Chapter Text
He stood over the washbasin and scrubbed his hands with vinegar until the skin stung…
Then rinsed them with boiling water. Fire was in their blood, but blood could carry corruption all the same. He repeated the process once more before he changed into fresh garments.
He made for the Great Hall. It was the proper place for the Prince of Summerhall to receive visitors and hear reports, and in times like this a man needed to hold on to what was proper. The rest of the castle was coming apart; he would not let the heart of it do the same.
Maekar took his seat at the high table. Lorcan stood to his right, solid and silent as ever. To his left Maester Melaquin had gone statue-still, the only way the man seemed able to keep from shaking. By the doors waited Pate with two guards. The master-at-arms stood with his thick arms folded across his chest, face set, patient. The man would hold, no matter what word came through that hall.
The knight from Blackhaven had been waiting since before the incident in the lower hall. Someone had fed the man and found him a place to dry his cloak. He looked presentable enough — as close as his thick build would allow.
Heavy-set, thick through the chest and shoulders from bread and honest labor rather than the lists. Straw-colored hair, redder at the roots. Low brows over eyes set too close, bridged by a dark ridge of hair that gave his face a look of permanent, earnest concentration.
“Ser Patrek Starstaff,” Lorcan announced. “In service to Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven.”
The knight approached and dropped to one knee.
“Rise,” Maekar said. “Speak.”
Ser Patrek rose. He cleared his throat — not from nerves, but with the careful pause of a man who knew his tongue would tangle and had learned to give it time.
“My p-prince. I bring word from Lord Dondarrion and the maester of Blackhaven.” He steadied himself. “I was meant to arrive two days ago. The rains on the mountain road made s-sure of my d-delay.”
“Noted,” Maekar said. “What word?”
“D-Dorne has closed the passes, my prince. The Boneway and the Prince's Pass. Both."
Maekar waited.
"This was done a s-s-sennight ago."
Maekar’s jaw tightened. A sennight ago the Red Keep had sent word of the sickness and he received it. Less than a sennight ago he had been sitting in the Small Hall, waiting for his eldest son to drag himself home from whatever gutter or whore he had chosen for the evening.
“The passes are held with s-spears, my prince. Lord Dondarrion sent a rider to treat with them and they turned him back. It is not a crossing any longer. It is a l-line, armed, and h-held.”
“They barred the pass.” Maekar regarded this. A line held by Dornish spears meant the Prince of Dorne had decided what was spreading across the Seven Kingdoms was far worse than the cost of isolation. Grave enough to risk starvation over infection.
“What of trade?” Lorcan asked.
“C-ceased. Passes and ports. Lord Dondarrion bids me tell you that the Marches m-must now look to the Reach and the Stormlands for supply.” Ser Patrek worked his mouth, he chewed the inside of his cheek. “He does not s-say so directly, but the meaning is plain enough. If the sickness spreads further, r-resources may not hold.”
The hall fell quiet. Every man in the hall let the words settle.
“What else, ser?” Maekar asked.
Ser Patrek’s eyes shifted. The earnest concentration on his face grew heavier.
“T-there have been i-incidents at B-Blackhaven, Your Grace.” Ser Patrek took a deep breath. “Men and women fall ill. Some catch the cough and recover. Some p-perish, as expected of a strong fever and c-cough. Others—” He stopped. “They d-die — or we believe they die — and then they do not stay dead. T-they go mad.”
Maester Melaquin and Lorcan exchanged a glance. They understood exactly what the knight was alluding to. Pate stood motionless.
Ser Patrek continued. “A violent i-infliction, my prince. Lord Dondarrion lost ten guards to one dead man.” Ser Patrek’s voice stayed steady, though it cost him. “The S-Stranger lost its grip a-and rose moments later.. He went mad and attacked the men nearest to him before they understood what was happening… t-ten were dead or bitten.”
Pate unfolded his arms. It was the first movement the master-at-arms had made since the audience began.
“The others who fell ill,” Melaquin said carefully. “Those who turned violent — did they all present with a cough beforehand?”
Ser Patrek’s brow furrowed. “I c-cannot say with certainty, maester. Some did. Some — I don’t recall hearing of a cough for all of them. But it happened fast, and I was not the one t-tending to the sick—”
“Has Lord Dondarrion taken measures?” Maekar cut in.
“He has, my prince. Those s-showing signs a-are quartered apart. Violent ones are dealt with.” Ser Patrek said this without flinching, which told Maekar something about the man. “But we cannot t-tell which of the sick will turn violent and which will simply die. Even some had recovered.”
“Some?”
“A few, my prince. More than a few. Which makes the whole matter—”
“Uncertain,” Maekar said.
“Just so, my prince. B-But Maester Edwyn m-may have kept a closer account than I did.” Ser Patrek reached into his cloak and produced a rolled parchment sealed with the lightning bolt of Blackhaven. “He asked that I deliver this to the m-maester of Summerhall. He has thoughts on the matter that he preferred to put to ink.”
Maester Melaquin stepped forward and took it, his hands not entirely steady.
He broke the seal and read in silence. The hall waited.
Maekar watched his face. The maester’s eyes moved across the text, stopped, then moved again—slower this time.
“What does it say?” Maekar asked.
Melaquin looked up. His voice was flat. “The Maester Edwyn believes there may be two distinct maladies at work, Your Grace. Not one sickness presenting with different severity—but two. Two afflictions moving through the same population at the same time, sharing similar early signs but progressing toward very different ends. One is barely survivable. The other—”
He did not finish.
He did not need to.
The chambermaid had coughed, burned with fever, and recovered. Allyn had shown no cough. He had simply declined, then risen with milky eyes and teeth that sought flesh.
Two sicknesses wearing the same mask.
“He also writes,” Melaquin continued, “that he plans to send his findings to the Citadel and hopes they will provide further counsel.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. The Citadel. The same archmaesters who had dismissed the sickness that plagued the realm as a severe damp. He said nothing.
“Is there more, ser?” Lorcan asked Ser Patrek.
The knight straightened. “My prince. Blackhaven is turning away the travelers. Those who were caught on the road when Dorne sealed the passes—merchants, pilgrims, common folk—Lord Dondarrion cannot take them in. He will not risk more s-sickness in close quarters.” He paused. “They are being sent north, my prince. And the only holding of any size between Blackhaven and Storm’s End is—”
“Summertown.”
Ser Patrek took a step back and set his gaze down.
Maekar looked toward the tall windows. Through the painted glass the gardens lay grey and wet. The rain had thinned to mist.
Hundreds of people were coming up the Boneway. Some coughing. Some not. No way to tell which carried the sickness that killed and which carried the sickness that made the dead walk.
He thought of the fire iron in the lower hall. The weight of it.
He could not do that two hundred times.
Maekar turned to Lorcan.
“Fetch Ser Jason.”