Red Keep, the Grand Maester's chambers.
By candlelight, Gawen patiently finished reading the charges Pycelle had written. Then he picked up several documents previously penned by the Grand Maester and compared the handwriting.
A satisfied smile crossed his lips.
"Maester Pycelle, you must know the weight of your crimes. This is no longer a matter of whether the Hand can forgive you. I doubt even the gods would grant you pardon."
As he spoke, Gawen rolled up the parchment.
"Because of this evidence, I am willing to plead on your behalf before Lord Ned," he added. "I can help you earn a chance to redeem yourself through service."
Pycelle jerked his head up, disbelief thick in his voice.
"Truly… truly?"
He turned to the stern face of Lord Eddard Stark, his eyes full of desperate pleading.
Ned's brows furrowed deeply.
The blood of the First Men ran strong in the Starks. They kept the old ways: a lord must hear a condemned man's last words, and the lord's own hand must deliver the sentence.
To Ned, Pycelle was a man who deserved immediate execution.
To master his fury, Ned closed his eyes. Again he reminded himself: this is not the North. He had given Gawen his word—that if Pycelle was not the direct culprit, he would be allowed one chance to don the black.
Reluctantly, he nodded. Pycelle wept with gratitude, choking out thanks and repentance.
Gawen arched a brow.
"Then… this squire named Hugh—when can I meet him?"
Wiping his tears, Pycelle stammered,
"By tomorrow, my lord… the day after at the latest, I will deliver him to you."
"And will anyone else know of this?"
The Grand Maester shook his head frantically.
"I swear to the gods, no one will suspect a thing. I can hide it from them all."
"No," Gawen replied with a faint smile. "Lord Varys will know."
Ned lifted his eyes to the sky. A bright full moon lit the silent night, brimming with mystery and beauty. He longed for Catelyn's embrace, for the sound of his children's wooden swords clashing in the yard, for the cool days and cold nights of the North.
Gawen stood beside him a while, then spoke softly.
"Lord Stark, think of this as a hunt. We cannot spook the prey, nor allow outside interference. Until we find the true quarry, we must endure with caution and patience."
Ned sighed, lowering his gaze.
"You are right, boy. Yet I cannot help but feel I was never meant for the South."
Gawen teased,
"If King Robert heard you say that, he would rage and bind you to his side."
Ned gave a weary smile, clapped Gawen's arm, and said,
"Let us go back inside. No doubt Lord Varys is already waiting."
Tap, tap, tap…
Their footsteps echoed through the empty corridor.
At the chamber door, Varys greeted them with a bow.
"Good evening, Lord Hand. Lord Gawen."
Gawen placed a hand to his chest.
"Good evening, Lord Varys. Forgive me for disturbing you."
Ned lowered his eyes briefly to the eunuch's bald head.
"You seem to have expected us."
Varys folded his hands serenely.
"Lord Hand, it was not difficult to guess. I am the Master of Whisperers—of course you would come to me sooner or later. As it happens, one of my little birds saw you, and I could not resist stepping out to greet you."
Ned's sharp gaze lingered on the man's smiling face.
"Let us speak inside."
Seated, Ned wasted no words.
"Varys, tell me the truth of Jon Arryn's death."
Varys hesitated.
"Many in the Red Keep sensed something amiss, though none dared give voice to it."
He sighed softly.
"Now that you are here, Lord Hand, I can speak freely."
Ned's voice bristled with anger.
"If you knew of foul play, why stay silent? You had ample chances to warn me, had you wished."
The Spider's smile vanished. He met Ned's eyes without flinching.
"You ask why I said nothing? My answer is simple: because I did not trust you, Lord Hand."
Gawen's brown eyes flickered. He recognized the play—Varys was trying to win Ned's trust now. Power-players wore many masks; he himself was no different.
Ned's tone cooled.
"You did not trust me?"
"Until tonight."
Varys inclined his head, voice earnest.
"In the Red Keep there are but two kinds of men—those loyal to the realm, and those loyal to themselves. I am a cautious man. I dared not presume which you were. But now I see clearly. I was wrong to doubt your honor. My cowardice blinded me. I am ashamed."
Ned pressed on, frowning.
"Who poisoned him?"
Varys shook his head.
"Someone close to him, one who often shared his table. Too many suspects."
He grimaced bitterly.
"I warned him. Begged him to have his food tasted first. But he only said… only a man without honor would think such things."
Gawen spoke up.
"Lord Varys, though the suspects are many, as Master of Whisperers you must have clues. Do you suspect anyone? Lord Stark needs your truth."
Varys nodded gravely.
"When Lady Lysa departed for the Eyrie, she took nearly all who were close to her husband—his maester, steward, captain of guards, his knights and servants. Yet not all. Some remained. A kitchen girl, swollen with child, hastily wed Renly's groom. A stableboy joined the Gold Cloaks. A serving lad was cast out for theft. And one squire stayed behind."
Ned's eyes tightened.
"Squire Hugh?"
Varys's smile returned faintly.
"It seems you have made progress tonight."
Ned glanced toward Gawen.
The young lord shrugged lightly.
"Lord Stark, everyone knows the Spider will learn our secrets in time."
He turned to Varys.
"Maester Pycelle himself cast suspicion on this squire Hugh."
Varys dipped his head.
"Hugh owed all he had to Lord Arryn. Yet when Lady Lysa fled, he chose to remain in King's Landing. My little birds tell me he frequents Chataya's brothel, and has purchased a gleaming new suit of armor for the tourney."
Gawen's lips pressed into a thin line.
So it was as in the tale he knew: Hugh was a pawn set forth by Petyr Baelish, a lure meant to bait Lord Stark, feeding him false leads pointing toward the Lannisters. And Varys, well aware of Littlefinger's plot, would happily fan the flames. Both wanted chaos, and both wanted wolf and lion at each other's throats.
And then, there were the traces Jon Arryn had left in his investigation of the royal lineage.
Gawen resolved to separate these matters into two distinct hunts.
Ned felt danger creeping near. The truth was close, he could sense it.
If the Lannisters had indeed killed Jon Arryn… Tywin Lannister would never sit idle. The man spared no defeated foe—House Targaryen's fate was proof enough.
Ned must send a raven north at once, instructing Catelyn to rally their bannermen and prepare the Neck's defenses. Unless the Lannisters marched with all the South behind them, they would never breach the marshes of Moat Cailin. And such a day would never come.
If war was unavoidable, he and Robert would not begrudge holding a grand feast in Casterly Rock itself.
The direwolf had bared its fangs.
Varys, noting Ned's grim expression, allowed his smile to deepen. His eyes met Gawen's, and the young lord returned the look with a knowing curve of his lips.
"Lord Varys, thank you," said Ned.
"My lord Hand," the Spider replied with a bow, "I am ever at your service."
Tower of the Hand.
After breakfast, Steward Vayon Poole brought Arya Stark to an empty hall.
"You're late, boy."
Arya blinked. A tall, thin man with a hooked nose and bald head stepped from the shadows, holding two wooden practice swords.
Instead of fear, Arya's heart leapt with excitement.
"Who are you?"
"I am your dancing master."
His voice carried the lilt of the Free Cities—Braavos, perhaps Myr.
He tossed her a wooden blade. She reached, missed, and it clattered to the floor.
"From tomorrow, you will catch it in the air," he said sharply. "Pick it up."
"I'm not a boy!" she protested.
The wooden blade was shaped like steel—a hilt, a crossguard, a rounded pommel.
The bald man grinned.
"Boy, girl—it matters not. You are a sword. That is enough."
Arya picked it up, wiping her sweaty palm on her trousers, and gripped it with her left hand.
His face brightened.
"Left hand—excellent! It will unsettle your foes. But your stance is wrong—turn sideways, not straight. Yes, like that! You are thin as a spear, and that is good. A smaller target."
He bent close, adjusting her grip.
"Not so tight… flexible, graceful. Yes, like this."
"But what if it falls?" Arya asked.
He cast her a sidelong glance.
"A sword must become one with the hand. Do your fingers fall off? No. The sword will not either. Syrio Forel was First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos for nine years. He knows these things. Trust him, child."
Arya scowled fiercely.
Syrio grinned wider.
"Now we dance. Remember, child, this is not the knight's clumsy dance of Westeros, hacking and hewing. This is the dance of water, swift and sudden. All men are made of water. Pierce them, and the water flows out… and they die."
With a light step back, he raised his wooden sword and leveled it at her.
"Strike me, boy."
Throne Room, the Small Council.
Ned Stark studied Pycelle, whose bland smile and calm demeanor made him question if the weeping man of last night had been an impostor.
The Red Keep was indeed a pit of lies, treachery, and masks.
The council today returned to the matter Ned loathed most: the tourney.
"The realm thrives on such games!" Pycelle declared. "For the nobility, they are a chance at glory. For the commons, a welcome diversion."
Littlefinger spread his hands.
"And a chance for profit. Inns are bursting, the brothels are full to breaking, and every copper clinks in the purses of King's Landing."
Renly laughed aloud.
"Thank the gods Stannis is not here. Remember when he proposed shutting down every brothel in the city? Robert told him he might as well ban eating, shitting, and breathing while he was at it. Truly, I cannot fathom how his ugly daughter was ever conceived. Imagine Stannis in bed, solemn as at prayer, grimly fulfilling his duty."
The council erupted in laughter.
Ned did not join. His eyes lingered on Renly's smiling face.
"I too wonder about your brother. When will Stannis leave Dragonstone and return to this council?"
Littlefinger's lips curved slyly.
"Drive the whores into Blackwater Bay, Lord Hand, and I promise Stannis will appear at once."
More laughter.
Ned's face hardened.
"My lords, I have heard enough of whores. This council is adjourned."
.
.
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