“Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord,” Grand Maester Pycelle said. “Iwould be more than happy to tell you what I can of the manner of his passing. Do be seated. Wouldyou care for refreshments? Some dates, perhaps? I have some very fine persimmons as well. Wine nolonger agrees with my digestion, I fear, but I can offer you a cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey.

I find it most refreshing in this heat.”

There was no denying the heat; Ned could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. Thick, moist aircovered the city like a damp woolen blanket, and the riverside had grown unruly as the poor fled theirhot, airless warrens to jostle for sleeping places near the water, where the only breath of wind was tobe found. “That would be most kind,” Ned said, seating himself.

Pycelle lifted a tiny silver bell with thumb and forefinger and tinkled it gently. A slender youngserving girl hurried into the solar. “Iced milk for the King’s Hand and myself, if you would be sokind, child. Well sweetened.”

As the girl went to fetch their drinks, the Grand Maester knotted his fingers together and rested hishands on his stomach. “The smallfolk say that the last year of summer is always the hottest. It is notso, yet ofttimes it feels that way, does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners your summersnows.” The heavy jeweled chain around the old man’s neck chinked softly as he shifted in his seat.

“To be sure, King Maekar’s summer was hotter than this one, and near as long. There were fools,even in the Citadel, who took that to mean that the Great Summer had come at last, the summer thatnever ends, but in the seventh year it broke suddenly, and we had a short autumn and a terrible longwinter. Still, the heat was fierce while it lasted. Oldtown steamed and sweltered by day and camealive only by night. We would walk in the gardens by the river and argue about the gods. I rememberthe smells of those nights, my lord—perfume and sweat, melons ripe to bursting, peaches andpomegranates, nightshade and moonbloom. I was a young man then, still forging my chain. The heatdid not exhaust me as it does now.” Pycelle’s eyes were so heavily lidded he looked half-asleep. “Mypardons, Lord Eddard. You did not come to hear foolish meanderings of a summer forgotten beforeyour father was born. Forgive an old man his wanderings, if you would. Minds are like swords, I dofear. The old ones go to rust. Ah, and here is our milk.” The serving girl placed the tray betweenthem, and Pycelle gave her a smile. “Sweet child.” He lifted a cup, tasted, nodded. “Thank you. Youmay go.”

When the girl had taken her leave, Pycelle peered at Ned through pale, rheumy eyes. “Now wherewere we? Oh, yes. You asked about Lord Arryn …”

“I did.” Ned sipped politely at the iced milk. It was pleasantly cold, but oversweet to his taste.

“If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time,” Pycelle said. “We had sattogether on council many a year, he and I, and the signs were there to read, but I put them down to thegreat burdens he had borne so faithfully for so long. Those broad shoulders were weighed down by allthe cares of the realm, and more besides. His son was ever sickly, and his lady wife so anxious thatshe would scarcely let the boy out of her sight. It was enough to weary even a strong man, and theLord Jon was not young. Small wonder if he seemed melancholy and tired. Or so I thought at thetime. Yet now I am less certain.” He gave a ponderous shake of his head.

“What can you tell me of his final illness?”

The Grand Maester spread his hands in a gesture of helpless sorrow. “He came to me one dayasking after a certain book, as hale and healthy as ever, though it did seem to me that somethingwas troubling him deeply. The next morning he was twisted over in pain, too sick to rise from bed.

Maester Colemon thought it was a chill on the stomach. The weather had been hot, and the Handoften iced his wine, which can upset the digestion. When Lord Jon continued to weaken, I went tohim myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him.”

doften iced his wine, which can upset the digestion. When Lord Jon continued to weaken, I went tohim myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him.”

“I have heard that you sent Maester Colemon away.”

The Grand Maester’s nod was as slow and deliberate as a glacier. “I did, and I fear the Lady Lysawill never forgive me that. Maybe I was wrong, but at the time I thought it best. Maester Colemon islike a son to me, and I yield to none in my esteem for his abilities, but he is young, and the youngofttimes do not comprehend the frailty of an older body. He was purging Lord Arryn with wastingpotions and pepper juice, and I feared he might kill him.”

“Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his final hours?”

Pycelle wrinkled his brow. “In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robertseveral times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Lady Lysa wouldnot permit the boy to enter the sickroom, for fear that he too might be taken ill. The king did come,and he sat beside the bed for hours, talking and joking of times long past in hopes of raising LordJon’s spirits. His love was fierce to see.”

“Was there nothing else? No final words?”

“When I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should notsuffer. Just before he closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered something to the king and hislady wife, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, he said. At the end, his speech was too slurred tocomprehend. Death did not come until the next morning, but Lord Jon was at peace after that. Henever spoke again.”

Ned took another swallow of milk, trying not to gag on the sweetness of it. “Did it seem to you thatthere was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn’s death?”

“Unnatural?” The aged maester’s voice was thin as a whisper. “No, I could not say so. Sad, for acertainty. Yet in its own way, death is the most natural thing of all, Lord Eddard. Jon Arryn rests easynow, his burdens lifted at last.”

“This illness that took him,” said Ned. “Had you ever seen its like before, in other men?”

“Near forty years I have been Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms,” Pycelle replied. “Underour good King Robert, and Aerys Targaryen before him, and his father Jaehaerys the Second beforehim, and even for a few short months under Jaehaerys’s father, Aegon the Fortunate, the Fifth of HisName. I have seen more of illness than I care to remember, my lord. I will tell you this: Every case isdifferent, and every case is alike. Lord Jon’s death was no stranger than any other.”

“His wife thought otherwise.”

The Grand Maester nodded. “I recall now, the widow is sister to your own noble wife. If an oldman may be forgiven his blunt speech, let me say that grief can derange even the strongest and mostdisciplined of minds, and the Lady Lysa was never that. Since her last stillbirth, she has seen enemiesin every shadow, and the death of her lord husband left her shattered and lost.”

“So you are quite certain that Jon Arryn died of a sudden illness?”

“I am,” Pycelle replied gravely. “If not illness, my good lord, what else could it be?”

“Poison,” Ned suggested quietly.

Pycelle’s sleepy eyes flicked open. The aged maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Adisturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. Grand MaesterAethelmure wrote that all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneathcontempt.” He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lost in thought. “What you suggest is possible, mylord, yet I do not think it likely. Every hedge maester knows the common poisons, and Lord Arryndisplayed none of the signs. And the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man’s fleshwould dare to murder such a noble lord?”

“I have heard it said that poison is a woman’s weapon.”

Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It is said. Women, cravens … and eunuchs.” He cleared histhroat and spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the rushes. Above them, a raven cawed loudly in therookery. “The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, mylord.”

That was scarcely anything Ned needed to be told; there was something about Varys that made hisflesh crawl. “I will remember that, Maester. And I thank you for your help. I have taken enough ofyour time.” He stood.

fyour time.” He stood.

Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair slowly and escorted Ned to the door. “Ihope I have helped in some small way to put your mind at ease. If there is any other service I mightperform, you need only ask.”

“One thing,” Ned told him. “I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the daybefore he fell ill.”

“I fear you would find it of little interest,” Pycelle said. “It was a ponderous tome by GrandMaester Malleon on the lineages of the great houses.”

“Still, I should like to see it.”

The old man opened the door. “As you wish. I have it............