The raven from Strongsong reached Gulltown in the rain.
By then, three ships had come in from across the narrow sea, two companies of sellswords were arguing over pay near the lower quays, and Lord Grafton's men were trying to count grain that had already been promised twice. A bloody cough in the mountains did not seem important beside coin, ships, and war.
The letter was read in a counting room that smelled of wet wool and ink.
"A fever near Strongsong," said one merchant. "Convenient."
Another man laughed. "Belmore does not want to choose a side."
Isembard Arryn stood by the window, looking down toward the harbor. He had rings on two fingers and tired eyes that still missed very little. "Does the letter say plague?"
"Bloody cough. Fever. Mountain clans involved."
"Mountain clans are always involved when Belmore wants sympathy."
A maester in Grafton service cleared his throat. "My lord, the symptoms are not ordinary. Blood from the face is mentioned."
"Men bleed when mountain savages cut them," the merchant said.
"After fever," the maester replied. "After coughing."
No one liked that.
Isembard turned from the window. "Can it reach Gulltown?"
The maester hesitated. "Anything can reach Gulltown, my lord. That is what a port is."
That was the wrong answer for the room. Men looked away. One of the merchants frowned as if the maester had personally insulted trade.
Isembard took the letter and read the last lines himself. "Belmore warns all hosts not to march through infected villages."
"Useful advice for men who wish to sit still," said the first merchant.
"Can we sit still?" Isembard asked.
No one answered.
Outside, rain struck the shutters. Somewhere below, a dockworker coughed. No one in the counting room noticed except the maester.
Isembard folded the letter. "Do not close the harbor. Do not frighten the sellswords. If men come from Strongsong roads with fever, keep them outside the city walls."
The maester said, "That will require inspection."
"Then inspect quietly."
"And if merchants object?"
Isembard looked at the men in the room. "They will object more to empty purses."
That ended the matter for them. Not for the sickness.
The raven's warning was copied, trimmed, softened, and sent to men who would read it only after they had already moved wagons, guards, and coin across half the Vale.
...
At Runestone, Lord Gunthor Royce read the same warning twice.
No one hurried him. Men did not hurry the Bronze Giant unless they enjoyed being made small.
The hall was cold despite the fires. Bronze armor watched from the walls. Ser Eldric's men stood near the lower benches, speaking in low voices until Gunthor lifted one hand. The hall quieted.
"Belmore says bloody cough," Gunthor said.
A knight near the table snorted. "Belmore says he cannot send men."
Gunthor looked at him. "Those may both be true."
The knight lowered his eyes.
Arnold Arryn sat wrapped in furs near the fire, thin-faced and sharp despite age and confinement. "Or Belmore waits to see which falcon falls."
Gunthor did not deny it. "Frightened men tell truths in useful shapes."
Ser Eldric leaned forward. "If Strongsong is weak, Joffrey's hold on the inner roads is weaker."
"Yes," Gunthor said.
"And if the sickness is real?"
"Then every man who thinks only of roads is a fool."
That brought silence.
Gunthor handed the letter to his maester. "Read the symptoms."
The maester did. Fever. Hard breathing. Bloody cough. Blood at nose, mouth, eyes, ears in the worst dead. Spread after mountain clan raids. Villagers fleeing. Wounded men handled by guards. Marching columns warned away.
Gunthor listened without moving.
When it was done, he said, "No men from Strongsong villages enter our camps."
One captain nodded. "Yes, my lord."
"Coughing men sleep outside the main fire line."
Another captain said, "The men will not like that."
"They may dislike it while alive."
"Scouts?"
"Still send them. Fewer. No sharing cups. No sleeping in village halls. If a guide coughs, leave him coin and take another."
Arnold's mouth curled. "You sound like a maester."
Gunthor looked at him. "Better than sounding like a corpse."
That ended that.
Eldric stood. "We can use this. Joffrey cannot keep the Vale safe. Mountain clans raid Belmore lands, and now fever follows. The Eyrie will look weak."
Gunthor's heavy fingers tapped once on the table. "Use it carefully."
Eldric frowned. "Carefully?"
"If you call Joffrey cursed and the sickness reaches our men, you will have named your own fear."
Eldric did not like the warning, but he understood it.
Gunthor turned back to the maester. "Send answer to Belmore. We received his warning. We will not move men through infected ground without need. Also send word to our road towers. Watch for cough. Watch for villagers coming in groups. Burn fouled cloth."
The maester bowed. "And to Ser Eldric's supporters?"
Gunthor looked at Eldric.
Eldric said, "Tell them the same. And tell them the Eyrie's weakness has opened the roads to clansmen."
Gunthor's eyes narrowed.
Eldric added, "But not to be fools with fever."
Gunthor grunted. "Better."
Outside Runestone, men still sharpened spears. Horses still stamped in the cold. The war did not stop. It only learned to carry a new danger in its baggage.
...
In the Eyrie, the raven arrived half-frozen.
The maester warmed the bird before he warmed his hands. Then he cut the message, read it once, and took it to Ser Joffrey Arryn.
Joffrey was not in a mood for another bad letter. Few men were, by then. His claim had the weight of Lady Jeyne's testament and the recognition of the Iron Throne behind it, but weight did not make men obey quickly. Royce still held to Arnold and Eldric. Gulltown listened to gold. Belmore delayed. Every road seemed to have a lord, a snowdrift, or a clan knife in it.
Now there was fever.
Joffrey read the Strongsong report in silence.
A household knight spoke first. "Belmore seeks excuse."
The maester said, "Perhaps. But the sickness is likely real."
"Likely?"
"The symptoms are specific."
Another man said, "Mountain filth. It will burn itself out in the villages."
The maester looked at him. "Villages feed soldiers. Soldiers sleep in barns. Barns hold refugees. Refugees run to castles. Nothing burns itself out while men keep moving."
Joffrey lowered the letter. "If Belmore cannot send men, Royce gains time."
"Yes," the knight said.
"And if we press Belmore too hard while his people die, Royce gains words."
No one answered.
Joffrey looked toward the narrow window, where clouds moved below the height of the castle. "Write to Strongsong. They are to hold their walls, separate the sick, and keep the roads watched. They are not released from loyalty."
The maester nodded. "Yes, my lord."
"Write to the Bloody Gate. Any men coming from Belmore lands are to be questioned before entering camp. Coughing men kept apart."
The household knight shifted. "That may slow movement."
"So will dead men."
The maester waited with stylus ready.
Joffrey continued, "Send report to King's Landing. To the young king's regents. Make clear that House Belmore remains under strain from mountain raids and sickness, and that I, as the Iron Throne's recognized Lord of the Eyrie, am acting to preserve the king's peace in the Vale."
The knight nodded at that. That language mattered. Plague was not only plague once ravens flew. It became order, loyalty, rebellion, excuse, accusation.
"And mention Ser Corwyn Corbray?" the maester asked.
"Yes. He should hear it plainly. If the regents believe the Vale is only lords quarreling, they are wrong. The roads themselves are sick."
The maester wrote quickly.
Joffrey looked back at the Strongsong letter. "Send another to the Citadel."
The maester paused. "From here?"
"From here. Include Belmore's observations and yours. Ask for guidance. Ask whether similar fevers have been recorded. Ask what stores should be gathered before winter closes more roads."
The maester's expression changed. Not relief exactly. Professional fear, perhaps. A thing named and sent to the Citadel became more real.
"I will write it tonight," he said.
"Write it now."
The household knight said, "My lord, if we tell the Citadel, word spreads. Every maester in the Vale may hear it. Men will panic."
The maester looked up. "Men are already moving while ignorant. Panic is not the only danger."
Joffrey folded the letter. "Send it."
The knight bowed stiffly.
The maester gathered his tablets.
As he left, another raven beat its wings in the rookery above, restless in the cold. Joffrey remained by the window, looking out over the Vale he was supposed to rule.
Below him were roads. Armies. Villages. Castles. Clans in the mountains. Lords choosing sides.
And now a sickness that cared nothing for wills, bloodlines, or royal recognition.
By nightfall, three ravens left the Eyrie.
One flew south toward King's Landing, carrying words of disorder, mountain raids, and the Iron Throne's recognized lord struggling to hold the Vale together.
One flew toward the Citadel, carrying symptoms.
One flew down into the Vale, carrying orders men would obey slowly, wrongly, or too late.
The war kept moving.
So did the fever.