Eddard Stark's ears had been ringing all damn day.
Robert, you bastard.
He stood at the window of the Tower of the Hand, pressing his fingers hard against his throbbing temples. Below him sprawled King's Landing—red roofs bleeding into gray, a chaotic mess stretching all the way to the distant walls.
Yesterday's small council meeting still churned in his head.
A tourney. A trial of seven. Eighty thousand gold dragons in prize money.
Six million in crown debt.
That sum could have fed the entire North through the longest winter. Instead Robert pissed it away on wine, women, and spectacle.
He deserved to choke on it.
"Father—"
Sansa's voice pulled him back. She stood in the doorway, hands folded gracefully, wearing a green gown with her auburn hair pinned perfectly. Two days in the south and she already moved like a proper lady.
"What is it, Sansa?"
"Everyone's talking about the tourney…" She crossed the room and tugged lightly at his arm. "They say it's to celebrate your appointment and Prince Joffrey's nameday."
"Can I go? Septa Mordane says it's an important social occasion."
Eddard's temple pulsed harder.
"Sansa, this whole stupid circus isn't for us. It's Robert's idea. I have to help organize it, but that doesn't mean you children need to be dragged into it."
"But I want to go," she pleaded, eyes wide. "Princess Myrcella will be there—she's younger than me. And Prince Tommen and Prince Joffrey…"
Joffrey. Again.
The boy had done something to her—some spell or song or berries—and now she drifted toward him every chance she got.
Robert had arranged the betrothal years ago, true, but they were still children. Far too soon.
Still… Eddard had to admit the prince was nothing like the rest of the Lannisters. Where Renly simply looked like a younger Robert, Joffrey carried the same raw, honest fire the king had possessed as a boy.
Eddard sighed. "All right, Sansa. I'll get you a seat."
"And Arya," he added. "Both of you."
Sansa lit up, threw her arms around him, then pulled back with a pout. "Why Arya? She'll just complain. She spends all day behind the tower swinging that stupid stick."
Gods help me—there's Arya too.
Yesterday, right after the council, Robert had cornered him again. After rambling about half a dozen things, he'd announced he was ordering a swordmaster for Arya. Eddard had been so stunned he'd barely managed a polite excuse before escaping.
He took a slow breath. "Sansa, I want you to be kind to your sister. Can you do that for me?"
"I have work to do. Go on back."
Sansa bit her lip, nodded, and slipped out, skirts whispering.
The door clicked shut.
Eddard stood still a moment longer, then stepped into the corridor himself.
No more daydreaming.
The investigation into Jon Arryn's death had to begin. The first man he needed to question was waiting in the maester's tower.
The tower was tall and narrow, a small flock of ravens wheeling around its top. Grand Maester Pycelle looked up from behind a wall of books, his bald, liver-spotted head dipping in a shallow bow.
"Lord Eddard, please sit. Something to drink? This heat—iced milk with honey would be just the thing."
"Thank you." Eddard took the chair a servant brought. "I've come to ask about the circumstances of Lord Jon's death."
"Ah, the late Hand." Pycelle eased back into his seat. "Truth be told, he had seemed… distracted for some time…"
He launched into a rambling recollection of Jon's final days.
A serving girl soon returned with a silver cup beaded with condensation.
"There's our milk—good girl." Pycelle took a long, satisfied sip.
"Smallfolk always say the last year of summer is the hottest, of course. You know how they talk…"
The interruption derailed him completely. Pycelle drifted from the summer heat to stories from King Maekar's reign, his voice growing thick, eyelids drooping.
Eddard sipped the milk politely. Too sweet and far too cold for a northerner.
"Grand Maester?" he prompted gently.
"Oh! Forgive an old man." Pycelle blinked, eyes refocusing. "Where was I?"
"What exactly was Lord Jon's illness?" Eddard asked patiently.
"Maester Colemon first thought it was a chill. The weather was hot and Lord Jon liked ice in his wine. When he didn't improve, I examined him myself."
Pycelle shook his head. "The gods did not grant me the power to save him. The Hand's life burned out like dry kindling in just a few days."
Eddard frowned. "He was in good health. How does a man fall ill so suddenly?"
"Outwardly, yes. But disease can take root long before the symptoms show." Pycelle sighed. "The king paid no mind to governance. The entire realm rested on Lord Jon's shoulders."
"And his son."
"You know the boy—six years old and still clinging to his mother's skirts, forever sickly. Lord Jon worried himself gray over him."
"And Lady Lysa?" Eddard pressed. "What was she doing?"
"Lady Lysa… she was very tense." Pycelle hesitated. "She refused to let the Hand see their son—afraid of contagion. Father and son never had a final moment together."
"Frankly, I found it… unnatural." His voice dropped. "A wife. A mother. It didn't seem right."
Eddard remembered the secret letter Lysa had sent to Winterfell. "Did Lord Jon say anything before the end?"
Pycelle murmured, "In his fever he called out 'Robert'—his son was named for the king, you know. Near the very end he whispered something about 'strong bloodlines' to His Grace. Oh, and he asked to borrow a book from me."
Eddard's gaze sharpened. "I've heard rumors that Lord Jon may have been poisoned."
Pycelle's expression turned grave at once.
He leaned forward, voice low. "Lord Eddard, you must not let idle gossip sway you. King's Landing is full of people who love nothing more than a lurid tale."
"But rumors always have a source," Eddard said quietly.
"Usually ignorance." Pycelle settled back. "Lord Varys and Lord Baelish have already looked into it. They used every resource at their command. It was nothing but tavern talk."
"Some singers wrote a ditty called 'The Hand and the Poison' because that sort of thing sells. That's all."
The eight-legged spider.
Eddard felt a fresh weight settle on his shoulders.
And Littlefinger.
Last night the man had led him through the shadows of the Red Keep to meet Catelyn. His wife had ridden south in secret, claiming someone had tried to murder their son Bran—with a dagger she swore belonged to Tyrion Lannister.
Littlefinger's words.
Eddard rubbed his forehead and stood. "Thank you for your time, Grand Maester."
"I'm interested in the book Lord Jon borrowed. If you could send it along when you find it, I'd be grateful."
"I'll have it delivered as soon as it turns up." Pycelle nodded.
As Eddard reached the door, one last question occurred to him. "You said the king was at Lord Jon's bedside at the end. Was the queen there as well?"
"Yes, she brought the children to watch the Hand pass." Pycelle gave another nod. "Lady Lysa, on the other hand, never even attended the funeral. It was King Robert and Prince Joffrey who kept vigil in the sept."
Eddard thanked him again and stepped out.
His boots felt heavier with every stair he descended.
Every thread pointed back to his wife's sister.
Yet Littlefinger and Lysa both insisted the Lannisters had murdered the Hand.
Who in the seven hells was he supposed to believe?