Chapter 8
After my successful visit with the king, I had also said that with all the turmoil, it seemed that no arrangement had been made for me to visit with Myrcella and comfort her in her time of grief. I had so enjoyed doing needlework with the young princess, and I hoped he could see to a continuation. Not that I particularly enjoyed it, but the princess was bright for her age and she would one day be married to someone important. No sense in wasting an opportunity to network.
Arya claimed she was far too busy, and I did not press the issue. If Arya was to eventually wed Tommen, and that was not at all decided from what I could deduce, then she would have to get used to this sort of thing, but it wasn’t an urgent problem to solve. Septa Mordane joined me, as did Jeyne Poole. Surprisingly, Myrcella did not have much accompaniment. Four Lannister guards awaited without, along with Rosamund Lannister, a girl around her age from the cadet branch of the Lannisters, and Septa Eglantine.
We chattered happily about the upcoming tourney, and Myrcella openly hoped her uncle, Ser Jaime, would win.
“Oh, yes, the Kingslayer is very handsome, and fierce as well,” Jeyne began. Mordane inhaled sharply while Eglantine gave her a cross look.
“Jeyne,” I said, grabbing her hand, “has a few uncouth friends among the smallfolk here in King’s Landing. They used that impolite title for the Lion of Lannister, beg pardon, Princess Myrcella – she meant nothing by it.”
Myrcella gave a hesitant smile.
“My uncle is not one to take offense, and neither shall I.”
Is she a good liar or does she genuinely believe that? Hard to say.
Jeyne looked mortified, and when she began to try to apologize, I squeezed her wrist. Myrcella had already granted pardon for the faux pas. Jeyne remained quiet for the rest of our time together, which suited me fine. I made an effort to include Rosamund in our conversation. Often it was useful to obtain the approval of the companions of the person with whom you wished to maintain good relations.
“I’ve only been to White Harbor once, and in truth, it sounds far less majestic than Lannisport. Do you miss your home?”
“Sometimes,” Rosamund admitted, “but it is a great honor to serve the princess.”
Myrcella added that she too loved Lannisport and the high-masted trading vessels, but that King’s Landing port was even busier.
“Will there be knights from the North participating in the tourney?” Myrcella asked.
“The North only has a few knights that serve, and none came with us. We hold to the old gods and not the new. Our household guard does boast warriors trained in the same way a knight is. Jory Cassel, Alyn of Winterfell, and Harwin, our master of horse’s son, are all fine riders.”
Eglantine sniffed. “Do not fill the princess’s head with such backward beliefs. The Seven are all she needs.”
I eyed the septa for a moment. “Septa Eglantine, my mother is a fervent follower of the Seven. King Robert does not seek to curtail anyone’s beliefs. Be they the old gods or the Drowned God of the Ironborn. If you are seeing to Princess Myrcella’s education, I hope you have addressed that the Seven Kingdoms are bound by loyalty to the king, and not due to religiosity.”
The septa’s eyes widened a bit. She seemed on the verge of saying something, but then thought better of it.
“The princess is aware. I was just making clear you should not tempt her from the Seven.”
“A harmless misunderstanding, then,” I said with a smile, “for I believe people’s beliefs are their own. That has always been King Robert’s stance as was the stance of most of the kings before him. I do think that is a good policy, don’t you agree?”
I said that with all the innocence of a lamb, and the septa neatly evaded the false dilemma I had backed her into.
“My focus is only on Myrcella’s proper upbringing, and not His Grace’s decisions. It would be improper for me to comment on matters beyond my station.”
Nicely done.
Mordane was looking uncomfortable, and I changed the subject back toward safer territory. I drew out what she thought of some of the other regular participants. She liked Ser Barristan and found him gallant. She also giggled and said Ser Beric Dondarrion was handsome and that he always rode swift horses. The Knight of Flowers was a favorite of Rosamund’s, though Myrcella was not fond.
“Why not?” I asked, actually curious. The Knight of Flowers was Ser Loras Tyrell, a youth who had recently turned sixteen. He was the son of Lord Mace Tyrell, ruler of Highgarden and of the second wealthiest family in Westeros.
“It is because he unhorsed her uncle,” Rosamund supplied.
“’Tis good to be loyal to one’s family,” I smiled at Myrcella. “Will your uncles ride in the Hand’s Tourney?”
Myrcella giggled. “Tyrion riding in the tournament would be a humorous sight. It would just be the sort of jape he likes to play on me!” She gave one last bit of laughter and concluded, “Uncle Jaime will ride, of course.”
Hmm, most interesting. Is she not close to Renly?
“And your Uncle Renly?” I asked politely.
“Oh,” her cheeks colored a bit. “I’m not sure, but he usually rides in the lists. He does well enough, but I don’t think he has won a tourney here in King’s Landing.”
“Well, I must cheer for the riders representing the North first, but I shall gladly favor both Lord Renly and Ser Jaime as well.”
I finished up my stitching and went about the next part of my day. I had grown used to trying to warg into different animals and returning to my own body. I had tried it on several cats, as well as on one of the kitchen dogs I had managed to corral with treats. But I was curious if I could switch from one animal directly into the skin of another animal before turning back to my body. If so, that level of flexibility would be incredibly useful.
***
Renly lay sprawled with his lover on the generously sized bed in his chambers. He enjoyed moments like these. The urgency of their ardor reduced after being fully sated, when they could relax and speak freely.
“You say my sister does not look like Lyanna Stark, but does that mean the plan no longer works? I hear the king and queen are quarreling more than usual,” Loras questioned.
“Yes, they are,” Renly said with a lazy smile, tracing a finger along Loras. “It seems my brother had the thought to take a personal hand in Tommen’s training. It did not go well. My nephew did not take it seriously enough, and Robert was already ill-tempered by the heat and being out in the yard. But as to Margaery, perhaps, if the king is more dissatisfied with his wife, it might be an opportune time.”
Cersei has lost a step with Joffrey’s death. Still beautiful, or so people say, but she looks far less composed than typical. The servants in the Red Keep walk softly and frightfully around her.
“Is it true our new Hand is attempting a similar ploy?”
Renly laughed, then sat up to pour some wine for them both.
“Eddard Stark? Attempt to whore his daughter to his friend? Where did you get such an idea?”
Loras’s naked shoulders shrugged. “There is whispered talk of it. All know Robert enjoys his whores, and it would give some use to a despoiled daughter. Didn’t you mention the king even cut the proposed purse for the winners of the Hand’s Tourney?”
“He did, they are long friends. But the Starks, they aren’t like the more civilized places. He is not a man to use such a ploy, and his daughter is too young. Perhaps in a year or two, when her bosom grows more prominent, but even then, no, I think it unlikely.”
Loras accepted it, though Renly did find it odd that some were speaking of it. Robert had met with Sansa, but it was to share stories of Joffrey and the North, not anything carnal in nature. It would take a bold man to spread rumors that would earn the ire of both the new Hand and the king.
It had taken him by complete surprise that Stark had managed to convince the king. It would be useful to try to keep a cordial relationship with the man, even if he was a dreadful bore. He was like Jon Arryn, but even less flexible and more obstinate. At least the old man had been able to bend and smile a little at a well-timed jest.
He vexes the Lannisters and is not their friend. Far better than the other likely candidates for the role.
Cersei would have argued for Jaime or her father. Stannis had wanted to be the Hand himself. He shuddered. All three would have been awful in their own ways.
“Are you well?” Loras asked.
“Just thinking about how fortunate we were with Robert choosing Eddard. We should write to your father. As Cersei continues to be at odds with my brother, he will be open to our idea of supplanting the queen with a younger bride. If Tommen disappoints him further, even that is to our advantage. If Tywin threatens to rally the banners, well, he will find himself in a poor position, with the Stormlands, the Reach, and the North arrayed against him. Old Hoster Tully has always been cagey, but his eldest daughter is married to the Starks, and Lysa now rules the Eyrie. The woman is daft and more than a little mad, but even she has no love for Cersei or any Lannisters.”
Loras grinned. “Margaery is sweet and has a good head to match her pretty face. She will know how to tempt the king. We can add that we worry over gentle Myrcella, and that we feel she could use more highborn ladies of proper stature to be around during her difficult time of grief.”
Gods, I love the Tyrells!
Renly took a well-earned drink from his cup, then handed Loras the other.
“And after the Hand’s Tournament, we may well be rid of the Hound’s baleful presence. It seems the queen blames him for not protecting Joffrey and has rejected his attempt to be Tommen’s sworn shield. A fine thank you after killing Joffrey’s murderers.”
The Hound had always been a surly ass. Worse, he was atrocious to look upon. Seeing the hideous scarring regularly was revolting. Renly hid his displeasure well, for only a fool would let potential enemies know when he was discomfited, but he would be well pleased to see the hideous dog out of the city.
“He is good with the lance. Do you think some lord will snap him up for their service?”
“Doubtful, as that may upset the queen, and the Starks would not trust him. He thought he was secure in his role as the future king’s protector and let his tongue run free. He is no knight, and should he keep up his manner, he is like to join Ser Ilyn in silence.”
After some more relaxation, they got to work on the letter to the Reach. Not looking like Lyanna had decreased the likelihood of success, but the growing strain between king and queen had enhanced it. A wash, and still worth the attempt.
***
Ned was patient as he listened to the old Grand Maester ramble on about summers of old and his own memories. When the man finally returned to the death of Jon Arryn, the serving girl had already fetched the chilled milk.
“If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time,” Pycelle said. He went on to explain how the cares of the realm and more had weighed him down. His son was very sickly, and his lady wife was always anxious.
He listened patiently and wondered about how Jon had ruled. Dealing with Robert was not easy, something he was fast learning. That Sansa had somehow managed to convince Robert where he had failed was astonishing.
It still feels as if I played false. We had saved the realm some coin, but through base means.
“What can you tell me of his final illness?”
Pycelle explained that Jon had seemed hale enough when he came asking for a specific book. He seemed troubled, but not sickly. The next morning he had been twisted over in pain and that Maester Colemon thought it was a chill on the stomach.
“I went to him myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him.”
“I have heard that you sent Maester Colemon away.”
“I did, and I fear that Lady Lysa will never forgive me for that. Maybe I was wrong, but at the time I thought it best. Maester Colemon was purging Lord Arryn with wasting potions and pepper juice, and I feared he might kill him.”
“Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his final hours?”
Ned was desperate to learn of anything that might prove useful. So far, all of his efforts had proven fruitless.
“In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Eventually, when I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suffer. He did whisper to the king, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, were his final words.”
“Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn’s death?”
The aged maester did not think so, and talked of how each death was different and yet all were the same in the end. Even when he pressed that Jon’s wife thought differently, Pycelle was resolute.
“If an old man may be forgiven his blunt speech, let me say that grief can derange even the strongest and most disciplined of minds, and the Lady Lysa was never that. Since her last stillbirth, she has seen enemies in every shadow, and the death of her lord husband left her shattered and lost.”
Ned made the suggestion that perhaps it was not an illness but poison.
The Grand Maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“A disturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet I do not think it likely. He showed none of the signs of the common poisons and the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man’s flesh would dare to murder such a noble lord?”
“I have heard it said that poison is a woman’s weapon.”
The man across from him stroked his long beard thoughtfully.
“It is said. Women, cravens… and eunuchs. The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord.”
You believe it is not poison but then all but outright proclaims Varys the poisoner? I despise these southern games.
One thought niggled at him. “I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the day before he fell ill.”
Pycelle said it was a ponderous tome by Grand Maester Malleon on the lineages of great houses, and tried to dissuade him as being of little interest, but Ned insisted. He would not let any potential piece of evidence go overlooked.
He returned to the Tower of the Hand and soon after, Littlefinger came to call upon him. Ned was uncertain as to why he was there and was wary. Contemplating how someone might have murdered the man who raised him felt more burdensome than riding to war.
“Is there a reason for your visit?”
The small man smiled. “I promised Cat I would help you in your inquiries, and so I have.”
Ned didn’t trust the man at all. They spoke, and Littlefinger inquired as to if he had bothered speaking to Jon Arryn’s household. He had tried, of course, but Lysa had taken everyone with her. Jon Arryn’s maester, his steward, the captain of his guard, his knights, and his retainers. Littlefinger had learned that some had remained; one of note was Ser Hugh of the Vale, Lord Arryn’s former squire.
“His squire?” Ned was pleasantly surprised. A man’s squire often knew a great deal of his comings and goings.
The boy had been knighted recently by Robert after Jon Arryn’s death. Perhaps a final gesture of respect for Jon Arryn. Ned did not venerate the Seven, but such a deed would be just like Robert. A grand gesture that was both inappropriate but heartfelt.
“I shall send for him.”
Littlefinger winced. “My lord, step over here to the window, if you would be so kind.”
Petyr Baelish, one of the small council members and master of coin, pointed out two individuals who had clear view of Ned’s new home. He declared a boy by the armory to be one of Spider’s spies. And a guardsman one of the queen’s.
He had no taste for the inquiries and felt incredibly uncomfortable.
What am I doing here?
“Is everyone someone’s informer in this cursed city?”
“Scarcely,” said Littlefinger. “Why, there’s me, you, the king… although come to think on it, the king tells the queen much too much, and I’m less than certain about you.”
Ned found himself growing annoyed at the man’s easy wit. And yet Baelish was useful, and seemed to know his way through the dangers of King’s Landing. For now, he endured it, for lack of a better course, if he was to uncover the Lannisters’ part in Jon Arryn’s death.
Littlefinger instead suggested that Ned seek someone he could trust, because even the Spider could not watch everyone. It was sound advice.
“Lord Petyr, I… am grateful for your help. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you.”
The man laughed. “Well, if you do trust me, then perhaps I could give you some advice of a more personal nature?”
Wary of some jest, he gave a stiff nod.
“Sansa has met with the king privately, twice now. Tongues are wagging. Our good king has a reputation for… enjoying women.” He held up his hands defensively. “Lord Stark, these are not my words, but the words of others. I accuse the king of nothing when it comes to your daughter, but others are. The talk is whispered, but it may increase with time. The thought, being that sweet Sansa being already despoiled once, suggested that you might not be opposed to providing her as entertainment for the king, has already been spoken aloud.”
“Who?” Ned said with fury.
“My lord, if I were to reveal that, it would put those who overheard such a thing in danger and allow the Spider and the queen to move without us having warning. I promised Cat I would help you, but not to the destruction of what I have built and what may see the Hand’s murderers brought to justice. I do not bring this to you to frustrate you, but to make the same suggestion I made to your wife. Send her to the Vale. I have friends there, and I will be able to find highborn who will marry her. From a noble house, not a landed knight or someone truly below her station. Get her away from these false rumors. Let her see this tourney and then send her away.”
Ned frowned. It was good of Baelish to think about Sansa’s reputation. Lysa believed her husband had been murdered and was caring for a sickly child. Sansa was a steadying influence, and could help soothe the pains of grief. He had suggested as much to Catelyn before he learned of the hidden message. For his wife and some of their children to go to the Eyrie and provide comfort.
I do not wish to split Sansa and Arya apart. And it is still too soon to consider another marriage pact.
“Thank you, Lord Petyr. I will consider your offer, but I believe allowing for more time to pass since the tragic events at the Trident is more appropriate.”
“As you like, but I would urge you to at least put an end to these little meetings with the king. The court can be quite cruel and a young maid should not be subjected to such slanderous calumny.”
On that, he agreed. But Baelish did not know Sansa. Court gossip and cruel barbs would no more faze her than the wind. He would speak with Sansa and determine what she wished to do. Ned trusted her to make the right decision.
***
Tyrion found the idea intriguing.
“I am fond of this as when I grow older, I do not wish to require someone to read to me. I am used to reading faster than someone could read aloud.”
Sansa smiled, pleased with the positive reception.
“It is only a theory at this point, but a Myrish lens uses the curve of the glass to aid a person in seeing things far into the distance. I believe we can borrow that principle and make an adjustment to aid us in our dotage so we may continue to be delighted by books.”
Tyrion’s brow furrowed as he studied her.
“You say the curve must be altered,” he said. “Altered to what end? A spyglass brings the distant near, but a book already sits in one’s hand. Would this just make the lettering larger?”
Sansa was quiet for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.
“I think the fault is not always in the thing being looked at,” she said slowly, “but in how the eye receives what is seen.”
Tyrion’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”
“The eye must take in what it sees and make sense of it,” Sansa continued. “If it does so imperfectly, then no matter how close the page, the letters will not appear as they should. They blur, or seem to run together.”
“You speak as if you’ve taken an eye apart to study it,” Tyrion said, half-amused, half-wary.
“Was that not part of your upbringing in Casterly Rock?” Sansa responded evenly. “Rickon will be having his first when he turns four.”
Tyrion blinked and then could only stare at her in astonishment before her face cracked in a slight smile.
He laughed, sharp and genuine.
Clever girl. Gods, she is good.
“I have watched how others read,” she said. “Some men hold a page at arm’s length to read. Others must bring it close. Children see sharply at any distance, yet older men favor one range over another. It cannot be the page that changes.”
Tyrion leaned forward slightly.
“So, you believe the eye itself changes shape over time?”
“Something like that,” Sansa said. “Or at least, it fails to judge distance as it once did. If that is so, then the image it forms would be misplaced. Fuzzy. Not where it ought to be.”
“And your glass would mend this?” Tyrion asked.
“Not exactly,” she said. “It would compensate. If the eye places the image too near, then a certain curve might push it farther. If too far, then a different curve might draw it closer. The lens would not strengthen the eye, only correct its error. The eye will remain as deficient as always, but if we were to craft a device that would allow a paired lens to rest right in front of the eye, it would alleviate the issues with attempting to read as one ages.”
Tyrion could see the flaws; he ticked them off. “That would be expensive; glass is not cheap. Second, those who slowly lose their ability to read up close as they age is a progressive ailment. It gets worse, so one would have to replace these lenses multiple times. Three,” he held up the third finger, “it is just a theory, and one that would require a contract with Myr.”
“Well,” she said with a smile, “I most likely have three decades, but you, less than two to get it right before our eyesight makes reading difficult. I thought you might be interested in pursuing this idea. While impractical for most people, it would be affordable by wealthy houses, like your own. Furthermore, there could be a score of different ones at various levels of curvature that could be placed in a library for general use.”
I’d be worried about thieves, but then the Starks are a bit naïve. I still can’t believe they didn’t post a guard for the books of their library. Anyone at all could access it from the outside.
Visha, her fast-growing direwolf at Sansa’s side, suddenly perked her ears. Tyrion glanced, and Sansa petted her wolf.
“Oh, Visha likely hears someone drawing near. It must be later than I thought. If you were expecting company, it might be best if I depart.”
Tyrion was momentarily embarrassed. He did have whores over often, but none were expected this evening. He had never been embarrassed by his whoring, but around Sansa, it caused some shame.
She isn’t even a follower of the Seven. Why do I feel this way?
“I am not expecting anyone; perhaps it is a guard. If you need to go, I’ll not keep you.”
“No, my lord, I just wanted to be respectful. We can continue.”
Then he heard it – it was the sound of footsteps and armor. A gauntlet knocked on the door in his room within the Red Keep.
“Tyrion, are you alone? We need to speak.”
“Jaime,” Tyrion said, “I suppose my brother has need of me. Shall we meet again in a few days? I’d like to consider your ideas about the eye and Myrish lenses and then discuss it further with you.”
“I would be delighted.”
“You may come in,” Tyrion said, raising his voice to be heard over the thick walls and stout door.
Jaime came in looking worried, then stopped in his tracks at seeing Sansa and her wolf.
“Ah, uh, Lady Sansa. I did not expect to find you here.”
“Ser Jaime,” she rose and curtsied. “I was speaking with your brother over eyesight and books, but I had best return to the Tower of the Hand. I wish you good fortune in the upcoming lists, but do go easy on any of my father’s men.”
Jaime looked flummoxed for a brief moment, but then smiled. “I will be sure to be gentle, but I have no need for fortune. I’ll leave that for lesser men. Good eve, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa departed, and Jaime waited a few moments and helped himself to some wine.
“Sweet brother, are you spending time with Sansa just to frustrate our dear sister? If so, that’s low, even for you.” Jaime’s voice made the jape tolerable.
Tyrion rolled his eyes. “No, brother. She has quite the able mind and we share a fondness for things most nobles ignore. Nor would I start a false friendship just to be bothersome to Cersei.”
“Good, because we need your help. Eddard Stark all but accused our sister of poisoning Jon Arryn to Grand Maester Pycelle.”
Tyrion looked at him. “Did she?”
“No! We weren’t even in King’s Landing at the time.”
As if that would prevent a poisoning? Gods, my sometimes-simple brother is actually being serious. Though I doubt Cersei would lie to him if she had done it.
“If she is innocent, there will be no proof of it. Robert may have little love for Cersei, but even he would not bring such an accusation without something to show for it. The question is not whether Jon Arryn was poisoned, but who has put such a thought into the new Hand’s head. And why they might wish it so.”
“He’s hated me ever since he saw me on the Iron Throne after I killed the Mad King.”
Tyrion shook his head forcefully. “That may be true, but the honorable Lord Stark would not falsify evidence or make baseless accusations without something substantial. If I were to hazard a guess… the Spider is playing his games again.”
“Lord Varys? Cersei believes him to be our creature.”
Tyrion laughed. “Doubtful, Varys is loyal to Varys. He will want to make himself indispensable to the new Hand, just as he did with Robert and the old Hand. He will dangle circumstantial proofs or bits that his little birds have heard, but there will be nothing the man could act upon. Old men die sometimes, and few would have cause to see Arryn dead. Surely, even Stark could see that House Lannister is not strengthened by him being the Hand.”
Jaime chewed on his lip for a moment. “You believe there is nothing to worry about, then?”
Tyrion shrugged. “If Cersei didn’t have Jon Arryn killed then Jon Arryn never knew about…” he made a hand gesture that got the point across.
Jaime recoiled. “Tyrion…”
“Let’s not voice anything, but I’m not blind, brother. My point was that if Arryn did not know, there is no risk. Stark will dig and find nothing and all will continue as it is.”
“You have eased my mind, thank you, brother.”
Tyrion watched Jaime leave. His siblings were quite foolish in what they had done to Robert. Tommen and Myrcella were not trueborn. If Robert ever found out, those children would die, and Tyrion would not let that happen. He could only hope that Jaime and Cersei continued to be careful and keep up the deception that had lasted for over fifteen years.