Death and the Doctors
"Lord Baelish, your report. Who are these men?" Tywin said.
The men in question were silent in their eerie bird-like costumes. During the ride back to the Red Keep, as gold cloaks and royal guards kept the throngs of curious bystanders at bay, Tyrion had taken the opportunity to examine Littlefinger's so-called doctors further. They were a grim bunch, not speaking a word as they marched behind a cheerful Baelish. A distinct cloying smell filled the air, more complex than the belt of garlic looped around their waist. In their heavy waxed leather overcoats and carrying a long wooden cane, they looked more like soldiers than healers. Of course, the freakish white beaks attracted the most attention. Tyrion could not tell whether the masks looked more raven or crow. Both were birds that feasted on the dead.
Petyr Baelish bowed deeply to Joffrey, fidgeting on his wooden throne.
"Your grace, there were reports of outbreaks in Pentos and Myr before the disease arrived in King's Landing. I sealed off the harbor area with guards so merchants and sailors were allowed to visit only one quarter of Gulltown. I consulted learned men, and they advised me to summon well trained physicians from Braavos. Maester Coleman of the Eyrie told me that the plague arises from miasma. And thus, the plague doctor."
Baelish motioned a man to step forward and pointed to the white mask of leather and cloth that covered the entire face. "The beak is full of aromatic oils and substances to ward off the evil smells of the plague - lavender, peppermint, dried flowers, vinegar, cinnamon, myrrh and labdanum. The herbs will purify the noxious air before the doctor can breathe any miasma." Baelish moved his right arm in a flourish to show the entire outfit. "The black hat signifies that these are doctors that can deal with the plague. The coat is heavy and scented with wax and animal fat. Every part of the body is protected from dangerous odors with hood, goggles, breeches, boots and gloves."
"And the cane?" Kevan asked.
"The cane allows the doctor to diagnose maladies and point out areas needing attention without touching. Clothes can be removed, swollen areas lanced, boils prodded and poked, and instructions given to the servants. All this can be done while the doctor stays three feet away from the sick." Baelish replied. .
The cane would also be used to beat down aggressive and desperate men, Tyrion realized. There is a sharp end to the point and the top was shod with iron. The stick could stab or club a sick patient to death easily. Tyrion decided that he would have guards when meeting any of Littlefinger's freakish minions.
Baelish opened one of the leather satchels, revealing the contents to the hall. Colored jars could be seen stuffed into the bag, ranging in size from small snuff bottles to large flasks of amber liquid, sitting on tops of tongs, knives, and irons. There were packs of herbs, sealed urns that held powders, and a small iron thurible, for burning incense and oils. It was a strange kit, unlikely any Tyrion had seen for a healer.
"Behold, various elixirs and remedies for the plague." Baelish announced.
"And do they work?" Tywin asked, arching his eyebrows in a way that Tyrion knew too well.
"Some do." Baelish answered breezily. "Different people require different remedies. The plague doctors will sell only to those in need. Of course, there may not be sufficient elixirs but one must help those they can. And, my lords, one part in three of any sale, will go to the Iron Throne."
That announcement took others clearly by surprise. Rosewater perfume sold for a gold dragon per jug on the streets of King's Landing. What would men pay for an actual cure?
Joffrey clapped. "Wonderful. Splendid, Lord Baelish, you are to be congratulated. The Iron Throne will reward you for your generosity."
Baelish's eyes crinkled in a smile. "No need, your grace. It is my honor to serve the king."
As Master of Coin, Tyrion should feel a sense of relief for the gold that would undoubtedly pour into the treasury. But he was quite sure that Littefinger only served Littlefinger. A bag of powders and potions dangled from Baelish's outstretched hand. Tyrion was not the only one in the great hall thinking of how to secure the treasures in the precious satchel.
Owen Fossoway nearly gagged at the foul odors assaulting his nose. It was not the fault of the mule, affectionately named Carrot, that trotted languidly behind, carrying the supplies. Owen had brushed Carrot down with care before he left the Tyrell compound. The smell certainly did not come from Hugh Clifton, one of Lady Margaery's personal shields. Hugh, a young dandy, was on the cusp of being knighted and hoped to serve the royal court.
Flea Bottom was a dismal place, a warren of narrow streets, shabby buildings, and twisting alleys. The desperate and poor lived there, and the highborn occasionally ventured there on a lark to frequent the cheap brothels, bawdy gambler dens, and unsavoury rat pits. Thankfully, most places were boarded up - one of the few positives of the plague. The alehouses, pot shops, and boarding houses remained open as did the source of the wretched smells.
Flea Bottom was famous or infamous for their many tanneries. Why anyone would place tannery sheds on a hill far away from a plentiful source of water, made no sense to Owen. The air stunk from the urine, animal dung, and brains used to soften the leather. The human waste and other refuse were poured down the pipes and gutters that flowed down both Aegon and Rhaenys's Hills to the poorest areas of Flea Bottom. It was not enough that the rich shat on the poor. The poor shat on the poor as well.
"We're here, Maester." Hugh pointed out the dingy ramshackle building in clear need of repair. A worn down door creaked open and the curious eyes of children looked out at them.
"I am not a maester, only an acolyte. Your goodsister's home?"
"I am not certain they ever married. But she gave him two boys and a girl before my brother died in the Greyjoy Rebellion."
Owen entered the house. The inside was clean and homey, but far too full of people. A distraught woman, suffering from lack of sleep, looked over at a young brown haired girl, wrapped up in heavy blankets. Two older boys, the family resemblance clear, stood by along with a tall hunched over septon, an old woman tending a boiling cauldron, and several others.
"I am here, Kayla. This is Owen Fossoway." The Tyrell guard said to the mother.
The woman looked up with a mixture of hope and worry. "The maester. Please - do anything you can to help Bethany, Ser. I can pay a few silver stags. It is all the money I have."
"No need for coins. How long has she been like this?" Owen knelt down near the sick girl.
"Four days, my lord. I tried everything I knew. I bought a concoction from Glinda the Woodwitch and anise seeds to pound into an ointment to rub on her skin. But her red spots…" Kayla was close to breaking down from fear.
"It is not the plague." The old woman at the fire said. "She has no swellings, and her skin has not turned black."
Owen put on thin sheepskin gloves. He placed a hand on the warm forehead, looked into the mouth and nostrils. He slid a finger down the sides of the neck and shoulders. The girl's eyes were inflamed, and there were small red bumps but not as dark or large as the postules of the plague. "Does she have a rash? And complain of pain?"
"In the belly and back. And she itches something awful."
"This is not the plague. It is the pox. That explains the red spots, the rash, and the pain." Owen retrieved a stone mortar and pestle from a bag.
"Thank the Father and Mother. Do we need to bleed her?"
"Bleeding does nothing to help. Pox is not the plague, but it can still be deadly. Give her clean water to drink, good food, and fresh air. I will give her willow bark for the pain. Anise oil will help with the rash. The most important thing is to keep her clean and watered and well-fed. In a week, she has a good chance of recovering."
"Are you truly a maester, milord? I thought maesters only helped the highborn in castles." One of the boys in the cramped home said.
"Willam - don't say such things." Kayla scolded her son.
"I am not a lord - that would be my father Jon. And he is right. The Citadel is designed to benefit nobles, and not smallfolk. But I am not a maester. I am only an acolyte, studying at Oldtown. But everyone deserves to be treated fairly. What news is there of the plague in Flea Bottom?"
The rough looking tall man in a stained robe spoke. "Some early cases, but they burnt the bodies. Then the plague doctors showed up, and more people got sick. That is why the people of Flea Bottom have barred their doors."
"Plague doctors in Flea Bottom? Their elixirs sell for many gold dragons. I would think they would peddle their wares to the rich."
The old woman snorted in disgust. "The doctors do nothing but terrify people and take money from the dead and dying."
Owen had observed much the same over the past few days. Almost every Maester thought these hucksters dressed as birds were useless. "Who are you? What are you brewing?"
"Morin, an herbalist. I am brewing aloe leaves in a soup. Meribald, over there, is a septon with the good sense not to whip himself half to death. Serra is a midwife who helps Glinda collect plants and flowers in the woods. Jast and Khem are apothecaries."
"Then I have something that can help."
"Help cure the plague?" Morin asked. Her skepticism was shared by the others in the home.
"I cannot cure the plague but I can help the people of Flea Bottom. Gather anyone versed in healing, and tell them I would speak to them."
He fed the concoction of kings copper and willow bark to Bethany. The young girl's fever had subsided, and she rested more easily. Owen guided her brothers in washing the soiled blankets with boiling water, and wrapping the patient in fresh clean sheets. By then, the crowd of septas, herb women, midwives, apothecaries and hedge wizards had gathered.
"We have no gold for potions of mercury or magical talismans which are just a bunch of garlic bulbs." An angry man yelled at Owen.
"I am not here to sell you nostrums or promise cures that don't work."
"Then why have you come? Why not go back to your fancy castles?" An apothecary shouted.
"Owen Fossoway came to help me." Kayla said in a firm voice, supported by Hugh and her sons. "He gave Bethany herbs that cooled her fever and reduced her pain."
"For now. But how do we know it will work?" The old woman said.
"You don't." Owen said bluntly. "None of us knows if medicine will work. All we can do is improve the odds. The plague will kill thousands. But we can make it so that fewer die."
"How? Bleed the sick? Bath in lavender? We are poor, my lord. All we can do is hide in our homes and die." The herbalist said.
"Drink boiled water. Remove the bodies of the dead. Sleep in clean sheets. And this." Owen took out a large sack and poured out hundreds of berry sized fruit, ovals of red and orange. A few were almost purple. "These are rose hips."
"And what do you do with them?" Septon Meribald asked.
"Pound them in the mortar and pestle. And then add aloe, the roots of violets, cloves, honey and the shavings of fresh wood. Pour in clean boiled water. It will make a paste. When everything is well mixed, form the paste into flat lozenges, and let it dry in the shade."
"And do you eat these pills?" An old herb witch said.
Owen took a few from a pouch and handed them out. "No, you put them under your tongue, but do not chew or swallow. This will not stop the plague but it may keep the pestilence at bay. Many will still die, but hopefully less."
"It certainly has a pleasing odor." The apothecary said.
"What do we need to pay you?" The herb witch said.
"Nothing. I am from the Reach. The Reach has an abundance of rose hips. Give your patients this pill. Tell them to wash, drink clean water, breathe fresh air and go out into the sun."
"Fresh air?" A man laughed. "This is Flea Bottom. The buildings lean over each other, and there is no light or fresh air to be found."
"Then find some. Where there are houses, there are roofs. And those roofs get sunlight and fresher air. Far better to lie outside in the sun than be trapped in cramped hovels. Do not bleed the sick, or rely on potions from Lord Baelish's doctors that cost gold dragons. The plague is a terrible disease, and will kill many. But the Seven willing, with bodies removed, with clean water and food, with fresh air and sun, fewer will die than in the Great Spring Sickness."
Tyrion Lannister walked into the small chamber with a cocky smile and a spring in his step. For his service, Petyr Baelish had been given rooms in Maegor's Holdfast. The plague doctors found quarters in the various inns and taverns in the city, only occasionally reportng to the Red Keep. Baelish had a small group of attendants - four guards, a maester and a scribe, but they were outside, along with Bronn and Tyrion's escorts. He plopped down the vial that Podrick had purchased two days ago and cleared his throat.
"Lord Tyrion, how can I help you?" Baelish looked up from the parchment, full of numbers and figures.
He pointed to the pale liquid, spotted with powder, in the bottle. "Do you know how much this medicine costs?"
"I do not. I leave such dreary matters to others."
"Five golden dragons."
Baelish chuckled. "Is that right? Well, being sick is an expensive business."
"Maester Frenken examined your elixir. This is a mix of water, honey, cloves and cinnamon. The Maester says that cinnamon may soothe the belly, but nothing more."
"That elixir is the cheapest. To get more, one must pay more. The most expensive cure costs at least 25 dragons - per pill." Baelish said.
A skilled artisan might make three gold dragons in a good year. A superb war horse cost no more than 5 dragons. "Have you no shame, Baelish? You are profiting from the plague."
"Oh please. Spare me your outrage. I collect gold while men can pay. You should understand that, as Master of Coin. The plague doctors only carry so much medicine. And medicine costs gold and silver. When their stocks of ointments, salves, potions are done, the doctors will leave King's Landing. They can do no more good."
"They are not doing any good now. These nostrums do not work. Your men are stealing from the sick."
"The dying do not need gold. And if they recover, they will be happy that they bought the pills. I find it strange that you, a Lannister, quibble about gold."
"What do you mean?" Tyrion said, his anger rising.
"How much does your crimson doublet cost? Your bottles of Dornish Red and Arbor Gold? How much coin do you spend on whores and guards? Your man Bronn frequents my brothels."
"I spend gold. But it is mine."
Littlefinger laughed, his breath sweet and smelling of mint. "That coin comes from your father. The power and wealth of your house comes not just from gold and silver mines, but Lannister control of the crown. Lord Tywin stabbed Aerys in the back, looted and burned King's Landing, killed Princess Elia and her children. Your gold is covered in blood."
"And yours comes from theft, Baelish. How much have you stolen? From taxes and customs? From bribes you took as Master and Coin and debt you borrowed for the Iron Throne. And now you are selling sham cures to the dying."
"I sell what people want to buy. Men die in plagues just like they do in wars. Your father killed thousands in the Riverlands. No one cares about them. Smallfolk can always be replaced."
"Did you lie about Gulltown? Is the plague running wild there?"
"Gulltown fares well. Do you know why? My orders. When someone catches the plague, the watch seals them into their homes and forbids anyone from entering or leaving. Four days later, they burn the bodies. The city guards are allowed to keep half of any coins or valuables found."
They could not do that in King's Landing. The plague had already spread too far and fast. And allowing the gold cloaks to loot the dead - it was a wonder that anyone was alive in Gulltown. "Baelish, I will tell the king about this. Your false potions will not be blamed on House Lannister."
The Lord of the Vale smiled. "Go ahead, Lord Tyrion. Let us see if Joffrey shares your outrage."
In the library of the Old Palace, Myrcella read through the scrolls on Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar. When she left King's Landing, she had borrowed the History of the Rhoynish Wars. That book was extremely dry compared to the Dornish tales of the warrior queen. The maester's history lacked the gore, violence and sex that dominated The Ten Thousand Ships and The Loves of Queen Nymeria.
It had been a year since she had left the Red Keep with the two whitecloaks and her cousin Rosamund. A year was not enough to get used to Dorne, with its heat, spice, and customs. She had been saddened to leave her family but welcomed by the princes Doran and Oberyn. Still, even without her mother's shrill warnings, Myrcella knew that she was a stranger and until she married Trystane, a hostage in a foreign land.
Ser Balon opened the door to the reading room. Myrcella put away the scroll, remembering the place where Queen Nymeria fought off slavers from Tyrosh and Volantis as she crossed the Narrow Sea to land in Sunspear. Her smile grew more forced when she saw that her betrothed walked in with his sister and two of Prince Oberyn's daughters.
"Myrcella, bad news from the Capital." Trystane said.
Martell guards remained with the white cloaks, leaving her alone with the Martells and their cousins. Even Arianne's personal shield, Ser Daemon, was not allowed into the reading room. The Princess of Dorne was a truly beautiful woman, olive skinned and buxom, with bewitching dark eyes and long thick hair. She dressed in flowing silks and jewels that flattered her lush figure. Servants hastily brought forth several chairs and a platter of spicy flatbread, figs stuffed with nuts and cheese, blood oranges and bite sized kumquats.
"A raven arrived from Tommen. Your cousin, Ser Lancel, died." Arianne said.
Myrcella bowed her head. "He was my uncle, really, the eldest son of Ser Kevan, my grandfather's brother. I am sorry for his death."
"The plague is running amuck in King's Landing. I wish that my father had not sent Uncle Oberyn and my cousins there. Are you not worried about your family?" Arianne asked.
"Of course I am, your grace. The Seven Kingdoms have not seen a plague for ninety years, and this one seems likely to bring great suffering and misery."
"They say this is your brother's fault. That Joffrey brought this upon his own cowardly head by committing blasphemy against the Seven." Elia Sand interjected.
She knew about the supposed crimes. All of Dorne did. Ever since Edrick delivered Amory Lorch, the Martells followed the war very closely. Myrcella had been disgusted by the treachery and as surprised as everyone when the Twins fell, only a month later. Prince Doran had informed them when the Mountain's head reached King's Landing. She was certain that the blame did not belong to Joffrey. He was too stupid to conspire with Walder Frey.
"Plagues have little to do with kings. Some good kings have suffered through plagues. Some bad kings have not. Daeron the Second died in the Great Spring Sickness but he married a Martell and brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms."
"The Great Spring Sickness killed good King Dareon. What if it kills bad King Joff? Tell me Myrcella, would you care to be Queen?" Arianne asked, with a smile.
"The laws of the Iron throne are not the same as Dorne."
"But what do you want, girl? Do you wish to be Queen?" Obella asked.
Inwardly, Myrcella did not like being called a girl by someone only a few moons older. "It is not my choice. Tommen will be King. That would be the decision of my grandfather, the Lord Hand. My mother and uncles would also agree with that."
"The Lannisters are not the only Great House. Other families may support your claim for the Throne." Arianne said.
"Other families? My uncle Stannis will support only himself. The Tyrells plan to marry their Rose to Joffrey. Surely you are not talking about the Arryns or the Greyjoys."
"What about the North? You visited Winterfell." Arianne said.
"Why would Winterfell support me? I danced once with Robb Stark. That seems so long ago. My time at Winterfell was spent sewing with Sansa and Arya. I do not know the Starks well."
"Perhaps you can get to know Robb Stark better. The Northmen are reputed to be savages. They might carry Southern maidens away to be ravaged."
Trystane finally spoke. "Myrcella and I are betrothed. If she became queen, we could not live in Dorne."
"Merely a jest, brother." Arianne's beautiful eyes lacked any trace of amusement. The Princess was precluded from any further remarks when the door burst open again. Ser Manfrey Martell rushed through with Maester Myles, Ricasso, and the treasurer, Lady Alyce.
"Princess, dark news has come from Planky Town regarding the plague."
"How? The port is closed. My father instructed House Dalt to shut down all trade."
The castellan, a cousin to Doran, shook his head. "We have given orders. Planky Town refuses to obey. They are keeping the Greenblood open so ships can cross the Narrow Sea."
"They? Who dares disobey? House Dalt has been difficult since Father refused Drey's suit for my hand."
"It is not House Dalt. Ser Deziel and Andrey were forced back to Lemonwood. The priests of the Rhoyne control Planky Town. They have rebelled against Sunspear." Ser Manfrey admitted.
Myrcella had never heard of the priests of the Rhoyne, except in fragments of tales older than those of Queen Nymeria. She looked upon the shocked faces of the Martells and wondered what other secrets Dorne hid from the Seven Kingdoms.
Owen Fossoway smelled of Flea Bottom. No amount of rose petals and rose hips could obscure the stench. Garlan, his goodbrother, had offered help provided the Tyrells were given credit for supplying the flowers and fruit. Owen was happy to shill for the Reach, but there was only so much that could be done. The plague was a giant storm breaking over King's Landing. The pills would only protect some, but certainly was not a cure.
Owen badly wanted to bathe and wash away the dirt and grime of the city but that simple act had turned difficult. Bodies were being dumped at night into the Blackwater Rush, so he feared any contact with the river water. A few public bathhouses remained open but that meant sharing the filth of strangers. Boiling enough water to take a bath alone was problematic. He pondered his predicament when three figures appeared out of the shadows. One carried a tall spear and another wore a cream coloured dress. He knew the third.
"Owen Fossoway." The woman dressed as a man said.
"Alleras - or should I call you by a different name. Your sisters, I assume?"
"Alleras is a fine name and one I kept for four years. I plan to return to the Citadel to forge my links. My sisters - Obara and Tyene. We need you to come with us."
"I am very tired. It has been a long day, walking back and forth in King's Landing. Can't this wait till tomorrow?"
The burly woman lunged forward but was held back by the pale golden haired girl. "You were distributing rose hips to the masses in Flea Bottom. Will that make any difference?" Tyene said.
"Perhaps only a little, but at least the Reach is trying to help. What is Dorne doing?"
"Investigating. Come now so you can hear what we have found." Alleras said.
"Oh? Why would I be interested?"
The dusky woman held forth a cracked white mask. The half foot beak, emptied of herbs and aromatic oils, still smelled faintly of sweet perfume. "Is this reason good enough?"
That day, the Small Council was entirely Lannister, although Tyrion did not know why Mace Tyrell was absent. Joffrey had come down only grudgingly to the Small Council chambers, escorted by the Queen Mother. Besides Jaime, the other whitecloaks stood outside, along with a large battalion of guards. Tyrion, under the watchful eyes of his father, presented the maester's analysis of the potion to the other members of his family.
"Is this true, Lord Baelish? Is this serum useless?" Tywin asked.
"It may not be the most powerful of elixirs. The strongest medicine is this." Baelish took out a silver gray pill, streaked with black. "This one can cause you to vomit out the contagion."
"And will that actually cure the disease?" Tywin said.
"If the maesters are correct that the disease is caused by noxious odors - but who truly knows. It is far easier to take a life than save one." Baelish said lightly.
"But then you have not stopped the epidemic. The plague may still spread through King's Landing." Kevan said.
"I will not get blamed for this." Joffrey cried.
Baelish smiled, and for once, Tyrion thought there was a trace of laughter in those cold gray green eyes. "Your grace, there is a different, better way to approach this. The plague is not a problem for your rule. It is not a calamity sent down as punishment by the gods. The disease can be managed. The plague is an opportunity to strengthen your reign."
"What do you mean?" Joffrey said.
"You have enemies, your grace. Men who whisper and complain about your rule. Highborn who parrot the vile lies of Stannis Baratheon about your parentage. Smallfolk who grumble and curse your name. Will you let these insolent worms plot and conspire against you? The plague offers a golden moment to stamp out the faithless and disloyal."
"How can you do so, without harming many others?" Tyrion asked.
"Look at the Great Sept of Baelor. The High Sparrow preaches treason and incites the septons and brothers against the Throne. They call you faithless and unfit. Kill them all and let the Father and Mother above sort them out." Baelish said.
Littlefinger did not care how many fell victim to the plague. That did not seem to bother Joffrey. But the High Sparrow knew of Cersei's crimes. It might be better for him to die, Tyrion thought.
"And the poor of King's Landing - did they not insult you when Princess Myrcella left for Dorne? Likely beggar boys and vagrants from Flea Bottom."
"Traitors." Joffrey raged. "They attacked me and called me names."
Tyrion remembered that day. The mob demanded bread, and when no food was forthcoming, turned to throwing rocks and filth. The royal party had been lucky to escape with their lives. Several knights and the previous High Septon had not. "You ordered the Hound to take their heads. Did you expect the starving to bend the knee before your dog executed them?"
"They threatened the king and deserved to die. If the poor raise their hands against the Iron Throne, they should lose their hands." Baelish said.
"They are your subjects, your grace." Tyrion said. "It would be a poor king who killed his own."
"Who cares about the scum of Flea Bottom? The poor die like flies in plague and war. If they all died, another batch would come to the city and might be more grateful for their lives."
Joffrey smiled, an ugly sense of glee on the pouty face. "I like it, Lord Baelish. King's Landing would be better without these malcontents."
"Not just King's Landing, but also other parts of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Who else?" Joffrey asked eagerly.
"Ser Baelor Hightower. He has refused your orders, along with the other false Reach lords. Let the plague bring them down."
"The Hightower men are in the Riverlands. How could you possibly reach him?" Jaime asked.
"There are ways to spread the plague. The doctors could visit the Trident. A few corpses and the rivermen would not escape the disease."
"No. There are Lannister soldiers stationed in the Riverlands." Tywin said.
"Could you strike down only Ser Baelor?" Cersei said.
"Perhaps, I could bring the plague to only the Hightower camp. But I could not stop the plague from claiming Harroway or the Stony Sept."
"No, I forbid it." Tywin interrupted forcefully. Tyrion was thankful that someone in House Lannister had a smidgen of sense.
"Why? Ser Baelor insulted me before the entire royal court. I want his head." Joffrey ranted.
Tywin gave his grandson a withering look. "Ser Baelor is not the threat. The danger is House Hightower. The Lords of the Reach know that you feuded with the heir in the Great Hall. What would they think if Ser Baelor fell dead six moons later in the Riverlands? Not everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is a fool. Lord Leyton is certainly not, and neither are his daughters or sons. There is no need or reason to provoke the Hightowers, their sworn houses and allies. I will not even mention Oldtown, the Citadel, and the Faith."
"I am the King. How can I be respected if no one fears me? Ser Baelor laughs in my face. The Stormlords do not answer my summons. The North and the Iron Islands have rebelled. I need a Hand that will terrify my enemies, not one that runs away from battles. Ser Baelor needs to pay a high price for defying his king. So do the other lords that refuse my orders. House Hightower should thank the Seven that I did not strip them of their titles and land."
"The Hightowers have not rebelled against the Iron Throne. If you attack their heir, that may change. Spies report that at the Twins, Baelor was friendly with Jon Snow. Snow approached him first with the terms of the truce. If this insane scheme fails, then Ser Baelor may throw his support to the Starks. Even a rumor of such a pact endangers our alliance with the Tyrells." Tywin warned.
"Then Ser Baelor is a traitor and should lose his head. Bring his head to me or I will find a Hand that can." The command fell flat. Even Joffrey knew that he had gone too far.
"The king needs rest. Ser Jaime, have the whitecloaks escort Joffrey back to Maegor's Holdfast. A cup of sweetmilk may improve his nerves." Tywin said.
"A king does not bow down to the lords. They must bow down to me. If the Hightowers defy me, the Iron Throne looks weak. That encourages more rebellion, not less." Joffrey yelled, as the Strongboar and Ser Robert Brax dragged him away.
Tywin ignored the comments and waited to speak until Joffrey was forced from the council chambers. "Lord Baelish, refrain from speaking with the king. Matters of greater consequence require your attention. There are reports that House Arryn's vassals are displeased at your marriage to Lady Lysa and wardship over Lord Robert. I do not need unrest in the Vale. Control your bannermen or the Iron Throne will."
Petyr Baelish nodded, chastened by the clear threat. The meeting ended soon after, with Cersei hurrying after Joffrey, eliciting a look of disgust from Tywin. Tyrion doubted that this was the last they would hear about this.
The guards in red and yellow did not give Owen a second glance as he entered the Martell mansion. Servants brought a copper basin of heated water and clean towels to wash away dirt and dust. The house was decorated in the style of Dorne : stone courtyards, symmetrical gardens with a fountain in the center, intricately carved wood and stone with interlacing patterns, and etched tilework. The Sand Snakes waited and then took him to the solar.
Oberyn Martell sat behind a sandalwood desk with his paramour. The contents of a leather satchel were scattered before him, and Oberyn examined a small metal chest, the size of a man's palm. There was no place to sit, as Lady Tyene took the only available chair.
"You are Owen Fossoway of the Citadel?"
Owen nodded, his eyes on the bottles and vials of medicine. The Red Viper was famous for many things, and one was the knowledge of rare and exotic poisons. Poisoners often studied the healing arts.
"Do you wish to be offered bread and salt?" Ellaria Sand asked.
"No need, my lady. I assume you did not bring me here to kill me. May I ask, Prince Oberyn, how you bought an entire bag? I understood the plague doctors only sold a single potion at a time." Owen said.
"We took it. And then I questioned the doctor about these supposed cures for the plague. Most are frauds - honey water, mixed with herbs."
"Most? But not all?" Owen replied.
"We do not know." Alleras stood at her father's side, one hand on his shoulder. "Owen, what did you think of Baelish's speech in the great hall?"
"A giant pack of lies. The dates do not make sense. Why would Gulltown hear about the outbreaks in Essos before King's Landing? How could Baelish summon physicians from Braavos in only a few weeks? If the plague exists in Myr and Pentos, then doctors would stay there. They would not cross the Narrow Sea for Littlefinger."
"They did not. I put the man to the question. Guess what his profession was before he became a plague doctor." Oberyn said.
"A failed maester, perhaps - or a scribe or a barber."
"The man sold fruit in Gulltown. Apples, pears and plums." Oberyn said.
"And the other doctors? Are they also equally unskilled?"
Alleras looked at her father. "Most likely, but we do not know for certain. The doctor can no longer answer any questions."
"My questioning was rather forceful. In the beginning, he refused to say anything, claiming that he would be punished for speaking."
The false doctor was likely floating in the Blackwater. For the sake of the city, Owen hoped that was the bay and not the river. "What is Baelish playing at?"
"Whoremongers always want gold. Lord Baelish has risen high through commerce and coin. He is now one of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms." Tyene Sand declared.
That was true, but there must have been more than just the desire for coin. Baelish was already a wealthy man from brothels and titles. "This is a great deal of trouble for a few bags of gold."
"Many many bags of golden dragons. These medicines are expensive. Particularly this one." Oberyn took out a pill. "This is the prize elixir in the satchel. The one cure that the plague doctor claimed would work."
"And do you believe that?" A skeptical Owen took a closer look. It was a gray silver pill, a ball of soft metal - bright and brittle.
"Even liars speak the truth sometimes. Sarella says that you studied metals with Jon Snow. "
"We studied metals and mining together. Jon was always burning things in the fire in our room. He thought there were better ways to smelt ores, make steel, find and extract metals. I enjoyed the experiments. Jon and I never forged a steel or iron link, although I think he should have received one for his work on steel."
"Can you identify the metal?" Alleras asked.
"I am not Jon Snow. I assume you have weighed and measured it."
"We have. Lighter than silver and gold. Even copper."
"I can try but it will not be easy. I will need tools, equipment, and a fire." Owen wished that Jon was here. He hated that the Tyrell involvement in the War had placed them in opposing camps. "Why is it so important to know this metal? Has Dorne been affected by the plague?"
"That is none of your business." Obara Sand snapped.
"No, he deserves to know." Oberyn led Owen to an alcove. There, under an open window with wood lattice work that let in the light and wind, two servants, noses and mouths covered in white linen, watched over a young woman. She was slender with long raven black hair and full lips. Her eyes were closed, and black lumps marred the pale white skin. Owen had never seen anyone so lovely and elegant, even at the edge of death. "My daughter, Nymeria. She hangs on to life by a thread. That is why we need your help."
Ser Pounce was too clever. Dorcas, one of his mother's servants, had made a mouse out of scraps of fur, tied to a fishing pole. Tommen enjoyed jerking it across the room as the little black kitten chased it. But Ser Pounce outsmarted him. The kitten had stepped on the string and then ripped the head of the false mouse clean off, running away with his prize.
Tommen was sure that Margaery and her cousins would be happy to provide him another kitten. But he was afraid for his little pet. There was another feline in the castle, a surly tomcat with a torn ear and a vicious streak. He had once seen the bad cat at his window, devouring a raven that was still alive. No, he would protect Ser Pounce from the beast of the Red Keep.
Tommen stepped quietly out of his bedroom. Normally, a kingsguard would be posted in the hall, but two days ago, Joffrey had come back to his chambers, cursing loudly at the rather annoyed Strongboar. Rather than face constant abuse, the four white cloaks stayed outside Maegor's Holdfast, with only one knight at the drawbridge over the dry moat.
He kept to the shadows. He could request help, but that would surely bring unwanted attention. Tommen did not want his brother's scorn or his mother's condescension. It would be almost as terrifying to encounter grandfather. Lord Tywin had a bad habit of asking about the sigils of the great houses or the names of the Free Cities. Tommen wondered why grandfather simply didn't ask Cella. She knew all those answers and was kind and clever. He missed his sister dearly.
Tommen choked back a gasp at the sight of a sinister figure with a white beaked mask walking his way. The plague doctors frightened him with their cruel bird-like faces and full black robes, reminding him of death, disease and decay. Tommen had heard the servant's gossip among the servants. Where the doctors appeared, the plague rapidly followed.
Tommen shrank against the walls and ducked down, making himself as small as possible. The plague doctor walked on silently, and then turned in the direction of the rookery. He gasped when the figure raised gloved hands to touch the beaked mask. Had the Stranger come to take Tommen away? Would the mask's removal reveal a grinning skull or a more fiendish visage - some cross between a fanged baboon and a killer ape? Tommen's heart beat rapidly as the hood was lifted, and slowed in relief when he saw a man - short and slender, with brown hair streaked with gray, a pointed beard, and green eyes.
The unmasked man entered the rookery. Ravens croaked and quorked, covering the sound of Tommen's steps. Then he heard a familiar imperious voice.
"Baelish, are you certain this plan will be successful?"
"Your grace, nothing is entirely certain. But your reign over Westeros can only begin when your enemies are gone."
"About time. I cannot stand the whining of nobles or the wailing of women and smallfolk. I am the king. The gods have ordained me as their divine ruler."
"Of course. The people look to the Iron Throne, not the Faith or the Hand or nobles, for guidance. A strong monarch cannot be restrained by his advisers. Rather, he is the father of Westeros, ruling with a firm and just hand."
"You understand then my burden - to be the best king possible - far, far better than my father. When the plague passes, I will make changes. How do you intend to kill these dissenters?"
"Best you do not know, your grace. Then you can claim surprise. Your humble servant will take care of everything in King's Landing."
A bony hand grabbed Tommen's shoulder and the other one covered his mouth. He turned in shock to see a thin man in brown robes with a maester's chain around the long skinny neck. The man quickly pulled them from the rookery, and did not stop until they entered a spare pantry. "Prince Tommen, you should not be here. The Lord of the Vale does not like to be overheard, and his secrets are perilous to others."
"I am only looking for my kitten, Ser." Tommen squeaked.
"I am Maester Colemon, your grace. You lost your kitten?"
"Ser Pounce. He is small and black. He ran away with a toy mouse in his mouth."
"I will find Ser Pounce, your grace. Do not speak to anyone about what you heard in the rookery. You would not be safe if others knew."
Tommen gulped and agreed. Mother never believed him when Joffrey did cruel things. Better to play with Ser Pounce than face his brother.
Tyrion woke to the hammering on his door. He groaned and attempted to pour out a drink into a goblet. Only a few drops remained in the wine pitcher. He squinted at the morning light. The sky was still covered in clouds but he guessed that it was still hours before noon.
"What is Podrick? Are we under attack?"
"I am sorry, my lord. But Ronnel Hook died last night because of the plague."
"Who?" Tyrion dimly remembered that there had been a House Hook in the Riverlands, before Aegon's Conquest but that was very long ago.
"Ronnel Hook. He was a Keeper of the Keys. The watch found his body rotting in his home but the keys were not found."
"Which keys are missing?" Each of the four keepers had their own domain. The most important had charge of the royal jewels and treasure chests. Others held keys to the Armory and manors outside of King's Landing. All four had been appointed by Petyr Baelish.
"The Royal Mint."
An alarm rang in Tyrion's head. That could not be good news.
Septon Meribald trudged down the Street of the Sisters to the Great Sept of Baelor. He had not come to join the flagellants but to beg for salt beef and barley flour for Flea Bottom. A boy could die just as easily of starvation as the plague. In the Riverlands, the lords and septs had suffered but still they gave what they could to the poor and hungry. The faith in King's Landing was wealthier but less generous. The high sparrow claimed that was because of the endless mouths to feed but Meribald noted that the men at the Sept seemed a well fed lot.
As he walked up Visenya's Hill, the air grew more foul and thick with people. Vast crowds gathered to watch the flagellants flog each other in a strange ritual, singing hymns and chanting prayers to the Father as they walked around in a circle. The zealots did this thrice daily, twice during the day and once in the evening. Some crazed souls even held out ragged clothes to catch the blood and smear it on their faces and bodies. Meribald could barely read or write but he knew one thing. There was nothing holy about blood. He had seen enough of it shed in war.
A group of sparrows, armed with crude weapons, blocked the way further, stopping three ominous figures in black. The plague doctors waved their canes at the sept, asking to enter.
"Get thee back, spawn of the Stranger." a septa yelled.
"We have come to help. The High Septon needs our assistance." A doctor said.
That pronouncement was greeted with hisses, and a wild-eyed brother lashed out with a cudgel. The club bounced off the black leather coat but snagged on a bag, ripping it open. Hundreds of dragons and stags flew into the air. The crowd gaped and then lunged as one giant chaotic mass, maddened by treasure lust. The plague doctors darted away, flinging the satchels over their shoulders, showering bystanders with gold and silver. A wild melee broke out as men and women kicked, punched and brawled in sight of the statue of Baelor. Meribald had seen only coins, and no jars of cures in the bags. Surely, that must have been the fault of his old eyes.
Tyrion had not been the only one informed of the late Ronnel Hook's passing. Harys Swyft and Orton Merryweather were also at the Royal Mint, poking their ugly snouts into this business. The Watch reported to uncle Kevan. Tyrion assumed that Ser Kevan had notified his good father. As for Merryweather, he might be a spy for the Tyrells or Cersei.
The Royal Mint was a large and stout building with strong oak and iron doors. The facade was unimpressive but inside, there were high vaulted ceilings and limestone floors. The air was warm from the furnaces and hearths used to melt metals and forge coins. Podrick gawked at the blacksmiths, engravers and casters busy at work. Bronn was more interested in the wheelbarrows they pushed along the floor.
"Don't even think about it." Tyrion said.
"Just looking. I am not going to rob the place."
Of course, a robbery would be Bronn's initial thought. He was an insolent black hearted rogue. "There are at least a dozen men stationed behind the columns. And you would not get much. The coins are minted in volume only when bullion comes from the mines, moneylenders, or banks in Essos. As soon as they are struck, guards transport the coins to the royal coffers." Tyrion did not mention that those coffers were nearly empty. The crown spent at a fantastic rate, and there was no gold and silver coming from the mines in the Westerlands.
A well-dressed man stepped forth, one of the King's Scales, in charge of weights and measures. This was one of Baelish's appointees, like so many of the men in the treasury, tax and customs collections. "Gylbert Waters, my Lords. How can I help you?'
"Ronnel Hook died last night. His key is missing." Tyrion began.
"Lord Tywin wants to know if anything valuable was stolen. Was it gold? Silver?" Harys Swyft squawked. The chinless man clutched his hands together nervously.
So much for subtlety. "What doors did Hook's key unlock?"
"No coins were stolen but the key unlocks a chest that stores the dies. To strike coins, we hammer the blanks between two dies. One side is a dragon, stag or star. The other is the king. Our engravers just finished the die for King Joffrey in time for the royal wedding."
"So you will be unable to strike new coins?" Swyft asked, crestfallen.
"We will, my lord. A messenger was dispatched to Lord Baelish. His man came with a spare key. We are forging new silver stags today. Quite lucky, I suppose. The new envoy has been asking for samples."
"The envoy?" Tyrion asked.
"Noho Dimittis. The man from the Iron Bank. He asked to see any new coins minted."
In his mind, Tyrion cursed. With Swyft and Merryweather present, he could hardly confront the King's Scale over the currency debasement. And yet, the man was in charge of weights. Unless he was a dullard, Gylbert Waters would know about Littlefinger's scheme. But if he didn't, Tyrion certainly could not tell him. Was everything about to come crashing down? "I would like to see the new silver stags as well."
"Of course, my Lord. I will be happy to send some over."
The King's Scale waited for the lords to leave before retiring to a small office. There, seated in a chair behind several guards, was a slender man with graying hair and a sharp short beard.
"It is done, my Lord. Both the Master of Coin and the Iron Bank envoy have asked to see the new stags."
"Excellent, Gylbert. Lothar will make sure they receive their coins."
"We don't have much ore though. If we mint coins that are pure, we will run out quickly. But if the stags are only 50% silver, then the Iron Bank will know. Noho Dimittis is quite persistent." The King's Scale said nervously.
"Noho will not be a problem for much longer. In a few days, you will have no cause to worry." Baelish handed the man a bottle of red wine. "The finest strongwine from Lys. Have a drink when you are finished."
The young boy entered the Blushing Maiden, both hands clutching the full pouch with care. A stocky brown haired man had given him a shiny silver stag to deliver the coins, enough to buy a meal large enough to fill his empty belly. In the main taproom, the boy found his quarry, a tall thin man in purple and black with a high felt hat.
"Noho Dimittis?"
The Braavosi nodded, and opened the pouch under the watchful eye of his two colorfully dressed guards. He took out a silver coin marked with the boy king Joffrey Baratheon and bit the stag. It was the proper level of hardness, not soft like lead and tin. Noho gave the boy a handful of copper stars and returned to his supper. His plans to test the other coins never happened. That night, the banker developed a terrible fever and pains in the belly. A day later, his toes and fingers would turn black from bleeding into his skin.
Tyrion Lannister looked over the plans for the royal wedding. He did not look forward to the discussion with Olenna Tyrell over the costs. A tournament of singers with a gilded lute with silver strings as a prize, and that was only the beginning. There would be jugglers, jesters, mummers, and dancing bears. Perhaps he could convince the Queen of Thorns that only one bear was sufficient.
"My Lord, the coins from the Mint arrived."
"Splendid, Podrick. Did you count how many?"
"Fifty. Quite bright and shiny."
"I will take a look at them later." Tyrion wondered if he could keep the anger of the Iron Bank away from the Tyrells. It would be hard to have a lavish wedding with no funds and no hope to borrow more. "Pod, are you bleeding?"
The shy squire stammered, ashamed to have gotten hurt carrying out Tyrion's orders. "Sorry, my lord. Some loose metal in the bag. I scraped my hand counting the coins."
Tyrion would only realize days later what those words meant.
Petyr Baelish sat quietly outside the Small Council chambers, waiting for an audience with the Hand. Lord Tywin believed that lesser men served at his beck and call. For the most part, the Old Lion was right. Tywin loved control - over his family, his knights, the Westerlands, and even the king. But in the Game of Thrones, every piece had a will of their own.
Baelish gazed into his hands. He had paid a golden dragon for these gloves. The brown leather was thinner and more supple than the thick black ones worn by the plague doctors but offered the same protection. The best seamstress in Gulltown sewed them for Baelish personally. He took out the letter, and pressed the tips of his fingers on the ink.
The guards waved him through. In the late afternoon, the Hand worked by candlelight, writing decrees and reading reports. In the absence of a Master of Whispers. Tywin cultivated his own spies. Baelish doubted it matched the network of little birds that once reported to the Spider.
"Lord Baelish."
"My Lord Hand, a disturbing message came from the Vale."
Pale green eyes flicked up. "Go on."
"A raven from the harbormaster at Gulltown." Baelish handed the letter over.
Tywin read the note, fingers touching the smeared ink. "Lord Royce returned with his son and daughter from White Harbour. He brought back several casks of liquor, a gift from House Stark. So what, Lord Baelish?"
"House Royce has clearly allied with the North. Bronze Yohn is a threat to peace in the Vale."
"Attending his son's wedding will not make Yohn Royce rebel against House Arryn. And the casks may simply be a generous gift for the Southern lords for coming North."
"Lord Royce is a difficult man, and proud. He is not pleased with Lady Lysa's rule. He wanted to fight for Ned Stark in the Riverlands. House Royce should be stripped of their lands."
Tywin looked at him with a touch of scorn. "Ned Stark is dead, and the Vale's ties to the younger Starks are weak. Lord Yohn dislikes your marriage and your title as Protector of the Vale. That is a problem for you, not the Hand. So long as Robin Arryn is in your control, Royce will not rebel. Is that all?"
Baelish nodded meekly and took the raven back. Specks of ink marked Tywin's skin. Baelish left the small council chambers and threw the note into an open fire. He carefully removed the gloves into a pouch, making sure his hands were entirely unstained. It would not do to be caught in his own trap.
Baelish would ensure that silver stags stamped with Joffrey's face passed into the hands of urchins, smallfolk, whores, and merchants in King's Landing. The more the plague raged, the less anyone could trace his actions. There might be ire at the plague doctors but Baelish did not care. Nothing was more replaceable in this world than men.
It had taken two days to get the answers. Owen assayed the metal with fire, acid, and stone. He had looked through scrolls on alchemy and searched the fragments of tomes from dead Essosi scholars. He ran experiments on rats, forcing the animals to breathe fumes from heated pills. He did not have good news.
"Antimony. A metal used by both ancient Ghis and Valyria."
"And does it work as medicine?" Alleras asked.
"Only if you believe in the four humors. Antimony causes vomiting because it is toxic. I killed several rats with the fumes. The smoke sickened me as well."
"Some poisons can be used as medicine. In small amounts, snake venom can treat a fever." Tyene Sand said.
"The pill may kill the disease and the patient. I do not believe it will help your sister. Antimony would weaken her further."
Oberyn nodded, his face somber. "We have written to the Citadel. Ebrose says Littlefinger's doctors are all charlatans and thieves."
The mood in King's Landing deteriorated as the plague turned more rampant. Stories spread of plague doctors waylaid and beaten, with some seen fleeing the city. Owen wondered how much gold they had collected with their deceit. "I am sorry, Prince Oberyn."
"You have done what you could." The Red Viper replied. But Owen knew, as he looked upon the ashen face of Nymeria Sand, that was a lie.
Owen returned through empty streets to the Tyrell dwellings. He had helped a few poor souls in Flea Bottom but it was not enough. More and more died every day. The plague had taken the greatest toll on the Flagellants, but then again, no one knew the true numbers. Many healers refused to see the sick for fear of infection. Even when they did, they could do nothing. No wonder people turned to crazy men with whips or liars in masks for false salvation.
The first sign of something wrong was the large crowd outside the mansion. Half a dozen knights of the Reach stood sheepishly by their war horses. The second sign was the servants, too frightened to gossip. Owen saw the anguished look on his father's face, and the sorrow of the other Tyrells. Lady Alerie was crying, the other ladies unable to give her any comfort.
"What has happened?"
"You sister. She wants to see you." Lord Fossoway said.
Leonette Fossoway, eyes closed and face pale, lay alone in a canopied bed. Even from far away, Owen could see black lumps on her neck. There were several healers in the room that he recognized, but they looked as forlorn as he felt at the Martells.
"Leonette, Owen is here." Garlan said, rushing to bring him over.
Even resting, his sister was in pain. Her bright eyes were red and swollen. "When?" Owen asked.
Garlan answered. "This morning. My mother sent a messenger to get me from the camp. She called every maester from the Reach. Bunch of useless sods."
Leonette gave her brother a sad smile. "Owen, I don't need anything. Do not worry about me. Save the babe. If the boy or girl lives, then I will be fine."
"My lady, you are a month away. The child may not survive without you. If we cut you open, you are certain to die. There are medicines but we fear they may harm the baby." A round pink faced man, the maester of House Redwyne, said.
"You have to do better than that." Garlan snarled.
Of all his siblings, Owen was closest to Leonette, and she and her child were dying. As he held the hand of his beloved sister, Owen knew that he had no other choice. "Ask the others to leave."
"Get out. OUT!" Garlan yelled. The servants and maesters scampered out the door, leaving only Owen, his sister and goodbrother.
"There may be a way to save my sister and the babe."
"How? Maester Lomys says that no one in the Citadel, not even Archmaester Ebrose could heal a mother and child of the plague."
"No one knows how to cure the plague, Garlan. But he might be able to. This is our best and only hope to save Leonette and your child."
"I would give anything for that - gold, land, my sword..."
"That won't be necessary. I need a raven to contact Jon Snow."
Author's Notes
The infamous plague doctor costume was introduced in 1619 by Charles De Lorme, court physician to King Louis XIII of France. De Lorme was quite famous, although controversial, and the costume became broadly adopted.
The quote, the plague doctor "does nothing but terrify people and take money from the dead and dying." comes from Paulus Furst, a German printer in the 1600s, who published Doctor Schnabel Von Rom, (Doctor Beak) with the iconic engraving of the plague doctor. Even while some hoped for a cure, many people realized that plague doctors were frauds..
Owen Fossoway's medical treatment is modelled after Nostradamus. Nostradamus was known for cryptic prophecies late in life but he was also an apothecary and doctor who treated the plague with a much better approach. He didn't bleed patients, and recommended good hygiene and removing corpses from the streets. He is credited with the "rose pill", a lozenge made from rose hips that helped mild cases. He also advocated healthy diets, fresh air, and keeping patients clean. Unfortunately his wife and two children most likely died from the plague.
The rose pill was probably successful because the smell drove away rats and fleas. The pill is also full of Vitamin C, and it is not clear how much that protection helped. Also attention to hygiene and better nutrition helped. It certainly didn't save everyone, i.e. his first family, but it gave him a good success record. Nostradamus also wrote two books on medicine.
Like many herbal cures, cinnamon does have medicinal qualities. It lowers blood pressure, reduces inflammation, and improves digestion. If you rub it on, it kills some bacteria and fungi. But the amount in the potions wouldn't do much against the plague. Some of Baelish's medicines would seem to have an effect - vomiting, nausea, purging the body, etc.
The Greenblood forms the main conduit for trade in Dorne. Planky Town, the river's mouth, is the main harbor. The Orphans of the Greenblood have not forgotten their exile from the Rhoyne. That exile is the story of Nymeria's escape from Essos.
The Black Plague gave bathing a bad name, as some believed that water made transmission of the disease easier. The real culprit was dirty water and communal baths.
The inspiration for Baelish comes from two sources. The first is the Third Man where Orson Welles runs a scam with stolen and diluted penicillin, killing and sickening hundreds. The other is the Pathfinder module, Seven Days to the Grave, where the evil queen uses the plague to cleanse her city of riff-raff.
"Kill them all and let God sort them out" is attributed to Arnaud Amalric, a priest, justifying the massacre of 20,000 people in Beziers. Beziers, a city in southern France, was a stronghold of a religious movement deemed heretical by the Catholic Church.
One of the big differences between Book versus Show was the portrayal of Baelish (and Varys). In the beginning, Book Baelish was the best player in GOT. Somehow, he became far more heavy handed and dependent on things that seemed to be pure luck. How could he be certain that Sansa would not denounce him to the Vale Lords? One whisper of her true identity to Yohn and it is over. The scene where Lysa threatens to kill Sansa - first, there was a convenient Moon Door. Second, he somehow frames Marillion for her death. Somehow, the bard doesn't tell the Vale lords the truth. Why? Sansa knows now that Lysa killed Jon Arryn, the secret that can truly destroy Baelish. A superb villain who lost his edge as he came closer to power.
Many plague doctors were untrained and called empirics, an archaic term that means a quack. There is a recorded case of a plague doctor as a former fruit salesman.
Maester Colemon serves House Arryn and leeches Sweetrobin for his fits or gives him dreamwine. It is revealed that Pycelle sends him away from King's Landing because he was having success treating Jon Arryn for Lysa's poison.
The Keeper of the Keys is a real historical thing. The most well known is the Warder who holds the keys to the Tower of London, the home of the royal regalia and the crown jewels.
The strongwine is a reference to the Tears of Lys. As Dontos Hollard shows, Baelish covers his tracks well.
"Every piece has a will of their own" references the Baelish lecture to Sansa as they escape Kings Landing. He says "In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own. Sometimes they refuse to make the moves you've planned for them." He is criticizing Cersei who hatches plots without thinking about consequences but he might as well be speaking about himself. Educating Sansa on your evil schemes works only if she is a loyal lackey.
In the module Seven Days to the Grave, the plague is spread by chests of coins placed around the city. Baelish is not as extravagant but he doesn't need to be. Scientists have shown that plague bacteria is destroyed by exposure to direct sunlight (UV rays) but sealed in a pouch, or passed around in a dark tavern, coins smeared with pus and blood would be infectious.
Antimony was discovered by Egyptians 5000 years ago, and used for eyeliner (kohl). One process for extracting metallic antimony was described in 1615 by a German chemist, but it appeared in an Arab book by 815. The Greeks and Romans left written records about antimony compounds as medicine but we don't know their chemical knowledge.
Antimony pills were used as medicine, to induce vomiting and cleanse bad humors, and it was incredibly disgusting. They would take the pill, poop it out, and recover the pill for future use! Mozart probably died from taking antimony as medicine. It is speculated but not proven that antimony in pipes carrying water led to the decline of Rome.
Doctors believed in the four humors well into the 17th century. It was only disproven definitively in 1858. To be fair, they lacked the ability to observe the human body. And dissection of cadavers was frowned upon.