The weather in King's Landing was oppressively hot, the air thick and damp. The poor fled their stifling homes, hoping to find a place to rest along the banks of the Blackwater Rush.
Eddard found the climate hard to bear. It was simply too hot. Perhaps the Starks truly were made of ice. Still, he steadied himself. Old Maester Pycelle was the man he needed to question if he wished to follow the trail surrounding Jon Arryn's death.
"Lord Eddard, the death of Great Lord Arryn has been a heavy blow to us all. I would be glad to tell you the circumstances of his passing," Maester Pycelle said. With Eddard's permission, he had a serving girl bring them each a bowl of iced milk, sweetened generously with honey.
"The common folk say the final year of summer is always the hottest, and it seems they were right. Back when I studied at the Citadel…" the old maester went on, rambling at length. His voice wandered as if he might nod off at any moment. He began reminiscing about past summers, recalling the long summer during King Maekar's reign. It had lasted seven years, so long that people had begun to believe an endless summer had arrived.
"Now then, where were we? Ah yes, you were asking about Lord Arryn." The old maester peered at Eddard, looking as though he had genuinely lost his train of thought.
"Yes," Eddard replied. He could not tell whether the old man was truly forgetful or merely pretending.
"To speak plainly, the former Hand of the King had been troubled for quite some time," the old maester said. "I worked beside him for many years. What could there be that I would not know? Lord Arryn silently bore the burdens of the realm for far too long. Affairs of state, along with his personal worries, weighed heavily on him. His son's fragile health was an even greater concern. Lady Arryn was constantly anxious and hardly dared let the child out of her sight. Such strain would tax even the strongest man, let alone Lord Arryn, who was no longer young."
Eddard listened carefully, weighing every word. Much of this was already common knowledge, but it was far from enough. He decided to ask the most important question.
"What illness did he suffer from?"
Sorrow spread across the old maester's face as he continued.
"One day, Great Lord Arryn came to me asking for a book. At the time, he was still quite healthy, though I knew certain matters were weighing on his mind. The next morning, however, he awoke wracked with pain and could not even rise from bed. His personal maester believed he had caught a chill in the bowels, but the illness only worsened. In the end, I had to take charge myself."
"I've heard you dismissed Maester Colemon at the time," Eddard said, watching him closely.
The young Maester Colemon served House Arryn. While Great Lord Arryn was in King's Landing serving as Hand of the King, Colemon acted as his personal maester. When Arryn fell gravely ill, Pycelle had him removed from Arryn's side, claiming the young man lacked experience. Eddard had long been uneasy about that decision.
The old maester remained calm.
"Maester Colemon's treatment was highly questionable. A frail old man could not possibly endure such measures. He intended to give Great Lord Arryn purgatives and pepper water, hoping to force him to vomit out toxins. In my judgment, that would have done far more harm than good."
"What did Lord Arryn say to you as he lay dying?" Eddard asked. He felt he had begun to grasp something important and wanted a clear answer.
The old maester frowned.
"During the final stage of his fever, Lord Arryn repeatedly cried out the name 'Robert.' I cannot be certain whether he meant his beloved son or His Grace the King. Lady Lysa would not allow the child into the sickroom, fearing he might be infected. His Grace did come, however. He sat beside the bed for quite some time and spoke with Lord Jon about the pleasant days of the past, hoping to lift his spirits. His Grace's affection for the former Hand was plain for all to see."
"Nothing else? No final words?" Eddard pressed.
"Seeing that the Hand of the King had no hope of recovery, I gave him milk of poppy so he would no longer suffer. Before closing his eyes, he offered a blessing for his beloved son in the presence of his wife and His Grace. He said, 'The seed is strong.' By then his speech had already grown slurred, and the meaning was difficult to grasp. Although he did not pass until the following morning, Lord Jon had grown calm after that and spoke no more."
Eddard studied the old maester and took another drink of milk. He was unsure whether he should continue questioning, but simply by coming here he had already revealed certain suspicions. Since that was the case, he might as well see it through.
"In your opinion, was there anything suspicious about Lord Arryn's death?" Eddard asked bluntly.
The old maester immediately denied it. Great Lord Arryn's death, he insisted, had been entirely natural.
Eddard continued, asking whether such a sudden and violent illness had ever been seen before. The old maester only shook his head again and again, maintaining that everything about it had been perfectly normal.
Eddard looked at Pycelle.
"His Lady does not see it that way."
The old maester launched into another long explanation. Of it all, Eddard mainly caught the warning.
"Ever since her last miscarriage, Lady Lysa has grown suspicious of everything, convinced enemies surround her on all sides. The death of the Hand of the King shattered her heart."
Their conversation went in circles. No matter how Eddard questioned him, the old maester held firmly to his view. Lord Arryn's death had been natural, not poison, and there was nothing suspicious about it.
"I have heard that poison is a woman's weapon," Eddard said.
"There is such a saying. Women, cowards... and eunuchs. My lord, you surely know that Varys was once a slave in Lys. My lord, you must never trust the Spider."
Eddard thanked the old maester for his concern. Varys was someone he would never trust. But the old maester? Eddard was not certain about him either. Pycelle had already said more than enough, and Eddard suspected that his own probing questions might eventually reach other ears.
"That book Jon borrowed from you before he fell ill. I am curious about it. May I take a look?"
"It is nothing more than a large volume detailing the genealogies of the great houses."
"That is fine. I simply wish to have a look."
Eddard was very interested in the book. Arryn would not have borrowed such a dry tome without reason. Stannis's letter had hinted at this. Arryn must have discovered some terrible secret, something grave enough to lead to his own misfortune. Yet Stannis had refused to elaborate, mentioning only the possibility of a scandal involving the Lannister siblings.
The Lannisters. What scandal could be more shocking than brother and sister committing incest?
Eddard grew increasingly suspicious of the old maester's integrity. Pycelle seemed to be concealing something. In his telling, every doubt became nothing unusual, and Lady Lysa's accusations were reduced to the delusions of a troubled woman.
And the most important point of all had nothing to do with the Lannisters either. When Great Lord Arryn fell gravely ill, the Queen had been traveling to Casterly Rock with the Prince and Princess, accompanying Great Lord Tywin.
Eddard left the old maester's chamber with a heavy heart. Jon and his companions were already waiting outside.
He reviewed the clues he had gathered: Lysa's letter, the book mentioned by the old maester, and the scandal involving the Lannisters that Stannis had once hinted at. Piece by piece, he felt he was approaching the truth. Yet this might also be the most dangerous moment. Breaking through the deadlock and ensuring the king stood on his side would be no simple matter.
"Someone is watching us," Jon said quietly, slipping a note into Eddard's hand.
"Damn them. Let them watch," Eddard muttered. He hated King's Landing. It felt as if he had stepped into a maze of traps layered upon one another.
"My lord, there is something about the old maester. I am not sure whether I should say it..." Jon whispered.
"Oh?" Eddard glanced at him.
Jon silently slipped another note into his hand.
Eddard opened it and was startled.
"Mycah heard a scandal from the kitchen. Grand Maester Pycelle seems rather fond of his young maid."
Eddard folded the note, his mood sinking. Had the old maester been pretending to be muddled in front of him? If so, who was he truly serving? The Lannisters?
If that were the case, the Lannisters would move against him sooner rather than later.
"Well done," Eddard said.
Then a thought suddenly struck him. Even the lowliest servants often saw things others did not. And their tongues were rarely tight. They tended to talk freely about all sorts of matters. If that was so, the servants who had once attended Lord Jon might know something as well.
We came to the wrong place, Eddard thought. For a man of the North, the best strategy was to remain firmly in the North, not wander through the vast and tangled streets of King's Landing. Too many people, too many factions, and far too few who could be trusted.
"Jon, things here are even more complicated than we thought," Eddard said.
Faces flashed through his mind. Renly. Littlefinger. The Spider. Catelyn. Robert. The Queen. Grand Maester Pycelle. Bran. Some smiling, some arrogant, most impossible to trust. Eddard only hoped Robert still possessed even a fraction of the strength and clarity he had shown in his youth, rather than the dullness that now clouded him.
"Yes, my lord," Jon nodded.
Back in Winterfell, aside from Lady Catelyn and Theon, most people had treated him kindly. But this was King's Landing, not the Winterfell where he had grown up.
Eddard and Jon returned to the Tower of the Hand. There they found Arya standing on the spiral staircase, arms flailing slightly as she struggled to keep her balance. The rough stone steps had scraped the skin off her bare feet.
At last Arya had found something she truly loved. Syrio Forel was teaching her the art of the water dancer.
"Little sister, what is this?" Jon asked with mock curiosity.
"This is the dance of water. What you like is the dance of steel, the dance of knights, the way people in Westeros fight, hacking and slashing."
"But the water dancers of Braavos learn the dance of water. The dance of killers. Fast and unexpected."
Arya lifted her chin proudly.
"Fast and unexpected," Eddard repeated quietly to himself.