The summer heat in King's Landing was unbearable. The air hung thick and heavy, suffocating like a damp wool cloak. Even the breeze drifting from the Blackwater Rush felt warm, offering no comfort. The poor had abandoned their stifling huts, seeking refuge wherever they could—under trees, beside the riverbanks, or in the shade of city walls. It was a miserable scene, and Eddard Stark felt as though he were walking through a furnace.
Starks, he thought bitterly, were not made for such climates. Northerners were forged in cold winds and ice-covered fields, not in blinding sunlight and humid air that made every breath feel like swallowing steam.
But discomfort was a trivial matter. He had come to question Grand Maester Pycelle—one of the last people to see Jon Arryn alive. The truth behind the former Hand's death lay hidden somewhere in this sweltering city. Ned had to uncover it, no matter how the heat gnawed at his patience.
Grand Maester Pycelle greeted him with exaggerated courtesy, bowing with creaking joints.
"Lord Eddard," he said with a weary sigh. "Lord Arryn's death has weighed heavily upon all of us. I will gladly tell you everything I know."
At the Maester's signal, an attendant arrived with two tall glasses of iced milk sweetened heavily with honey. Ned found it strange—milk chilled in the height of summer, in a city where ice was rare and costly. Still, he accepted the cup.
"The common folk say the last year of summer is always the hottest," Pycelle rambled, his eyes distant. "Ah yes… that does seem true. Why, when I was at the Citadel—"
And on and on he went.
Ned forced himself to listen, though the old man's memories wandered aimlessly. Pycelle spoke of a summer during King Maekar's reign, one that lasted seven long years—so long, he said, that people believed it would never end. His slow drone and drooping eyelids made Ned wonder whether he was genuinely elderly and muddled… or simply pretending.
At last, Pycelle blinked and seemed to return to the present.
"Where were we? Ah, yes. Lord Arryn."
Ned leaned forward. "Then let us speak plainly."
Pycelle stroked his long white beard. "The former Hand often appeared troubled, my lord. I served him for many years. Few knew his burdens better than I. Lord Arryn carried the worries of the realm upon his shoulders. Age and constant care grew heavy on him."
He sighed again.
"And with his child so frail… Lady Lysa fretted endlessly. She scarcely let the boy out of her sight. Such burdens wear down even strong men."
Ned listened carefully. Everything the Maester said was true enough—but none of it was useful. These were observations anyone in the Red Keep could have made. He pressed on.
"What exactly was his illness?"
The Grand Maester's expression grew sorrowful. He recounted the sequence of events: how Jon Arryn had requested a certain book shortly before falling sick; how he seemed well enough that day, yet the next morning was unable to rise from bed. His personal Maester, Colemon, had diagnosed a chill of the stomach. But Jon Arryn's condition worsened rapidly—so rapidly that Pycelle dismissed Colemon for improper treatment and took over personally.
"You dismissed Maester Colemon," Ned repeated slowly. "Why?"
Pycelle did not hesitate. "He is young and lacked experience. His methods were… reckless. He insisted Lord Arryn drink a mixture of purgatives and pepper-water, claiming it would expel toxins. But elderly men cannot endure such strain. It would have hastened his end."
Ned stored the explanation away. It sounded reasonable—but the ease with which Pycelle defended his decision made Ned wary.
"What did the former Lord Hand say during his final hours?"
Pycelle frowned, as though the memory pained him. "In his fevered delirium, he called the name 'Robert' again and again. Whether he meant his son or His Majesty, I cannot say. Lady Lysa, of course, kept the boy far from the sickroom. She feared contagion."
Contagion? Ned thought. It did not match the symptoms described.
"His Majesty visited him often?" Ned asked.
"He did." Pycelle nodded. "His Majesty sat at Lord Jon's bedside for a long time. Spoke of their youth. Tried to raise his spirits. It was clear how deeply he respected him."
"And did Lord Arryn give any last words?"
"Before I eased his suffering with milk of the poppy," Pycelle replied, "he murmured something—'The seed is strong.' After that, his speech became too slurred to understand. He passed the next morning, calm and quiet."
Ned fell silent.
These were the words Stannis had mentioned as well.
And if Lord Arryn had spoken them with full awareness…
There was meaning there. A clue.
Ned took another sip of milk and steeled himself. "In your judgment, Maester, was there anything suspicious about his death?"
The old man shook his head so vigorously his beard trembled.
"No, no, certainly not. His passing was natural, not the work of poison. Whatever rumors you may have heard—Lady Lysa's included—should not be trusted. The poor woman has been… unstable since her last miscarriage."
He continued to ramble excuses, dismissing every suggestion Ned raised. To Pycelle, nothing was suspicious. Everything had an innocent explanation.
Too many innocent explanations.
Ned narrowed his eyes. "Poison is often called a woman's weapon."
Pycelle leaned forward conspiratorially. "Indeed… women, cowards—and eunuchs. My lord, do you know Varys was born a slave in Lys? You must never trust the Spider."
Ned thanked him coolly.
He didn't trust Varys.
But he wasn't sure he trusted Pycelle either.
Before leaving, one last question burned in his mind.
"The book Lord Arryn borrowed—may I see it?"
Pycelle waved a hand dismissively. "A trivial tome. Genealogies of noble houses."
"Still," Ned said, "I would like to read it."
Pycelle hesitated a fraction too long.
And Ned saw it.
Fear. Or guilt.
Stannis's letter echoed in Ned's mind. Jon Arryn had discovered something. Something dangerous. Something connected to noble bloodlines. Possibly… to the Lannisters.
Ned thanked the Maester and left, though his heart felt heavier than when he entered.
Jon and several attendants waited outside.
"Someone is watching us," Jon murmured, slipping a small folded note into Ned's hand.
Ned read it, jaw clenching.
Mikke heard a rumor in the back kitchen: Grand Maester Pycelle is too fond of his young maidservants.
So the Maester was not as frail, confused, or pure as he pretended to be.
If Pycelle feigned confusion before Ned… then whose interests was he protecting?
The Lannisters'?
The thought chilled Ned far more than the desert heat ever could.
"Well done," he told Jon quietly.
Ned suddenly realized something crucial. In a city like King's Landing, power was not held only by lords and knights. Lowly servants—people no one noticed—often heard the most damning secrets. Loose tongues, whispered gossip, drunken confessions… It all added up.
Perhaps Lord Arryn's own attendants might know something. Perhaps they had seen or heard what their master never had the chance to speak aloud.
"We looked in the wrong place today," Ned muttered to himself. "The truth may lie in the mouths of those the mighty ignore."
King's Landing was a spider's web. And Eddard Stark had walked straight into the center, unaware of how many threads were tightening around him.
"Jon," Ned said as they walked, "this place is more dangerous than we imagined."
Jon nodded solemnly. "Yes, my lord."
Faces drifted through Ned's thoughts:
Renly, sly and charming;
Littlefinger, smiling too easily;
Varys, whisper-soft as silk;
Catelyn, far away;
Robert, dulled by wine;
Cersei, cold as a drawn blade;
Pycelle, feigning helplessness;
Bran, lying broken…
Who could he trust?
Sometimes he feared even Robert was no longer the man he once followed into battle.
When they returned to the Tower of the Hand, a familiar voice greeted them.
Arya.
She stood barefoot on the spiral staircase, arms extended, trying to keep her balance on the narrow stone steps. Her feet were raw from hours of training. Syrio Forel had awakened something fierce and bright inside her.
Jon grinned. "Little sister, what is that supposed to be?"
Arya lifted her chin proudly. "The Water Dance! What you like is the Knight's Dance—the hacking and slashing of heavy Westerosi steel. But the Water Dancers of Braavos… they move lightly, quick and unexpected."
"Quick and unexpected," Ned repeated softly.
The words lingered in his mind like a warning.
For here, in the capital, danger struck quickly and from unexpected places.
And Ned Stark had just stepped deeper into the storm.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)