" Doubt could be heard in the dutiful voice.

The girl nodded. "A glass candle. Once, at the mansion of a Good Master of Astapor, I saw a picture of a dragon candle in a book on the wars between ancient Ghis and Valyria. The Queen lit the candle and it gave a strange light, so that everything in the room became brighter and darker. The white was sharper, the yellow shone like gold, the red turned into flames, and the shadows were blacker than night. There was magic, there - dragon magic, fire and blood."

"But you do not know what she saw?"

"This one is not a dragon. The Queen is, and whatever she saw in the burning candle caused her to summon you. This one hears others speak of your great feats. You have won melees, defeated villains, rescued prisoners, fought many battles. Surely you will succeed at this quest."

He thought of his years of service to the crown. He had served three kings, two Targaryens and one Baratheon. He would have served that vile boy too, had Joffrey not cast him aside. "The stories leave a great deal out. I failed in my duty. When I was named to the Kingsguard by the White Bull, I pledged to protect the royal family. The Targaryens all died - Aerys, Rhaelle, Rhaegar, his wife and sweet children. I could do nothing to save them."

"The royal family is not dead. Daenerys Targaryen is a dragon, and you can serve her best by completing this mission." Missandei said.

"Yes, but am I serving her? Who knows whatever she saw in the glass candle is true? I have known many Targaryens. Their visions have led them astray. Aegon the Unlikely knighted me and he died trying to hatch dragons. Jaehaerys forced Aerys and Rhaelle to marry because of a prophecy about the Prince Who was Promised. Aerys went mad. And Rhaegar - he was the best of them all, but he believed in his dreams and visions. He was born in grief at Summerhall, and the shadow hung over him all his life."

"Ser, I do not know whether the vision is a true one. But I know this. There was magic in ancient Valyria. Daenerys Targaryen has true magic, else she would not give birth to three dragons in the Red Waste. And she saved me - she saved all of us. Without her, we would still be slaves, and the best fate I could hope for is to be raped by only a few masters when I flowered. I believe in the queen. If she sees something in the flames, then there must be a chance. Please, Ser Barristan. Not all magic is false."

Barristan nodded. The little girl was far wiser than her years. Daenerys Targaryen was by no means a perfect leader but then he had served men like Robert Baratheon and Aerys the Mad. The Seven Kingdoms would be far better had Barristan failed in his rescue of Aerys from Duskendale. Then Prince Rhaegar would have been king and might have married Lady Cersei. There would have been no rebellion. But it was not worth the grief to dream about what might have been. He would do his duty for Rhaegar's sister to honor the memory of the last dragon.

"Of course. But watch over the queen when I am gone. She requires your good counsel."

"But Mhysa has many advisors."

"Many terrible advisors, including myself. We serve the Queen for the honors and rewards she can bestow. You serve because you truly believe." Barristan said. He trusted Missandei over all the others. Even at eleven, she was smart and sensible. Her loyalty was beyond question. He marveled how a slave girl could be more perceptive than the scions of these great families.

"You will come back, Ser?" The girl asked.

"I promise. As soon as I can." He waved goodbye as he boarded the Sea Shrike for Westeros.

The Merling King was due at the docks this afternoon. Word had spread around King's Landing that Baelish had discovered a clever way of beating the plague. The city was on tenterhooks as nobles, the Faith and the smallfolk awaited Littlefinger's arrival. Tyrion suspected that Joffrey had divulged the news to his courtiers and lackeys as a way to distract the populace. Men and women were easily deceived because they were too quick to hope.

Tyrion spent much of the past week, speaking with maesters and septons. Quite frankly, he was surprised at their bravery. The Lannisters had to stay in King's Landing because to flee would bring shame to the Iron Throne. A few corrupt priests had tried to run but most with real skills at healing chose to remain and fight. Tyrion was certain that the maesters knew the toll would be high among their numbers. Courage, he realized, extended beyond the battlefield.

Wisdom did not. Tyrion had heard of many bizarre and strange treatments, designed to balance the four humors. A few were within the bounds of reason - drinking vinegar or airing the house with herbs or a warm fire. But rubbing onions, herbs, and a chopped snake or pigeon over the boils made little sense. Some quacks even argued for bathing in or drinking urine. Tyrion had slept in his piss many times when he was drunk. It had not made him feel better.

A few of the most learned, particularly those who had studied healing in Essos, talked of certain medicine that could suspend sickness. Tyrion did not understand it fully, but a disease could be stalled by slowing down the blood. The treatment - a concoction of powders, venom and rare buds - was frightfully expensive, far more than the already costly herbs, lavender, and rosewater sold at stalls and stores all over King's Landing. The problem was that the blood cloak serum only delayed the inevitable. It stopped the growth of the boils, but the swelling and redness in the armpits, neck and groin remained. When the medicine ran out, patients would die as the pockets of pus exploded in size. Still, Tyrion tried to buy what little he could find.

For once, the capital did not smell terribly. That had nothing to do with Joffrey or efforts by the Watch and the Faith to remove the rotting bodies. An autumn storm had blown in from Blackwater Bay and heavy rain washed away the stink and smoke. Fewer people had died during the days of the storm. Tyrion wondered if the fat Tyrell maester had been right about the miasma. If he was, the plague was bound to return in greater force. The rains eroded the shallow trenches dug outside the walls and near the river in the past weeks, exposing a multitude of rotting corpses. The dead did not stay buried in King's Landing

"My lord, the Great Sept of Baelor."

"What is it, Pod? Riots. Angry protests against the Iron Throne? Demands that the royal court pray and fast to ward off the plague. Not that Joffrey would ever do such a thing. Fasting would not be good for his temperament." Tyrion said.

"The septons and the smallfolk are more likely to blame you and your father before Joffrey. They hate the Lannisters first. And some still believe that Joffrey is a Baratheon." Bronn said.

"Some people are fools. Even when the truth hits them right between the eyes, they cling to fantasies." The dissatisfaction with life in King's Landing was driven by the plague and not by Lannister rule. Tyrion's role as Master of Coin came at a very bad time. Trade had essentially stopped and goods were more expensive than ever. Plus, dragons and stags were spent on healing herbs in short supply. There was not much anyone could do.

"The high septon declared the plague a punishment sent by the Gods for our sins. He says that penance must be done to appease the Father." Podrick reported.

"Penance? What penance - isn't suffering through this nightmare bad enough?"

"The high septon called for all godly men to come to the Holy Square. To beg forgiveness before the statue of Baelor, sing hymns to the Father Above …. And whip each other to atone for their sins. I saw the scourges, my Lord. Frightful things with three tails and barbed with metal."

"And they are whipping each other?" Tyrion asked in dismay. "How many?"

"Three hundred came through this morning at the Lion Gate. An ugly lot, only wearing rags that cover their legs to the ankles. They keep their chests and backs bare, so people can see their naked and bleeding bodies." Bronn said casually.

The Lion Gate was only one of seven. And if Bronn saw a few hundred men, other packs of these zealots might enter the city from other gates. Plus, the thousands of sparrows had never left. "They are all heading to the Great Sept?"

"Yes, my lord. Large packs from many directions. Most come from the West so they can walk along God's Way to the Sept." Podrick said.

After Jaime's discovery of Lancel's illness, the Sept of Baelor had been relatively empty, with the sparrows fleeing to Flea Bottom and the wharves. Now it seemed they might return, and these Flagellants would join them.

"Wait, where will they shit?"

"What do you mean, my lord?" Pod asked.

"The high sparrow has called for men to join him at the plaza near the Great Sept. Well, that is going to be thousands and thousands. Where will they shit?"

"In the gardens, I suppose. Like men always do." Bronn said.

Tyrion smacked his hands against his forehead. "A horde of sweaty and half naked men, shitting and peeing, while they whip each other bloody. In the middle of a plague. At the center of King's Landing. What a fucking mess."

Bronn grimaced at the image. "It is going to smell very bad, in' nit?"

Tyrion made his way, under heavy escort, to the docks. Their path would stay close to River Row, away as much as possible from the foul odors of the Great Sept. Joffrey, ringed by a large mass of soldiers, travelled in a wheelhouse although Tywin, Jaime and the other white cloaks, rode on horses. Tyrion had a few guards of his own, directed by Bronn.

For once, his thoughts were not on the plague. An envoy from Braavos had arrived in King's Landing. Noho Dimitis demanded answers that Tyrion did not have. Baelish had pledged certain customs and duties as security for the loans to the Iron bank. At least two pertained to the North and White Harbour. Only the gods knew what else Littlefinger promised to secure more gold.

A black mare with a mane and tail of fire trotted next to his side. "The Master of Coin. Are you collecting many dwarf's pennies these days?" Oberyn Martell asked.

The plague had ruined business at the brothels. Not many whores or whoremongers wanted to fuck if it meant their deaths. "Not many pennies, or stags or dragons. The seventy seven dishes at King Joffrey's wedding will be lacking saffron and gold dust."

"And when will the happy event occur? It has been too long since an exciting wedding feast at King's Landing. The crowds still love the tales of your nuptials."

"I had no wedding feast. If you remember, I was interrupted before I could make my vows. I suppose that is a good thing. Jon Snow is no septon so my marriage would have been invalid. And my banquet would have been a poor one with the Tower of the Hand burnt down."

"Do you regret not marrying Lady Sansa?" Oberyn asked.

"Gods no. The girl had only fourteen name days. I am twice her age." His son was nearly as old as Sansa but Tyrion had only seen the boy once from afar at Riverrun. That meant Tysha must have been nearby when he was captured by the Starks in the attempt to free Jaime.

"You have not answered the question on the wedding. When will we have a new queen? And will her grace, Queen Margaery, preside in court over Queen Cersei?"

The Lannisters intended for the wedding to be on the first day of the new year, but the dispute with Ser Baelor and the other Reach Lords had soured Joffrey to the idea. And then when the king stopped sulking, the Tyrells needed time to bring their bannermen back to the city. And now, the plague came to Westeros. Tyrion wondered if Joffrey's wedding was cursed. "When the outbreak is over, the wedding will proceed. How are things in Dorne? Are the Martells once again unaffected?"

The Prince frowned slightly. "Not as well as expected."

That was odd. The Dornish had managed to avoid every single epidemic by simply closing the access roads and ports to all travellers. Before Tyrion could probe further, they passed the Mud Gate. On the walls, smallfolk and merchants were lined up, pointing eagerly at the ship that had just docked at the wharf.

The Merling King had arrived in King's Landing. A smiling Baelish waved to the crowd, but he wasn't alone. There were dozens and dozens of sinister figures on deck, dressed in long black waxen coats that covered the bodies from head to toe, and wide brimmed black hats. It was the mask though that stood out in the bizarre costume. The mask was the face of a white bird with goggles and a protruding beak half a foot long with holes for two nostrils at the end. The beaked masks made the faces appear like ravens or predatory birds ready to feast. The bone white of the mask was a startling contrast to the black clothes. Heavy dark gloves, thick boots, leather breeches and a three foot cane completed the outlandish ensemble. An odd cloying sweet smell of spices and dried flowers came from the ship.

"Plague doctors." Oberyn said. "Baelish has brought plague doctors to King's Landing."

Author's Notes

The website will not let me put in a picture of a plague doctor. I tried several times. I would highly recommend.

1) wikipedia entry for plague doctor. Check out the engraving by Dr. Furst - it should be on the top right.

2) This image on pinterest. On the pinterest website, this is pin/703054191811253745/

3) Google "plague doctor lake." It is the first image.

And yes, I am aware that the costume is anachronistic - it was invented in the 1700s, long after the Black Death.

Historians believe the Great Plague of 1347 to be the same bacterium as the Plague of Justinian which occurred from 541 to 549 AD. Incidentally, there was an outbreak in the Mongol Empire in the early 1330s. The pandemic in Europe began when the Mongols got into a fight with Italians in Caffa (Crimea.) The Genoese traders fled to Constantinople and Italian cities.

Several epidemics have hit Westeros - The Shivers, The Winter Fever and the Great Spring Sickness. The high death tolls did not cause a revolt. The Great Spring Sickness killed a king but his sons became kings after Dareon.

The Forresters did man the makeshift catapults at the Whispering Woods. Gregor, Rodrik and Ethan also went to Dorne as Edric Dayne's guards to deliver Amory Lorch.

The actual quote by Ned Stark is "You find your true friends on the battlefield." Jon says that to the Northern lords which makes the entirety of Season 8 an exercise in abject hypocrisy.

Would Margaery have the gold or balls to hire a mercenary company? I would like to think so but the Margaery of GOT would not. She hides behind her womanly courtesies - whatever that means. I prefer my characters to be proactive. As for gold, Margaery will be queen. She can promise a future payment or even wheedle it out of her brothers. She is hiring the Company as a channel to the Starks.

The funeral rites and games are based on burial practices in Ancient Mesopotamia. Hizdahr zo Loraq begs her to take down the body of his crucified father and bury it in the Temple of the Graces. The burning bodies echo the Spring Sickness (Burning the dead with wildfire.)

GRRM takes the Roman gladiator games and puts them in Slaver's Bay. Historically that is inaccurate. GRRM emphasizes how bloodthirsty the pits are. That is actually not supported by history, although certainly there were Christians and untrained convicts slaughtered. Romans loved entertainment and what is better than seeing well trained fighters battle each other? But skilled fighters are not cheap. They fought only two to three times a year, and trained and slept at a school, a ludus, that invested time and money into their stable of fighters. A detailed study argued that only 1 in 5 fights ended in death. Gladiators who entertained the crowd usually lived.

We imagine the plague as a one time thing, which overwhelms the city. But actually plagues return! The Bubonic Plague hit Constantinople in 1348 for a horrible several months. It came back four more times from 1361 to 1402. By the time the Turks conquered Constantinople, the population had dropped from 500K to 50K. So you can really understand the despair people had facing the Black Death, facing repeated pandemics.

Quaithe makes all the strange prophetic speeches. Some very good ones but it is never clear why she says what she does, whether she is friend or foe, or anything about her. But she does have magic. And her prophecies clearly have power, even though Daenerys is still in the dark.

There is an excellent account from a French physician in Avignon (Guy de Chauliac) about the plague. He writes "Father would not visit son, nor son, father. Charity was dead and hope prostrate." Kevan not visiting Lancel would be the norm.

The miasma theory held that diseases like cholera and the plague were caused by noxious (bad) air. It was accepted by many cultures, including the Greeks, the Chinese and the Egyptians. Even in the 1800s, well educated people believed that night air could be poison.

Ebrose is the archmaester in charge of the healing arts. In the book, he gives a lecture to Pate, the acolyte who gets killed by the Faceless Man. In the show, he teaches Sam at the Citadel, and enables the cure grayscale subplot.

"He was born in grief, my queen, and the shadow hung over him all his days" is the quote about Rhaegar that Barristan tells Daenerys when he is still disguised as Arstan Whitebeard.

Barristan rescued Aerys from Duskendale in 277. At that time, Rhaegar was 18 and Tywin, as Hand, might have been able to get his daughter a crown. Of course, if that happened, Rhaegar might not elope with Lyanna and the prince who was promised might never be born.

Barristan's respect for Missandei is book canon in Dance of Dragons. On the show, they just made her a love interest for Grey Worm and the first Gal Pal. I think that is a disservice. Book Missy shows you can be smart without the Sansa arc.

Historians estimate the plague killed one third of the population of Europe. (I suspect the higher numbers thrown about come from cities where people fled.) Researchers think that in the Catholic Church, 50% of the priests died. Some bad actors may have shirked their responsibilities, but quite a few of the clergy died on the job. There is proof in the reduction of age limits for priests to recover from their losses.

The plague is caused by rats and fleas biting humans. A rainstorm would make the animals less active for that short period. Of course they return to greater activity, once the rain passes. Plagues are seasonal in nature. Too much heat or cold discourages the carriers.

The Flagellants whipped themselves bloody in public displays of zealotry. They appeared first in 1259 due to a famine in Italy, but they reached peak popularity during the Plague, despite Pope Clement VI declaring the movement heretical. Admittedly a few weeks into the plague might be too early for such a desperate reaction. But this is after the destruction of septs in the War in the Riverlands, and Book High Sparrow is a flagellant.

It is a great irony that the flagellants believed that whipping each other would help stop the plague, when it almost certainly spread the disease.

There were plague doctors but the demand by villages and cities far outstripped the supply, leading to many untrained "healers". There were a few reputable ones, Guy De Chauliac, Nostradamus, but quite a few charlatans. The plague doctor outfit is apocryphal, in that the beaked mask was invented by a 17th century French doctor. Still the costume is fantastic.