Lisa
"As of this morning, we've reported sixteen new cases in Branton alone. Another three from Riverside and now our first confirmed case from Higgart," the young woman reported. The meeting room was silent. The air was heavy with fear and concern. Sitting around the large meeting table was a collection of experts from various fields, all at the behest of the Public Health and Safety Board. The Head Surgeon of the Citadel sat across from the Director of Public Health for the capital city of Branton. Two hospital administrators from Riverside. A virologist visiting from the neighboring nation to the north. An expert of rare diseases had flown in from across the sea. A collection of some of the greatest medical minds in the world sat together with a singular task: To figure out and stop what might be a new form of plague.
"That puts us at over one hundred in total," The Director of Public Health, a stout, balding man, announced while scrawling a note in his book. "Would you mind telling us the timeline and specifics of your case, doctor...?" he continued, searching for the name of his guest. One of the doctors from Higgart spoke up.
"Dr. Blackwater," he finished.
"Yes, my apologies," the director replied.
"Not a problem. The patient entered Higgart Central Hospital two days ago in the early afternoon complaining of abdominal pain and fever. Over the course of the day, the patient experienced increasingly frequent episodes of nausea and perspiration, with temperatures peaking over 40 degrees on multiple occasions followed by relatively normal bodily functions. The patient would then insist that they felt fine and would prefer to be discharged, only for the symptoms to return within the hour. By noon yesterday, the patient appeared to have succumbed to the illness by all accounts, only to revive mere minutes later in a delirious state. Despite the use of all of our medical equipment, we were unable to detect any pulse or vital signs, leading us to assume that the disease somehow masks the functions of the patient. They operate in their delirious state in an almost feral manner, similar to a rabid dog. They refuse all food and drink, they lose the ability to create coherent speech and instead shriek horribly as a patient with dementia might," he explained.
"It should be noted, however, that the patient showed more obvious physical signs of infection during that state despite the failure of the monitoring devices," the second doctor chimed in. Her partner scowled slightly, his sharp features contrasting to her soft ones. "For example, the waxy quality of the skin as a result of the perspiration and slowed blood flow as well as the glazed-over eyes – as the disease apparently reduces the patients' ability to blink."
"One would almost assume you were describing a dead man walking," the Head Surgeon of the Citadel announced. Dr. Blackwater turned to him and nodded.
"There have been such... fanciful descriptions made in the hospital," he agreed.
"The description matches the experiences we've had here, as well as from Riverside, but no sign of rabies," the Director added. The rare disease expert finally spoke up.
"We've had no such cases arrive in Essos," he announced matter-of-factly, doing his best to clean up his accent. "Though I've been authorized by my government to look into possible options for preventing the spread of it overseas, including quarantine." Lisa shifted uncomfortably in her seat at the word 'quarantine.' The last time a major quarantine had been held, almost fifty thousand people in Twintown died, and that was only one hundred years past. The only route that had been left open to the northernmost lands was the ancient stone bridge and it had been nearly destroyed by the masses of people attempting to cross it to escape into the warmer south where they imagined the flu wouldn't follow. They were wrong.
"Let's not go quite that far yet," the Director replied, attempting to placate the foreign visitor. "Until we understand what the disease is and how it spreads, the best thing we can do is keep the general public from panicking. Panic leads to riots and then exodus, and exodus leads to spreading it even worse than if we acted as if nothing was amiss."
"I'm inclined to agree with Director Thompson," the Virologist grunted through his thick beard. "As we've had no cases in the North, I don't mean to tell you southern folk how to govern your borders. We remember the last time there was a panic and we'd like to avoid that. Best thing now is to find the source."
"Then the next steps are quite simple," the Head Surgeon announced. "The Citadel has already scoured our modern texts for any mention of similar ailments, dating back almost three hundred years to the Last Kings of Westeros, but we have yet to inspect any of the ancient manuscripts from the ages prior. Perhaps there will be some mention of this in those texts." The virologist frowned.
"You'll find nothing but shite in all of that," he spat. "It'll be just documented sightings of Grumpkins and Snarks." The room chuckled, much to the chagrin of the Head Surgeon.
"Nobody complained about Grumpkins and Snarks when we discovered the secret to the treatment of Lithiodermititis," he fired back. "As I recall, that was written well over a thousand years ago. Tell me, how many of our people suffered through that horrible disease for centuries before the knowledge was rediscovered and a vaccine created?" The virologist frowned and remained silent. The director nodded.
"As a man of science, I will never say no to any possibilities, no matter how remote or unorthodox. Please, Dr. Ebrose, search your historical archives for any mention of similar reports. What else do you suggest?"
"We must make the analysis of the blood samples a top priority for every lab around the world. They need to be properly contained and sent out at once," Dr. Ebrose continued, stroking his short, white beard. "All major hospitals must set up a quarantine zone within the hospital to house the afflicted. Of course, we maintain round-the-clock monitoring. Please ensure that we are all sharing our data. Oh, and the Citadel would appreciate a transcript of any and all interviews with the friends and family of the afflicted." The rest of the members of the room took note. "Can we expect a statistical model of the anticipated spread anytime soon?"
"With more than one-hundred cases since the initial discovery, I believe I can have a model that will be within 90% accuracy. Give me a few days," the virologist noted as he set his pen and notebook down.
"Excellent," Dr. Ebrose beamed. "Please have that distributed as soon as you can."
"I have a question," Lisa spoke up, raising her hand slightly. The room turned their gaze to her. "At what point do we tell the public? And what do we tell them?"
"What do you mean?" the Director asked, furrowing his brow.
"There are now over 100 patients, meaning we can officially classify it as a threat to public health and which means there are the friends and families of over 100 people who are going to be asking questions and talking about this. It's already on the news here in Branton and it's only a matter of time before the media picks it up nationally and internationally. People are going to be scared," she explained. "People are already scared. At the current rate of spread we could be declaring a national epidemic within weeks." Dr. Ebrose turned to the director, clearly at a loss. The room sat in an uncomfortable silence.
"Once we have a statistical model and a clear pathology as far as transmission goes... an accurate R-naught..." the Director began. "After that, we'll have a better idea of what to say and when to say it. For now, we keep doing our jobs and attempt to stop it before that point."
As the group filed out of the room, Lisa found herself standing in the hallway staring out of the windows over the city of Branton, imagining a disease that could cause the symptoms described by the physicians. Her studies at Branton Pharmaceutical University had given her a great insight into the history of diseases and plagues throughout the history of Westeros. The last major epidemic had been the Northern Influenza, nearly one-hundred years back. Hundreds of thousands of people had died and tens of thousands attempted to flee south. Since then, medical science had advanced significantly with the development of antibiotics and vaccinations. The idea of a new plague was as alien as it was terrifying.
"Dr. Stone," Director Thompson called, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Ah, Director," she stammered, turning to him. He smiled at her.
"Caught you staring at the castle ruins again," he chided. From their office, they were surrounded by mighty skyscrapers, but through them the remains of the old Red Keep could still be seen sitting proudly on the cliffs. "Don't worry. It never gets old for me, either."
"I was just thinking about the Northern Flu, actually," she explained, shuffling her feet nervously. "When 'quarantine' was mentioned," He nodded and stood next to her, staring out of the window.
"Hard to imagine in this day and age," he agreed. "Nevertheless, we protect the people and their health. We must prepare ourselves for any and all possibilities. Keep that in mind, especially while you're away."
"Of course," she agreed. "The people must come first."