A Game of Thrones Chapter Thirty

EddardI s wholly overlyd oddment vigil for him myself, Ser Barristan Selmy tell as they loo superpower fored spate at the body in the back of the cart. He had no integrity else. A mother in the Vale, I am t grey.In the fed up(p) dawn light, the young gymnastic knight looked as though he were sleeping. He had non been handsome, and death had smoothed his rough-hewn features and the unruffled childs had dressed him in his best smooth tunic, with a high collar to c each(prenominal) over the spoil the cast had made of his throat. Eddard unappeas fit looked at his establishment, and windered if it had been for his sake that the son had died. maul by a Lannister banner cosmos in the first place Ned could sing to him could that be mere co-occurrence? He supposed he would never k bang-up.Hugh was Jon Arryns squire for four years, Selmy went on. The t anyyice knighted him forwards he rode north, in Jons memory. The lad wanted it desperately, withal I fear he was non ready.Ned had slept badly last night and he tangle tired beyond his years. None of us is ever ready, he utter.For knighthood?For death. Gently Ned covered the son with his cloak, a bloodstained bit of non-white bordered in crescent moons. When his mother waited why her boy was unawargons, he reflected bitterly, they would tell her he had fought to honor the Kings Hand, Eddard strict. This was needless. War should not be a game. Ned turned to the wo military man beside the cart, shrouded in grey, heart hidden b bely for her oculuss. The reserved sisters prep ared men for the grave, and it was ill fortune to look on the grammatical case of death. hurl his armor home to the Vale. The mother give want to consecrate it.It is worth a fair piece of silver, Ser Barristan utter. The boy had it forged particular(prenominal) for the tourney. Plain work, simply best. I do not k straightaway if he had finished paying the smith.He paid yesterday, my lord, and he paid dear ly, Ned replied. And to the silent sister he verbalize, Send the mother the armor. I bequeath moot with this smith. She bowed her head.Afterward Ser Barristan walked with Ned to the special(a)s pavilion. The camp was beginning to stir. Fat sausages sizzled and spit over firepits, spicing the air with the scents of garlic and pepper. Young squires hurried just about on errands as their masters woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the day. A serving man with a goose under his arm bent his knee when he caught survey of them. Mlords, he muttered as the goose honked and pecked at his fingers. The shields displayed outside each camp out heralded its occupant the silver eagle of Seagard, Bryce Carons compass of nightingales, a gang of grapes for the Redwynes, brindled boar, red ox, burning tree, white ram, triple spiral, purple unicorn, leaping maiden, douradder, twin towers, horned owl, and last the pure white blazons of the Kingsguard, shining identical the dawn.The major power means to fight in the melee today, Ser Barristan said as they were passing Ser Meryns shield, its paint sullied by a cabalistic gash where Loras Tyrells gig had scarred the wood as he drove him from his saddle.Yes, Ned said grimly. Jory had woken him last night to bring him that news. Sm both winder he had slept so badly.Ser Barristans look was degraded. They consecrate nights beauties fade at dawn, and the children of wine are oft disowned in the morning light.They say so, Ned agreed, just not of Robert. Other men efficiency reconsider words spoken in drunken bravado, barely Robert Baratheon would flirt with and, remembering, would never back down.The barons pavilion was close by the water, and the morning mists off the river had wreathed it in wisps of grey. It was both of well-situated silk, the extendedst and grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, Roberts warhammer was displayed beside an huge cast-iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of Ho character Baratheon.Ned had hoped to discover the king unflustered abed in a wine-soaked sleep, barely luck was not with him. They found Robert drinking beer from a polished horn and roaring his anger at both young squires who were raiseing to buckle him into his armor. Your Grace, one was saying, virtually in tears, its made in any case small, it wont go. He fumbled, and the gorget he was trying to belong around Roberts thick neck tumbled to the ground.Seven hells Robert swore. Do I exact to do it myself? Piss on the both of you. Pick it up. Dont just offer there gaping, Lancel, pick it up The lad jumped, and the king noticed his company. pay heed at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I channel these two to squire for me, and theyre worse than useless. Cant even put a mans armor on him properly. Squires, they say. I say theyre swineherds dressed up in silk.Ned solely needed a glitter to understand the difficulty. The boys are not at fault, he told the king. Youre too pad for your armor, Robert.Robert Baratheon took a long swallow of beer, tossed the empty horn onto his sleeping furs, wiped his babble out with the back of his hand, and said darkly, Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your king? He permit go his laughter, sudden as a storm. Ah, shucks you, Ned, why are you always right?The squires grimaced nervously until the king turned on them. You. Yes, both of you. You perceive the Hand. The king is too fat for his armor. Go learn Ser Aron Santagar. secernate him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now What are you waiting for?The boys tripped over each other in their haste to be quit of the tent. Robert managed to nourishment a stern face until they were gone. Then he dropped back into a chair, shaking with laughter.Ser Barristan Selmy chuckled with him. Even Eddard unforgiving managed a smile. Always, though, the graver thoughts crept in. He could not help taking note of the two squires handsome boys, fair and tumesce mad e. integrity was Sansas age, with long golden curls the other perhaps fifteen, sandy-haired, with a wisp of a essentialache and the emerald-green eyes of the cigaret.Ah, I wish I could be there to go over Santagars face, Robert said. I hope hell contri furthere the wit to send them to mortal else. We ought to keep them running all dayThose boys, Ned asked him. Lannisters?Robert nodded, wiping tears from his eyes. Cousins. Sons of superior Tywins sidekick. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one, straight off that I progress to deem on it. I dont recall. My wife comes from a rattling large family, Ned.A very ambitious family, Ned thought. He had nothing against the squires, but it troubled him to see Robert surrounded by the queens kin, waking and sleeping. The Lannister appetite for offices and honors seemed to do no bounds. The talk is you and the queen had angry words last night.The mirth coagulate on Roberts face. The char tried to forbid me to fight in the m elee. Shes sulking in the castle now, crap her. Your sister would never agree shamed me the like that.You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert, Ned told him. You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee.You too? The king frowned. You are a sour man, Stark. Too long in the north, all the juices have frozen inside you. Well, mine are shut away running. He slapped his chest to prove it.You are the king, Ned reminded him.I sit on the damn iron seat when I must. Does that mean I dont have the very(prenominal) hungers as other men? A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feel of a buck between my legs? Seven hells, Ned, I want to hit someone.Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up. Your Grace, he said, it is not seemly that the king should ride into the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare polish off you?Robert seemed honestly taken aback. why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last m an left standing . . . . . . en verify be you, Ned finished. He saw at once that Selmy had hit the mark. The dangers of the melee were scarce a savor to Robert, but this touched on his pride. Ser Barristan is right. Theres not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by nuisance you.The king rose to his feet, his face flushed. Are you telling me those prancing cravens allow allow me win?For a certainty, Ned said, and Ser Barristan Selmy bowed his head in silent accord.For a second gear Robert was so angry he could not speak. He strode across the tent, whirled, strode back, his face dark and angry. He snatched up his breastplate from the ground and threw it at Barristan Selmy in a wordless fury. Selmy dodged. contribute out, the king said and then, coldly. Get out before I kill you.Ser Barristan left promptly. Ned was about to derive when the king called out again. Not you, Ned.Ned turned back. Robert took up his horn again, alter it with beer f rom a barrel in the corner, and thrust it at Ned. Drink, he said brusquely.Ive no thirstDrink. Your king commands it.Ned took the horn and drank. The beer was black and thick, so reinforced it stung the eyes.Robert sat down again. Damn you, Ned Stark. You and Jon Arryn, I have it awayd you both. What have you done to me? You were the one should have been king, you or Jon.You had the improve claim, Your Grace.I told you to drink, not to argue. You made me king, you could at least have the courtesy to listen when I talk, damn you. Look at me, Ned. Look at what kinging has done to me. Gods, too fat for my armor, how did it ever come to this?Robert . . . Drink and stay quiet, the king is talking. I swear to you, I was never so alive as when I was winning this throne, or so dead as now that Ive won it. And Cersei . . . I have Jon Arryn to thank for her. I had no wish to splice after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir. Cersei Lannister would be a good matc h, he told me, she would bind schoolmaster Tywin to me should Viserys Targaryen ever try to win back his fathers throne. The king shook his head. I loved that old man, I swear it, but now I think he was a bigger fool than Moon Boy. Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at, truly, but cold . . . the way she guards her cunt, youd think she had all the gold of Casterly quaver between her legs. Here, give me that beer if you wont drink it. He took the horn, upended it, belched, wiped his mouth. I am bluish for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, Id stake my soul on it. My son . . . you love your children, dont you?With all my heart, Ned said.Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the needy Cities with my horse and my hammer, run my m warring and whoring, thats what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You hump what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cers ei standing after part him mouth in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?Hes only a boy, Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Roberts congressman. Have you forgotten how rampantly you were at his age?It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You dont hunch forward him as I do. He sighed and shook his head. Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king. Robert looked at Ned and scowled at his silence. You energy speak up and agree now, you know.Your Grace . . . Ned began, carefully.Robert slapped Ned on the back. Ah, say that Im a better king than Aerys and be done with it. You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark. Im still young, and now that youre here with me, things will be different. Well make this a hulk to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells. I smell bacon. Who do you think our champion will be today? Have you seen Mace Tyr ells boy? The gentle of Flowers, they call him. Now theres a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney, he dumped the King move outer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cerseis face. I laughed till my sides hurt. Renly says he has this sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn . . . They bust their unshakable on black bread and boiled goose eggs and lookup fried up with onions and bacon, at a trestle table by the rivers edge. The kings sober melted away with the morning mist, and before long Robert was eating an orangeness and waxing fond about a morning at the eyry when they had been boys. . . . had presumption Jon a barrel of oranges, remember? Only the things had gone rotten, so I flung mine across the table and hit Dacks right in the nose. You remember, Redforts pock-faced squire? He tossed one back at me, and before Jon could so much as fart, there were oranges flying across the High mansion house in every direction. He laughed uproario usly, and even Ned smiled, remembering.This was the boy he had big up with, he thought this was the Robert Baratheon hed known and loved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were after part the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if passkey Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly.That breakfast tasted better than anything Eddard Stark had eaten in a long time, and afterward his smiles came easier and more often, until it was time for the tournament to resume.Ned walked with the king to the jousting field. He had promised to watch the final tilts with Sansa Septa Mordane was ill today, and his daughter was determined not to miss the end of the jousting. As he saw Robert to his place, he celebrated that Cersei Lannister had chosen not to appear the place beside the king was empty. Tha t too gave Ned display case to hope.He shouldered his way to where his daughter was seated and found her as the horns blew for the days first joust. Sansa was so engrossed she scarcely seemed to notice his arrival.Sandor Clegane was the first rider to appear. He wore an olive- green cloak over his soot-grey armor. That, and his hounds-head helm, were his only concession to ornament.A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer, Littlefinger announced loudly as Jaime Lannister entered the lists, move an elegant blood bay destrier. The horse wore a blanket of opulent ringmail, and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the spend Isles.Done, manufacturing business Renly shouted back. The wienerwurst has a hungry look about him this morning.Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them, Littlefinger called dryly.Sandor Clegane dropped his government note with an audible clang and took up his position. Ser Jaime t ossed a court to some woman in the commonalty, gently lowered his visor, and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances.Ned Stark would have loved nothing so well as to see them both lose, but Sansa was watching it all moist-eyed and eager. The hastily erected gallery trembled as the horses broke into a gallop. The Hound leaned away as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Cleganes point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, small-arm his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Hound reeled, fighting to keep his seat. Sansa gasped. A ragged cheer went up from the commons.I wonder how I ought spend your money, Littlefinger called down to gentle Renly.The Hound just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his mount around hard and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his rugged lance and snatched up a caller one, jesting with his squire. The Hound spurred forward at a hard gallop. Lannister rode to meet him. This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Sandor Clegane shifted with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the chips had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented.Sansa said, I knew the Hound would win.Littlefinger overheard. If you know whos going to win the second match, speak up now before Lord Renly plucks me clean, he called to her. Ned smiled.A pity the Imp is not here with us, Lord Renly said. I should have won twice as much.Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Ned could hear King Robert laughing, louder than anyone. eventually they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blac ksmith, blind and stumbling.By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the chew That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and munition thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a b direction handle.Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his own lands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when Kings landing place fell, a new-made knight of xvii years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable madness. several(prenominal) said it had been Gregor whod dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. These things were not said in Gregors hearing.Ned Stark could not recall ever speaking to the man, though Gregor had ridden with them during Balon Greyjoys rebellion, one knight among potassiums. He watched him with disquiet. Ned seldom put much stock in gossip, but the things said of Ser Gregor were more than ominous. He was soon to be married for the third time, and one heard dark whisperings about the deaths of his first two wives. It was said that his keep was a grim place where servants disappeared unaccountably and even the dogs were horror-stricken to enter the hall. And there had been a sister who had died young under queer circumstances, and the fire that had disfigured his brother, and the hunting accident that had killed their father. Gregor had inherited the keep, the gold, and the family estates. His younger brother Sandor had left the same day to take service with the Lannisters as a sworn sword, and it was said that he had never returned, not even to visit.When the nickname of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran with the crowd, and he heard Sansas ardent whisper, Oh, hes so beautiful. Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armor polished to a fulgurant sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons agnize in the same instant as Ned that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boys shoulders his cloak hung ominous. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape.His courser was as trim back as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregors huge entire trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, n imble as a dancer. Sansa clutched at his arm. Father, dont let Ser Gregor hurt him, she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday. Jory had told him about that as well.These are tourney lances, he told his daughter. They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt. Yet he remembered the dead boy in the cart with his cloak of crescent moons, and the words were defenseless in his throat.Ser Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was let loose and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked at the animal savagely with an armored boot. The horse reared and almost threw him.The Knight of Flowers saluted the king, rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready. Ser Gregor brought his animal to the line, fighting with the reins. And suddenly it began. The Mountains stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched h is shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Loras Tyrell was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and in an eye blink the Mountain was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.Ned heard applause, cheers, whistles, surprise gasps, excited muttering, and over it all the rasping, raucous laughter of the Hound. The Knight of Flowers reined up at the end of the lists. His lance was not even broken. His sapphires winked in the fair weather as he raised his visor, smiling. The commons went mad for him.In the shopping mall of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and his hair fell down into his eyes. My sword, he shouted to his squire, and the boy ran it out to him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well.Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single transposition of such ferocity that it half severed the animals neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. Stop him Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying.It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare odourise blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt. scarcely as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned, choke him be, and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy.The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, baseball swing his longsword in a killing arc with all his massive long suit behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a stunned Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. Thrice Ned saw Ser Gregor aim savage blows at the hounds-head helmet, yet not once did Sandor send a cut at his brothers unprotected face.It was the kings voice that put an end to it . . . the kings voice and twenty swords. Jon Arryn had told them that a commander inescapably a good battlefield voice, and Robert had proved the truth of that on the Trident. He used that voice now. STOP THIS MADNESS, he boomed, IN THE NAME OF YOUR tabbyThe Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregors blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a twelve other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and stro de off, shoving past Barristan Selmy. Let him go, Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over.Is the Hound the champion now? Sansa asked Ned.No, he told her. There will be one final joust, between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers. tho Sansa had the right of it after all. A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field in a simple linen doublet and said to Sandor Clegane, I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser.I am no ser, the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the champions purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons. They cheered him as he left the lists to return to his pavilion.As Ned walked with Sansa to the archery field, Littlefinger and Lord Renly and some of the others fell in with them. Tyrell had to know the mare was in heat, Littlefinger was saying. I swear the boy think the whole thing. Gregor has always favored huge, ill-tempered stallions with more spirit than sense. The stamp seemed to amuse him.It d id not amuse Ser Barristan Selmy. There is small honor in tricks, the old man said stiffly.Small honor and twenty thousand golds. Lord Renly smiled.That afternoon a boy named Anguy, an unheralded commoner from the Dornish Marches, won the archery competition, outshooting Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces after all the other bowmen had been eliminated at the shorter distances. Ned sent Alyn to seek him out and offer him a position with the Hands guard, but the boy was flush with wine and victory and riches undreamed of, and he refused.The melee went on for three hours. Near forty men took part, freeriders and hold over knights and new-made squires in search of a reputation. They fought with blunted weapons in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing. The victor was the red priest, Thoros of Myr, a lunatic who shaved his head and fought with a flam ing sword. He had won melees before the fire sword frightened the mounts of the other riders, and nothing frightened Thoros. The final tally was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a xii smashed fingers, two horses that had to be put down, and more cuts, sprains, and belabors than anyone cared to count. Ned was desperately happy that Robert had not taken part.That night at the feast, Eddard Stark was more shining than he had been in a great while. Robert was in high good humor, the Lannisters were nowhere to be seen, and even his daughters were behaving. Jory brought Arya down to join them, and Sansa spoke to her sister pleasantly. The tournament was magnificent, she sighed. You should have come. How was your dancing?Im sore all over, Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.You must be a terrible dancer, Sansa said doubtfully.Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads calle d the Dance of the Dragons, Ned inspected the bruise himself. I hope Forel is not being too hard on you, he said.Arya stood on one leg. She was getting much better at that of late. Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better.Ned frowned. The man Syrio Forel had come with an fantabulous reputation, and his flamboyant Braavosi style was well suited to Aryas slender blade, yet still . . . a few old age ago, she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spins and back flips. Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?She nodded. tomorrow were going to catch cats.Cats. Ned sighed. Perhaps it was a mistake to hire this Braavosi. If you like, I will ask Jory to take over your lessons. Or I capability have a quiet word with Ser Barristan. He was the finest sword in the Seven Kingdoms in his youth.I dont want them, Arya said. I want Syrio.Ned ran his fingers through his hair. Any decent master-at-arms could give Arya the rudiments of slash-and-parry without this nonsense of blindfolds, cartwheels, and hopping about on one leg, but he knew his youngest daughter well enough to know there was no arguing with that stubborn jut of jaw. As you wish, he said. Surely she would grow tired of this soon. Try to be careful.I will, she promised solemnly as she hopped smoothly from her right leg to her left.Much later, after he had taken the girls back through the city and seen them both safe in bed, Sansa with her dreams and Arya with her bruises, Ned ascended to his own chambers atop the Tower of the Hand. The day had been warm and the room was close and stuffy. Ned went to the window and unfastened the heavy shutters to let in the nerveless night air. Across the Great Yard, he noticed the flickering sparkle of candlelight from Littlefingers windows. The hour was well past midnight. Down by the ri ver, the revels were only now beginning to dwindle and die.He took out the dagger and canvass it. Littlefingers blade, won by Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager, sent to slay Bran in his sleep. why? Why would the dwarf want Bran dead? Why would anyone want Bran dead?The dagger, Brans fall, all of it was linked somehow to the murder of Jon Arryn, he could feel it in his gut, but the truth of Jons death remained as darken to him as when he had started. Lord Stannis had not returned to Kings Landing for the tourney. Lysa Arryn held her silence behind the high walls of the Eyrie. The squire was dead, and Jory was still searching the whorehouses. What did he have but Roberts bastard?That the armorers sullen apprentice was the kings son, Ned had no doubt. The Baratheon look was stamped on his face, in his jaw, his eyes, that black hair. Renly was too young to have fathered a boy of that age, Stannis too cold and proud in his honor. Gendry had to be Roberts.Yet knowing all that, what ha d he learned? The king had other lower-ranking children scattered throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He had openly acknowledged one of his bastards, a boy of Brans age whose mother was highborn. The lad was being fostered by Lord Renlys castellan at Storms End.Ned remembered Roberts first child as well, a daughter born in the Vale when Robert was scarcely more than a boy himself. A good-natured junior-grade girl the young lord of Storms End had doted on her. He used to make daily visits to play with the babe, long after he had lost interest in the mother. Ned was often dragged along for company, whether he willed it or not. The girl would be seventeen or eighteen now, he realized older than Robert had been when he fathered her. A strange thought.Cersei could not have been rejoiced by her lord husbands by-blows, yet in the end it mattered little whether the king had one bastard or a hundred. Law and custom gave the baseborn few rights. Gendry, the girl in the Vale, the boy at Storms End, none of them could exist Roberts straightforwardborn children . . .His musings were ended by a soft rap on his door. A man to see you, my lord, Harwin called. He will not give his name.Send him in, Ned said, wondering.The visitor was a stout man in cracked, mud-caked boots and a heavy brown robe of the coarsest roughspun, his features hidden by a cowl, his hands pull up into voluminous sleeves.Who are you? Ned asked.A friend, the cowled man said in a strange, low voice. We must speak alone, Lord Stark. tenuity was stronger than caution. Harwin, leave us, he commanded. Not until they were alone behind closed doors did his visitor draw back his cowl.Lord Varys? Ned said in astonishment.Lord Stark, Varys said politely, seating himself. I wonder if I might trouble you for a drink?Ned filled two cups with summerwine and handed one to Varys. I might have passed at heart a foot of you and never recognized you, he said, incredulous. He had never seen the eunuch dress in anything b ut silk and velvet and the richest damasks, and this man smelled of sweat instead of lilacs.That was my dearest hope, Varys said. It would not do if certain people learned that we had spoken in private. The queen watches you closely. This wine is very choice. Thank you.How did you get past my other guards? Ned asked. Porther and Cayn had been posted outside the tower, and Alyn on the stairs.The Red Keep has ways known only to ghosts and spiders. Varys smiled apologetically. I will not keep you long, my lord. There are things you must know. You are the Kings Hand, and the king is a fool. The eunuchs cloying tones were gone now his voice was thin and crispy as a bruise. Your friend, I know, yet a fool however . . . and doomed, unless you save him. Today was a near thing. They had hoped to kill him during the melee.For a moment Ned was speechless with shock. Who?Varys sipped his wine. If I truly need to tell you that, you are a bigger fool than Robert and I am on the wrong side.The Lannisters, Ned said. The queen . . . no, I will not believe that, not even of Cersei. She asked him not to fightShe forbade him to fight, in front of his brother, his knights, and half the court. Tell me truly, do you know any surer way to force King Robert into the melee? I ask you.Ned had a sick feeling in his gut. The eunuch had hit upon a truth tell Robert Baratheon he could not, should not, or must not do a thing, and it was as good as done. Even if hed fought, who would have dared to strike the king?Varys shrugged. There were forty riders in the melee. The Lannisters have many friends. Amidst all that chaos, with horses screaming and bones breaking and Thoros of Myr waving that absurd firesword of his, who could name it murder if some chance blow felled His Grace? He went to the flagon and refilled his cup. After the exercise was done, the slayer would be beside himself with grief. I can almost hear him weeping. So sad. Yet no doubt the gracious and compassionate widow would take pity, lift the poor unfortunate to his feet, and bless him with a gentle kiss of forgiveness. Good King Joffrey would have no choice but to condone him. The eunuch stroked his cheek. Or perhaps Cersei would let Ser Ilyn strike off his head. slight risk for the Lannisters that way, though quite an unpleasant surprise for their little friend.Ned felt his anger rise. You knew of this plot, and yet you did nothing.I command whisperers, not warriors.You might have come to me earlier.Oh, yes, I confess it. And you would have rushed straight to the king, yes? And when Robert heard of his peril, what would he have done? I wonder.Ned considered that. He would have ill-starred them all, and fought anyway, to show he did not fear them.Varys spread his hands. I will make another confession, Lord Eddard. I was curious to see what you would do. Why not come to me? you ask, and I must answer, Why, because I did not trust you, my lord.You did not trust me? Ned was frankly astonished.The Re d Keep shelters two sorts of people, Lord Eddard, Varys said. Those who are loyal to the realm, and those who are loyal only to themselves. Until this morning, I could not say which you might be . . . so I waited to see . . . and now I know, for a certainty. He smiled a plump tight little smile, and for a moment his private face and public mask were one. I begin to comprehend why the queen fears you so much. Oh, yes I do.You are the one she ought to fear, Ned said.No. I am what I am. The king makes use of me, but it shames him. A most puissant warrior is our Robert, and such a male man has little love for sneaks and spies and eunuchs. If a day should come when Cersei whispers, run through that man, Ilyn Payne will snick my head off in a twinkling, and who will mourn poor Varys then? North or south, they sing no songs for spiders. He reached out and touched Ned with a soft hand. But you, Lord Stark . . . I think . . . no, I know . . . he would not kill you, not even for his queen, and there may lie our salvation.It was all too much. For a moment Eddard Stark wanted nothing so much as to return to Winterfell, to the clean simplicity of the north, where the enemies were winter and the wildlings beyond the Wall. Surely Robert has other loyal friends, he protested. His brothers, hiswife? Varys finished, with a smile that cut. His brothers hate the Lannisters, true enough, but hating the queen and loving the king are not quite the same thing, are they? Ser Barristan loves his honor, Grand Maester Pycelle loves his office, and Littlefinger loves Littlefinger.The KingsguardA root word shield, the eunuch said. Try not to look so shocked, Lord Stark. Jaime Lannister is himself a Sworn Brother of the White Swords, and we all know what his oath is worth. The days when men like Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight wore the white cloak are gone to dispel and song. Of these seven, only Ser Barristan Selmy is made of the true steel, and Selmy is old. Ser Boros a nd Ser Meryn are the queens creatures to the bone, and I have deep suspicions of the others. No, my lord, when the swords come out in earnest, you will be the only true friend Robert Baratheon will have.Robert must be told, Ned said. If what you say is true, if even a part of it is true, the king must hear it for himself.And what proof shall we lay before him? My words against theirs? My little birds against the queen and the Kingslayer, against his brothers and his council, against the Wardens of East and West, against all the might of Casterly Rock? Pray, send for Ser Ilyn directly, it will save us all some time. I know where that road ends.Yet if what you say is true, they will only put up their time and make another attempt.Indeed they will, said Varys, and sooner preferably than later, I do fear. You are making them most anxious, Lord Eddard. But my little birds will be listening, and together we may be able to forestall them, you and I. He rose and pulled up his cowl so his f ace was hidden once more. Thank you for the wine. We will speak again. When you see me contiguous at council, be certain to treat me with your accustomed contempt. You should not find it difficult.He was at the door when Ned called, Varys. The eunuch turned back. How did Jon Arryn die?I wondered when you would get around to that.Tell me.The tears of Lys, they call it. A elevated and costly thing, clear and sweet as water, and it leaves no trace. I begged Lord Arryn to use a taster, in this very room I begged him, but he would not hear of it. Only one who was less than a man would even think of such a thing, he told me.Ned had to know the rest. Who gave him the poison?Some dear sweet friend who often shared out meat and mead with him, no doubt. Oh, but which one? There were many such. Lord Arryn was a kindly, trusting man. The eunuch sighed. There was one boy. All he was, he owed Jon Arryn, but when the widow fled to the Eyrie with her household, he stayed in Kings Landing and pro spered. It always gladdens my heart to see the young rise in the world. The whip was in his voice again, every word a stroke. He must have cut a gallant figure in the tourney, him in his bright new armor, with those crescent moons on his cloak. A pity he died so untimely, before you could talk to him . . . Ned felt half-poisoned himself. The squire, he said. Ser Hugh. Wheels within wheels within wheels. Neds head was pounding. Why? Why now? Jon Arryn had been Hand for fourteen years. What was he doing that they had to kill him?Asking questions, Varys said, slipping out the door.