Duke Eddard's gray eyes flickered as he fixed a sharp gaze upon Pycelle.
"I heard you dismissed Maester Coleman at the time?"
Pycelle nodded gravely.
"I have always regarded young Coleman as a son. I have the utmost faith in his abilities, yet he is still too young. The young rarely grasp how frail the body becomes with age. The Hand's health could not withstand bold remedies.
I could not stand by and watch Coleman make a mistake, so I dismissed him and took charge myself. At the time, I believed it was the best choice. Yet in the end, we still lost our most honored Hand of the King… Perhaps I was wrong. Lady Lysa will never forgive me."
His face was full of remorse.
Eddard Stark was no man for comforts, so he changed the subject at once.
"When Jon was gravely ill, did he speak of anything?"
Pycelle composed himself, frowning in thought.
"In his final fevered days, the Hand cried out Robert's name more than once. I cannot say if he called for his young son or for His Grace."
Eddard sighed and pressed further.
"Maester, did the Hand leave no last words?"
"When it was clear there was no hope of recovery, I gave him milk of the poppy to ease his suffering," Pycelle said slowly. "He spoke words of blessing for Lady Lysa and His Grace the King. At the very end, he muttered something about 'the seed being strong'—but soon his speech became too slurred to understand."
Eddard frowned.
"'The seed is strong'?"
Pycelle nodded.
"Yes, Lord Stark. All present heard it. Yet we thought little of it, for by then the Hand's mind was clouded."
After a pause, Eddard asked, "In your judgment, Maester, was there anything suspicious about Jon Arryn's death?"
Pycelle stiffened for an instant, then shook his head.
"No, I believe not. Lord Stark, death grieves us all, yet it is the most natural thing of all."
Eddard's eyes hardened.
"Northerners do not gild our words. I will speak plainly: was Jon poisoned?"
Pycelle's sleepy eyes snapped wide open.
"Lord Stark! Poison is a vile tool. The very thought chills the blood. This is Westeros, not the Free Cities, where such things are commonplace."
He paused, then lowered his voice.
"Forgive my boldness, but I must say your suspicion has no ground. Even a hedge maester could recognize the signs of common poisons. Lord Arryn showed none. Moreover, all loved the Hand. What monster would dare strike such a noble man?"
Free Cities… Eddard's eyes narrowed. Was Pycelle hinting at something?
Speaking with such men wearied him. How he longed to seize the old maester by the collar and demand plain answers. But this was not the North. He reminded himself to endure, to hold his temper. And even then, would a cunning man ever hand him the truth so easily? More likely an oblique warning—or a lie with purpose.
He recalled Lysa's secret letter and said, almost casually, "Maester, I have heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon."
Pycelle stroked his beard.
"Indeed, such is said. A weapon of women, cowards… and eunuchs."
As though struck by a thought, he lowered his voice further.
"Did you know the Master of Whisperers, Varys, was once a slave in the Free Cities? Lord Stark, you must never trust him."
Just then, a raven croaked harshly above.
So that was Pycelle's earlier hint—to beware of Varys? He needn't have said it. The Spider already set Eddard's skin crawling.
Pycelle looked upward and sighed.
"It was I who sent word of the Hand's death to Winterfell. Never in my life did I dispatch a raven with such a heavy heart."
"Dark wings, dark words," Ned murmured.
"There is such a saying," Pycelle allowed. "But not always true. Ravens bring tidings of joy as well."
"You are right, Maester."
Eddard rose, a rare smile softening his stern features.
"I have taken enough of your time. Thank you for your aid."
The old man rose trembling, hand to his chest.
"To serve you is my highest honor, Lord Stark."
As Pycelle escorted him to the door, Eddard turned as if recalling something.
"One last question, Maester, if you will forgive me. Was the queen present when Jon was dying?"
Pycelle shook his head, voice weary.
"Our queen never once came. All knew she disliked the Hand. Not even His Grace could compel her to do what she wished not to."
Outside the Tower of the Hand, Gawen's blade easily turned aside Jon Snow's stroke. Tilting his head, he quipped,
"Jon, are you hungry? Or is it perhaps that…"
With a push of his sword, he sent Jon staggering back several steps before he found his balance again.
Resting his blade at his side, Gawen mused aloud, "Could it be… that you're actually a lady?"
Watching nearby, Arya Stark shouted,
"Don't underestimate girls, Lord Crabb!"
Gawen smiled and called back,
"My apologies, Lady Arya!"
Arya lifted her chin proudly, then yelled again,
"Brother, knock him flat!"
This little girl had only days ago sworn they were best friends. Well, children had the right to be fickle.
Unbothered, Gawen taunted the unsteady Jon again.
"Best eat something first, Snow?"
Jon, clad in a gray robe with leather vest and mail atop, was drenched in sweat. Panting, he gripped his sword in both hands.
Why is he so strong? Jon had always prided himself on his swordplay, yet against Gawen he felt Winterfell's praise had been lies.
Three times he had gone down with hardly a defense. He began to doubt himself.
For Arya's sake, he managed a strained smile, but his eyes soon sharpened once more, fixed upon his foe.
Gawen raised his sword single-handed, settling into a stance.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Jon blocked three strokes, then faltered, lost his balance, and crashed to the ground.
Gawen sheathed his blade, stepped closer, and offered a hand.
Jon blinked, then took it, letting himself be pulled up.
"Thank you, my lord."
Gawen clapped his arm and walked on, soon spotting Eddard Stark nearby.
Jon took the cup Mondon offered and snapped,
"Mondon, stop grinning like that. I know I fought poorly."
Mondon grinned sheepishly.
"Don't be discouraged, Jon. Lord Crabb once defeated a hundred swordsmen in Highgarden. It's not you—it's him."
Jon sighed, though the thought did soothe his pride somewhat. Northerners always said one Northman was worth ten Southrons. To best a hundred… yes, that was strong indeed.
In the Hand's solar, Eddard leaned back in his chair and set his boots upon the table.
Gawen leaned back as well, smiling.
"Lord Stark, it seems Pycelle gave you little satisfaction."
"Call me Ned," Stark said grimly. "Speaking with them is wearying. I cannot tell truth from lies. Seven hells!"
Gawen chuckled, poured wine, and handed him a cup.
"Ned, forgive me, but this is not the land of the First Men. You must learn to endure it."
Two days earlier, Ned had summoned him to the solar. Before Gawen could even remark upon memories of Jon Arryn once "bullying" him here, Stark had said:
"Gawen, I trust you. I need your aid."
Gawen Crabb-Lannister-Tyrell-Baratheon-Stark had nodded at once, without hesitation.
From what he had learned, Ned believed Gawen honorable and saw no reason he would betray him.
The Hand had spoken plainly: he suspected Jon Arryn was murdered, and asked Gawen to help him secretly seek the truth.
"Until we have proof," Stark had said gravely, "anyone could be guilty. We must keep justice in our hearts."
Yet no sooner had Gawen left than he was summoned by Queen Cersei in Maegor's Holdfast and given orders to "watch" the Starks.
So in the end, Lord Crabb—ever cautious and calculating—had been ambushed by Ned Stark's trust. Today, seizing the chance, he had vented his frustration by thrashing Jon Snow under the guise of a spar.
"Seven hells…"
Ned drained half his cup in one swallow, cursing again at the wretched tangle of these days.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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