Chapter - 8

Jon Arryn walked into the Small Council chambers, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. He was meant to be surrounded by those who would work tirelessly to keep the kingdom running, but all he saw were false faces and self-serving interests.

As he took his seat, he scanned the room, his eyes first landing on Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships. He was the only man in the council he could trust, someone who was strict and acted with efficiency while also knowing how to do his job.

In contrast, Renly Baratheon, Stannis's younger brother and the Master of Law, was a disappointment. He barely fulfilled his duties and spent most of his time frolicking with the Tyrells being easily manipulated. Despite Jon's efforts to bring this to King Robert's attention, the King seemed to pay it no mind.

Next, his gaze fell upon Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin. Jon knew that Petyr acted only in his own interests, lining his pockets with gold at every opportunity but he was someone who he had appointed to the council after seeing his work in Gulltown so he at least knew how to do his Job.

Then there was Varys, the enigmatic Master of Whispers. He was a skilled information gatherer, but no one knew what secrets he kept or where his loyalties lay. Every time Jon attempted to probe further, Varys would simply reply with a cryptic answer about his loyalty to the realm.

Finally, Jon's gaze settled on Pycelle, the Grand Maester. Despite the pressing issue plaguing the city, he seemed uncaring, continuing to act as if he were a weak old man, instead of dealing with the matter with the best of his abilities. He was sure that the Grand Maester was not going to have a good time today.

As Jon sat there, surrounded by the members of the council, he couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment in the state of the kingdom and those who were meant to lead it.

Seeing him sit down, Baelish was the first to start talking, but before he could, the door to the chamber was thrown open violently and Robert entered with a cup of wine in his hand, followed by Ser Selmy.

Jon saw that everyone was surprised to see the King, he would have been surprised too if not for the fact that he had asked Robert to attend in the first place. The king had made it no secret that he did not like attending the "copper counting" meetings, as he put it. However, the issue at hand was dire, so Jon was able to convince his former ward to attend.

As the king entered, the members of the council rose to their feet in unison, bowing their heads in respect. "Your Grace," they said in unison.

"Bah, sit down all of you," the King of the Seven Kingdoms grumbled dismissively, taking his seat.

"So, I'm here. I'm assuming it's about the plague going on in my city? Pycelle. What news do you have about the issue?" Robert asked, already annoyed.

Pycelle shifted nervously in his seat, stuttering as he began to speak. "The smallfolk in the capital are being devastated by the Winter Chill, Your Grace, and even some of the servants in the Red Keep have fallen ill."

Jon sighed, already aware of the extent of the epidemic. "Have the Maesters at the Citadel discovered any way to slow its spread?"

"We are doing everything in our power, Lord Hand, but this is a very old disease"

"It first appeared on the Three Sisters in late 132 AC and quickly spread through the major ports of the east coast, including Gulltown, Maidenpool, and Duskendale. It even reached Braavos. In King's Landing, it first struck the riverside workers and then spread throughout the city. Despite being less potent as it traveled south, it resurfaced in Barrowton in the North in the second half of the year."

"However, unlike last time when it appeared in the middle of winter, this time, because it began its spread after winter ended, we had assumed that it would not spread very fast," Pycelle replied with a shrug.

"So, you were wrong. Now, what are you going to do about it?" Robert asks, getting more annoyed.

"We just need to weather the storm, Your Grace," Pycelle says as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and they were the fools to even ask such a question.

"All I'm hearing from you, Pycelle, is that you are fucking useless, so we should do nothing," Robert summarized the situation in a crude but accurate way.

"And what the Grand Maester seems to be conveniently forgetting is that the Winter Chill is known to be deathly, killing three out of every four people who were stricken," Jon added, "and it's estimated to have killed almost one fifth of the population of King's Landing the last time it struck."

Pycelle sputters, trying to come up with excuses.

Varys takes the opportunity to chime in "I may have some news regarding the issue Lord Hand"

Jon gestures to him to continue "I'm sure you all have heard the rumors of the White Mage in Winterfell who can heal all wounds with a touch, well this time he seems to have created a cure for the Winter Chill".

Pycelle finally seemed to have found his voice again. "Your Grace," he interjected, his voice filled with disbelief, "you cannot take such rumors seriously. This White Mage is nothing but a fraudulent charlatan, exploiting the ignorance of the northern smallfolk to rob them of their coin."

He had begun to notice that the Grand Maester would jump on every opportunity he could get to paint the Mage in a bad light it probably had something to do with the fact that all Maesters hated Magic, but this time he had timed it badly, especially after the incompetence he had just shown.

So he decides to finally shut him up. "That is unlikely, Grand Maester. I got a raven from Ned two days ago about the White Mage. He's a boy of ten and eight name days, and he was found on his way back from the Greyjoy Rebellion. Ned assures me that the boy is capable of all the things the rumors say."

"I verified the fact myself a few moons ago after I first heard about him. I sent one of my knights, who had lost two fingers in battle long ago, to seek healing from the White Mage. He came back with all five fingers."

"Ned had also sent me some of the pills made by the Mage. I gave them to one of my maids who was dying to the chill, and today she is back to resuming her duties."

"As for your accusations regarding the boy robbing people of their money? He only charges a silver for his healing no matter who asks for it. The only reason he made those pills was because he was getting annoyed by the amount of people who were coming to him with the Winter Chill. Instead of healing them one by one, he made the pills to speed up the process," He stated, fixing the Grand Maester with a glare that shut the old man up.

"Since his arrival in Winterfell, the White Mage has become beloved by the people of the North and even some from the South. He has created a cure for a disease that the Citadel has not been able to cure in a century, and the best advice they could give was 'Let whoever is going to die, die. Hopefully, we don't die with them.'" With that final barb he ends his case.

Apart from the healing that the White Mage provided accompanied by the influx in population, the North, of all places, had figured out how to make glass that was on par with anything they could currently purchase from Myr. Ned hadn't told him how he got his hands on the process, but he figured it had something to do with the Mage based on the timing.

Glassmaking may seem inconsequential to many in the warmer kingdoms who thought glass was just a luxury item, but for the people of the North, it was a major breakthrough. With the ability to produce their own glass, they could now create glass gardens at a faster and cheaper rate to help them produce food even during the harshest of winters.

While he was happy with Ned's good fortune he was also a little annoyed by the problems it was causing him. The Tyrells, who had been profiting greatly from selling their excess grain to the desperate people of the North, now found themselves with a shortage of buyers. Although he felt a slight satisfaction at their misfortune, he knew that he would soon have to deal with their complaints and demands. The thought of it was not a pleasant one, and it was a headache he was not eager to face.

Coming back from his musings he sees that Robert has come to a decision reading the matter.

"Aye, the bloody Mage seems to know what he's doing. He can't be worse than Pycelle at least," Robert grumbled, waving his hand dismissively in Pycelle's direction, ignoring his complaints.

"Send a raven north and summon this Mage to King's Landing, hopefully he'll be able to reach the city and deal with the outbreak before half the city is dead."

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Ned sat in his solar, staring at the letter from King's Landing. The missive brought a mixture of emotions to the surface. On one hand, he felt happy that he could help his friend the King, even if it was indirect, and the people of King's Landing. On the other hand, he was filled with apprehension at how El would receive the news. If he agreed to travel to King's Landing, Winterfell would be without him for several moons, and the people would not be pleased with that.

Unknowingly, everyone had come to rely on him, as the line at his clinic grew longer every day, with people from all over the continent seeking his help. The entire population of Winterfell had increased by quite a margin, even in the winter. While he knew that some of them were spies sent by other lords, he couldn't do anything about them unless they started trouble, but no one really wanted to start trouble after they saw the massive direwolf lazing about in front of the healing house.

The people of Winterfell had come to adore El for his work, even Cat, who always criticized everything he did, had stopped complaining after Bran fell ill with a fever. Convincing Cat to let El treat their son had been a battle in itself. On the first day, the battle was lost, but as a mother, Cat could not bear to see her child suffer, especially when her prayers to her gods went unanswered. The next day, before he could even attempt to convince her, she took the initiative and went to the healing house herself to ask El politely and desperately to heal her son. One day later, Bran was running around the keep again, trying to climb its walls.

That incident had caused some problems with the septa, who had tried to convince Cat that their son was now cursed and had to be purified else he would burn in the seven hells, but Cat just straight up threatened to kick her out of Winterfell if she didn't shut up.

As Ned was lost in thought at that entertaining memory, a knock at the door interrupted his musings.