The first village death was blamed on winter.
The second was blamed on fear.
By the fourth, Maester Willamen stopped letting men give names to things they did not understand.
The woman lay on a plank table in the lower hall, wrapped in a wool blanket that had already been marked for burning. Blood had dried beneath her nose and at the corners of her mouth. There was more at one ear. When Willamen lifted the cloth from her face, the septon behind him made the sign of the Seven.
"Stranger take us," the septon whispered.
Willamen looked over his shoulder. "If you are going to pray, do it farther away."
"She bled from seven places."
"She bled from the face."
"Eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth."
"Yes. The face has openings. That is not theology."
The septon's mouth tightened. "The people are frightened."
"They should be. They should be frightened of cough, fever, dirty cloth, and fools crowding around corpses."
Outside the lower hall, more villagers waited under the covered yard. Some had come after the raid. Some had been brought by kin when the fever worsened. Some had no fever at all and only wanted the castle walls between them and the mountain paths. The guards did not know which were which, and that was the problem.
Ser Symond Belmore entered with two household men behind him. He had not slept properly in three nights. Willamen could see it in his eyes.
"Another?" Symond asked.
"Yes."
"From which village?"
"Lower Harpwick."
"That is the third from Harpwick."
"Fourth, if you count the boy who died before they brought him."
Symond cursed. "Do we know it came from the raiders?"
Willamen covered the dead woman's face again. "No."
"But you think it."
"I think the first coughs followed the raid. I think the men wounded at the lower store began coughing after treating villagers who had fought the clansmen. I think the raiders took bitterleaf, clean linen, willow bark, and half my useful stores. I think that matters more than what I can prove."
The septon said, "The clans brought a curse."
Willamen turned on him. "The clans brought spit, blood, hands, blades, and fear. That is enough."
Symond raised a hand before the argument sharpened. "Can it enter the castle?"
"It already may have," Willamen said.
The words landed badly.
One of the household men stepped back.
Symond stared at him. "Explain."
"Two guards at the south stair have fever. One helped carry wounded from the lower yard after the attack. A stable boy has cough. The cook's niece has been sleeping in Harpwick."
"Gods."
"Yes. Both sets, if that helps."
The septon glared at him. Willamen ignored it.
Symond looked toward the yard doors. Beyond them, voices rose and fell. Villagers arguing with guards. A woman crying that her husband would die in the cold. A man insisting he had no cough while coughing badly enough to prove himself a liar.
"What do you want?" Symond asked.
"Lower gate closed to anyone with cough or fever. No one from the villages enters the inner castle. Sick kept in the outer yard or the old goat sheds below the wall. Clean water carried out by men who do not cross the sick line. Cloth burned after use. Guards who handled the wounded are watched. No sharing cups. No bringing bodies into the sept."
The septon flinched. "They need rites."
"They can have rites outside."
"They are Belmore people."
"And if you bring them inside, you may kill the garrison," Willamen said.
Symond looked at the covered body.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then he said, "Do it."
The septon turned. "Ser Symond—"
"Do it," Symond repeated. "Pray at the yard wall if you must. No bodies in the sept."
The septon swallowed whatever answer he had.
Willamen gave one sharp nod. "I also need men to recover what stores remain in the lower houses. Not today. When we can send them safely."
Symond laughed once, tired and bitter. "Safely. The mountain clans took what they wanted, half the villages are coughing, and ravens come faster than I can answer them."
"More ravens?"
"Three this morning."
Willamen closed his eyes. "Of course."
...
The ravens waited in Lord Belmore's solar.
So did Lord Belmore.
He sat behind the table in a fur-lined cloak despite the fire. Age had made his hands knotted, but not weak. Three letters lay open before him. A fourth had been cut but not yet unrolled. The banners of House Belmore hung behind him: six silver bells on purple, bright in a room that smelled of smoke, wax, and wet wool.
Ser Symond entered with Willamen and the septon.
Lord Belmore did not look up at first. "Another death?"
"Yes, my lord," Symond said.
"Inside the walls?"
"Lower hall. Brought from Harpwick."
Lord Belmore's jaw tightened. "Maester?"
Willamen stepped forward. "The sickness is spreading among the villages and may already be inside the castle. I have ordered separation of the sick with Ser Symond's approval."
"With his approval?"
"He was present."
Lord Belmore looked at Symond.
Symond said, "If we bring every coughing villager through the gate, we risk the household."
The old lord looked back down at the letters. "And if we leave them outside, they say Belmore shuts its bells against its own people."
"They may live long enough to say it," Willamen said.
Lord Belmore gave him a dry look. "You speak more sharply when your herbs are stolen."
"Yes, my lord."
One corner of the lord's mouth moved. Not a smile. Almost.
He tapped the first letter. "The Eyrie asks for confirmation of our loyalty to Ser Joffrey Arryn and demands the high roads be kept clear of mountain clans."
He tapped the second. "Runestone writes that Lady Jeyne's testament cannot set aside lawful blood, and that every true lord of the Vale must stand against false rule."
The third. "Gulltown offers coin for men, grain, and silence."
Symond frowned. "Silence?"
"Silence until they know whether their gold can buy more friends than their enemies have swords."
Willamen looked at the letters. "And all of them expect an answer?"
"All of them expect more than an answer."
The septon said, "The realm is breaking itself while the Stranger walks below our gate."
Lord Belmore looked at him. "The Stranger has always walked below gates. Usually men are too busy charging through them to notice."
No one answered that.
Symond said, "We cannot send men. Not now."
"No," Lord Belmore said. "We cannot."
"We also cannot look weak."
"We are weak," Willamen said. "At least in this."
Symond looked at him sharply.
The maester did not back down. "The villages have been raided. The herb stores are reduced. The sickness is among our people. If riders carry it with them, we spread it. If soldiers bring it back, we deepen it. Pretending strength will not make the fever polite."
Lord Belmore leaned back. "You want quarantine."
"I want delay, separation, and warning."
"Warning to whom?"
"All of them."
The room went still.
Symond frowned. "All factions?"
"Yes."
The septon said, "You would write to rebels?"
Willamen glanced at the letters. "My lord, I do not care which Arryn a fever supports."
That made Lord Belmore bark a short laugh. It turned into a cough, but only from age and smoke. Willamen still watched him until it passed.
The old lord noticed. "Do not start measuring me yet, Maester."
"Then do not cough in front of me, my lord."
Symond said, "If we send warning to all sides, each will think we are playing the others."
"They already think that," Lord Belmore said.
"Yes, my lord, but this confirms it."
"No," Willamen said. "The plague confirms nothing except that men with lungs should not crowd roads and camps."
The septon made the sign again. "Do not call it plague lightly."
Willamen turned to him. "What would you prefer?"
"Winter fever."
"This is not ordinary winter fever."
"The Seven Wounds," the septon said quietly.
Symond looked at him. "Do not say that outside this room."
"They are already saying it outside this room."
Lord Belmore's fingers drummed once on the table.
That was bad.
Names spread faster than sickness sometimes. Once a fever had a holy name, men stopped handling it like filth and started handling it like judgment. Judgment made them gather, confess, accuse, touch relics, crowd septs, and kiss dying hands.
Willamen said, "My lord, if the smallfolk call it that, keep the sept open for prayer but closed for bodies. No touching the dead. No shared cups. No kissing icons after the sick."
The septon looked offended. "You would order worship?"
"I would order men not to put their mouths where fevered men put theirs."
Lord Belmore raised one hand. "Enough."
He reached for a blank sheet.
"We write to the Eyrie," he said. "We write to Runestone. We write to Gulltown. We write to any lord who thinks of moving men through our valleys. Mountain clans have raided Strongsong's villages and lower stores. A bloody cough and fever follow. We cannot yet say how far it spreads. Roads should be watched. Sick kept apart. No host should march through infected villages without need."
Symond said, "That sounds like refusal."
"It is refusal wearing a useful cloak."
Willamen nodded. "Good."
Lord Belmore looked at him. "You will add the medical instructions."
"I will."
"Briefly."
"I will try."
"Try harder."
The old lord took up his quill. "And to the Eyrie, we add that Strongsong cannot spare men until the sickness is contained and the mountain paths secured."
Symond said, "Runestone will read that as us leaning to Joffrey."
"Then to Runestone we add the same."
"And Gulltown?"
"To Gulltown we say coin buys little from a house burning its own cloth to keep fever from the walls."
Symond's mouth tightened. "Isembard will not like that."
"I do not like coughing villagers under my windows," Lord Belmore said. "Everyone may dislike something today."
...
By dusk, the ravens were ready.
Willamen wrote until his fingers cramped. He kept the instructions simple because soldiers and lords did not read long cautions when pride was louder.
Separate the sick.Boil cloth and water.Burn fouled bedding.Do not crowd the dead.Do not move coughing men with marching columns.Watch for fever, hard breathing, blood from nose, mouth, eyes, or ears.
He did not write Seven Wounds.
The septon did, in a sermon he was not allowed to preach inside the crowded hall.
Outside, the lower gate had been closed. Not sealed, but controlled. Villagers shouted until their voices cracked. Some cursed Lord Belmore. Some begged. Some prayed. Guards carried water out in buckets and left them at marked stones. The sick were moved to the old goat sheds below the wall. The dead woman from Harpwick was burned before nightfall, with the septon praying from ten paces away and looking miserable about it.
A boy tried to run through the gate when his mother collapsed near the yard.
Symond caught him himself.
The boy kicked and screamed until Symond held him by both shoulders and said, "She comes no farther because we need you alive too."
The boy spat at him.
Symond let him.
Willamen watched from the stair and wished he had more bitterleaf.
He wished, too, that the raiders had stolen only grain.
...
Lord Belmore stood in the ravenry when the birds were loosed.
One to the Eyrie.
One to Runestone.
One to Gulltown.
One to Heart's Home, because Corbray swords moved quickly when Arryn blood was questioned.
One to any Belmore cousin holding a road tower.
The ravens went out into a sky the color of old iron.
Symond stood beside his lord. "You know what this means."
"It means I have warned men who may still choose to be fools."
"It means every faction now knows Strongsong is weakened."
Lord Belmore watched the last raven vanish toward the east. "They would have learned soon enough."
"Some may come."
"Some may stay away."
"Which is worse?"
The old lord did not answer at once.
Below them, in the yard, a man began coughing so hard that the sound climbed the stone walls. Someone shouted for the maester. Someone else shouted for the septon. The two voices overlapped until neither sounded useful.
Lord Belmore closed his eyes briefly.
"The worst," he said, "is that all of them will think this changes the war before they understand it changes everything."
Another cough rose from below.
This time, there was blood in it.