Eddard Stark felt that his ears had been ringing all day.
Robert was impossible.
He stood by the window of the Hand's solar, pressing his fingers firmly against his throbbing temples.
Outside lay the endless rooftops of King's Landing. Red roofs merged with gray ones, spreading in a chaotic patchwork all the way to the distant city walls.
Yesterday's small council meeting still churned in his mind.
The tournament.
A seven-against-seven melee.
And six million gold dragons in debt. That amount alone could carry the entire North through the harshest winter.
Yet Robert spent it on feasts and games.
The man truly was impossible.
"Father—"
His daughter's voice pulled him back to the present.
She stood at the doorway of the study, hands folded gracefully in front of her. She wore a green dress, her hair neatly arranged.
Only two days in King's Landing, and she already carried the manner of a southern lady.
"What is it, Sansa?"
"Everyone is talking about the tournament," she said as she stepped closer, gently tugging his arm. "They say it's to celebrate your appointment and Prince Joffrey's nameday."
"May I attend? Septa Mordane says it will be an important social occasion."
Eddard felt the pounding in his temples intensify.
"Sansa, that foolish spectacle has nothing to do with welcoming us. It is entirely Robert's idea."
"I must organize it for him, but that does not mean you need to be involved."
"Oh please, Father," Sansa insisted.
"Princess Myrcella will attend, and she is younger than I am. Prince Tommen will be there too, and Prince Joffrey."
Joffrey again.
Eddard had no idea what charm the boy had worked on Sansa, but she seemed eager to visit him every few days.
True, Robert had already arranged the betrothal between their children, but it still felt too early.
Yet in fairness, Joffrey was far more agreeable than most of his Lannister relatives.
If Renly resembled the young Robert only in appearance, then Joffrey carried something deeper.
There was something in the boy's nature that reminded Eddard strongly of Robert in his youth.
At last Eddard sighed.
"Very well, Sansa. I will arrange a seat for you."
"And for Arya as well," he added.
Sansa brightened instantly and hugged him.
Then she pouted.
"Why Arya?"
"She won't want to go anyway. She only hides behind the house swinging that wooden stick all day."
The gods help him.
Arya again.
After yesterday's meeting, Robert had dragged him aside to talk.
After a long rambling conversation, the king had announced he intended to find Arya a sword instructor.
The thought alone had nearly stopped Eddard's heart.
He had managed to deflect the matter with a vague excuse before quickly leaving.
Eddard drew a slow breath.
"Sansa, I want you to get along with your sister. Can you do that? I have work to attend to now. Go back to your chambers."
Sansa bit her lip but nodded. She lifted her skirt slightly and left the room.
The door closed softly.
Eddard stood still for a moment before stepping out himself.
He could not keep dwelling on these thoughts.
The investigation into Jon Arryn's death had to begin. And the first person he needed to question was in the Maester's Tower.
The tower was tall and narrow, with a small flock of ravens circling the upper level.
Pycelle looked up from behind a stack of books, his mottled bald head gleaming faintly.
"Lord Eddard, please sit. Would you care for something to drink? In this heat, a cup of iced milk with honey would be perfect."
"Thank you," Eddard said as he sat in the chair a servant brought.
"I have come to learn more about the circumstances of Lord Arryn's death."
"Ah, the former Hand," Pycelle said, leaning back slowly. "To be honest, he had seemed rather troubled in those days...."
He began recalling Jon Arryn's final days.
After a short while, a servant brought two silver cups. Tiny beads of condensation clung to the sides.
"Ah, our milk has arrived," Pycelle said cheerfully as he took a sip.
"People often say the last summer before winter is always the hottest. Of course, common folk say many things…"
The interruption seemed to distract him from the conversation.
Soon Pycelle was rambling about summer heat, drifting into stories about King Maekar's reign.
His speech grew slower. His eyelids drooped as if he might fall asleep.
Eddard politely sipped the milk, though to a man of the North it felt overly sweet and cold.
"Grand Maester?" he prompted gently.
"Oh! Forgive me," Pycelle said, blinking. "Where was I?"
"Lord Arryn's illness," Eddard reminded him patiently.
"Maester Colemon first believed it was a chill," Pycelle explained. "The weather was warm, but Lord Arryn had a habit of adding ice to his wine."
"But after several days he did not improve, so I personally examined him."
Pycelle sighed.
"Sadly, the gods did not grant me the power to save him. The Hand's life burned away like dry firewood, consumed in only a few days."
Eddard frowned.
"He was a healthy man. How could he fall ill so suddenly?"
"Appearances can deceive," Pycelle replied.
"The sickness may have already taken root within him.
The king neglects governance, leaving the burden of the realm entirely on Lord Arryn's shoulders."
"And then there was his son."
"You know the boy is six and still cannot be separated from his mother. Always sick. Lord Arryn worried about him constantly."
"What about Lady Lysa?" Eddard asked. "What was she doing during this time?"
"Lady Lysa… she was very anxious," Pycelle said after a pause.
"She refused to let Lord Arryn see the boy, claiming she feared infection. In the end, father and son never saw each other again."
"To be honest, I found that somewhat… unusual."
He lowered his voice.
"A wife and a mother should not behave so."
Eddard thought of the letter Lysa had sent to Winterfell. "Did Lord Arryn leave any final words?"
Pycelle murmured thoughtfully.
"In his final days he called for 'Robert.' Of course, his son is named after His Grace.
Before he died, he also murmured something to the king about 'the seed being strong.'"
"Oh yes, he also borrowed a book from me."
Eddard looked up.
"I heard some rumors yesterday. They claim Lord Arryn may have been poisoned."
Pycelle's expression immediately grew serious.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Lord Eddard, you must not allow such gossip to influence you."
"There are too many people in King's Landing. They enjoy spreading sensational tales."
"But rumors come from somewhere," Eddard replied.
"Usually from ignorance," Pycelle said calmly.
"Lord Varys and Lord Baelish have already investigated. They used every contact available.
In the end they discovered it was nothing more than tavern gossip.
Several singers composed a song called The Hand and the Poison. Such stories attract attention. That is all."
Varys.
Eddard felt exhaustion settle heavily on his shoulders.
And Littlefinger.
It had been Littlefinger who secretly led him out of the Red Keep the previous night to meet Catelyn.
His wife had traveled secretly from Winterfell, claiming someone had tried to murder their son Bran.
The weapon had been a dagger belonging to Tyrion Lannister.
At least, that was what Littlefinger said.
Eddard rubbed his forehead and stood.
"Thank you for your assistance. I am interested in the book Lord Arryn borrowed. If possible, may I read it?"
"When I locate it, I will send it to you," Pycelle promised with a nod.
As Eddard turned to leave, he paused.
"One more question. You said the king was present when Lord Arryn died. Was the queen there as well?"
"Yes," Pycelle replied.
"She watched alongside the children as Lord Arryn passed."
"Strangely enough, Lady Lysa did not even attend the funeral. It was His Grace and Prince Joffrey who kept vigil in the sept."
Eddard nodded his thanks and stepped outside.
As he descended the tower stairs, his steps felt unusually heavy.
Every clue seemed to point toward his wife's sister. Yet Littlefinger and Lysa both insisted the Lannisters had murdered the Hand.
Who was he supposed to believe?
_________
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