PART II: The Great Game
The Red Keep
300 AC
Nine more days had passed since Jon's conversation with King Robert.
Little had happened since then. Not a word had come from the Crownlands besides more apologies and honeyed words on small slips of paper. And with Lysa Tully and Tywin Lannister no longer at each other's throats-his father's own handiwork-there was no mention of hostilities between either Great House.
Neither Baelish nor Varys had come to see Jon either, and he'd been careful enough to avoid them like the plague. He did not want to speak to either of them.
Robert had not even returned from his hunt yet. Though it was likely he'd come back within the next few days.
As such, Jon realized that he needed to do something so that he wouldn't go mad with boredom.
Every day passed by like a blur. Wake up, train, breakfast, and then work until he could shut his eyes and fall asleep without issue.
He'd almost considered making a tour throughout the city, with a proper escort of course. Perhaps he could bring food or silver to the smallfolk if only to further develop the connection they had with the Stark name. At the very least, he'd get to experience some colorful childhood memories all over again.
That's certainly what Margaery would do. She'd made it a habit to walk the streets of Queenscrown once she'd become its unofficial Lady. Practically all of the smallfolk knew who she was, if only because she was an occasional sight. The people could choose to make do with us at a moment's notice. Why not get to know them so we could better serve them?
Jon supposed it was a good enough point. Though he didn't know how much good he would do out on the streets of King's Landing. It was more likely he'd just scare them all away with Ghost at his side.
Margaery could conjure the image of the motherly noblewoman, the saintly queen come to comfort them during the harsh reach of winter-and she would play the part perfectly. She'd do it so well and be so believable because it wasn't even an act at all. She'd genuinely mean it. People were intuitively smarter in that regard, they could sniff out a fake placating noble like bloodhounds. It was difficult to win their affection if you simply wanted them to shut up for a moon or so.
And Jon Stark didn't really see the practical uses of attempting to buy the people's love with gold. Food was one thing since the price of bread had since increased from seven copper pieces to nine. Jon didn't see the issue with handing out portions of grain once Garlan's host finally arrived in King's Landing.
Even then, Margaery was far better at socializing than he was. He couldn't care less for little word games and power plays and considered himself more so of an introverted kind of man. He preferred to get his work done and spend his time around his close friends and family-he didn't understand how Starag could thrive so well at parties.
There's got to be something out there… He thought to himself. There was always work that needed to be done. More work than one could reasonably complete in a day. This city has certainly got problems… But what about the ones we can't see from up here?
So, as he left the Red Keep with an escort of twenty Manderly men-at-arms, and with Ghost by his side, Jon descended from Aegon's Hill. He made his way straight to Jaehaerys' Square, where thankfully, all the Lannister and Tully soldiers had withdrawn to their own quarters in the city. Now the main trading hub of King's Landing was bustling once more with life, and the voices of hundreds flooded Jon's ears as he approached.
Market stalls were filled again, with lines of peasants standing in front of them in rows of ten and fifteen. The stench of fresh cod and pike filled the air, and Jon saw their grey and silver bodies stretched out along ice-covered wood.
He realized that people were beginning to look at him. Their eyes drawn away by the great white direwolf roaming calmly at his side, and then to the stoic-looking young man sitting astride his horse. Their gazes shied away when they met his obsidian black eyes.
Fear. Perhaps he'd been too hasty to bring Ghost along with him. But what's done was done. Jon decided to continue on his course.
He passed by the statue of the Conciliator, his own namesake, and saw the picturesque Targaryen gaze of fire and iron will. Jon wondered what the man would say to him if he were to suddenly unfreeze from his stone prison and become flesh. If the snow-covered strands of rock were to become platinum, and the hard eyes turned to amethyst…
Jon looked away from the statue. Nothing good came from dwelling on the dead.
The main square itself was probably the best-planned portion of the city. Jon doubted that the Conqueror and most of his successors actually considered plotting out the city itself. With the firm exception of Jaehaerys I, who had made considerable changes to the infrastructure of the Seven Kingdoms. He'd been responsible for the installation of the kingsroad.
Everyone else simply left it unattended… Jon thought to himself. How were there so many hungry mouths to feed in this city when it was likely easier for them to migrate elsewhere? White Harbor, Oldtown, Westhelm, Lannisport, and even Queenscrown would welcome them with open arms. There was even plenty of food and shelter to be found at the Wall.
That could be interesting… Jon thought to himself. Program for smallfolk taking up space to join the Night's Watch. They could serve on the Wall while the Crown offers wages for their families. The royal fleet could send them up to Eastwatch in batches. Lots of men are needed up there since Benjen's repairing the forts along the Wall. And it would only cost the crown barely a thousand gold dragons every year, while they'd also be removing a significantly large portion of unfed peasants.
He turned down onto Pisswater Bend, watching as the smallfolk ahead of him parted well before he approached them. Jon saw two children; a boy and a girl, siblings by the look of them. Their faces were dirtied and their shoes were wet with slush. They gazed up at him reverently, almost as if he were sent by the gods themselves.
Jon offered a small, almost undetectable smile. The sister, who was probably a few years older than her brother, smiled back. It was then that Jon looked away, partially confused at the unimportant exchange. Shouldn't these people hate us?
The stench of fish was quickly replaced by that of shit and the ever-mystical "bowls of brown" that were served throughout the quaint little quarter of Flea Bottom. Jon forced himself to continue breathing through his nose like he was used to by now.
It was surprisingly quiet and sparse in Flea Bottom. Jon had barely noticed any signs of life save a few vagrants slapping each other over some scraps of bread. The potential fight was smothered in its crib as they quickly noticed Ghost walking at his side. Then, out of the corner of Jon's eye, he'd spotted a man walking into an alley, being led by the hand by an eyesore of a woman. A whore about to ply her trade.
Jon glanced around at the desolate shantytown. The lonely, lifeless dull grey buildings of rotting wood and decayed plaster. Thatch roofs with holes eaten away at by rats and covered in week-old bird shit. The alleyways were full of twists and turns, completely uneven, and hard on the eyes.
This place had simply grown after Aegon's Conquest. No one had taken the time or effort to build it out into a livable quarter of the city. They were content to let it be.
More than half of this place is abandoned, Jon deduced. Perhaps the people had gone south to Oldtown. Maybe they heard rumors of the North doing well for itself and decided to seek work in Westhelm or White Harbor. Maybe the Lannister and Tully soldiers drove out the peasants for some daft reason or the other. If we tore this place down and replaced it with something new…
Jon was pleased with the idea; the prospect of tearing down Flea Bottom and simply improving the overall quality of life excited him. It wouldn't take much to convince these people to leave-perhaps a couple hundred silver each and a ship off to the North or the South. A sort of "Old Town" quarter could be implemented. A place in the city specifically for families to build and grow, to continue populating the city.
Perhaps we could get a Maester or two. Someone to teach the youth. He mused. Then, his thoughts lit up like the stars. Or an education center! We could teach people how to read and write, to learn skills so they could perform more difficult duties. An information center rivaling even the Citadel, perhaps. Ought to put those Archmaesters in their place. That would take far more time to implement, but Jon could see it being done within his own lifetime.
An embassy from Braavos and some of the other Free Cities could be built somewhere in the city, likely by Aegon's Hill, Rhaenys' Hill, or Visenya's Hill. Perhaps a Westerosi branch of the Iron Bank. That would do far more to pay off the debts between the Iron Bank and the Iron Throne than three million gold dragons. And some sort of embassy would ensure another stream of gold for the Crown. The act itself would also improve relations with the Free Cities.
And recreation? People would get bored, and tourneys were costly. There was probably something they could do to trim off that expense permanently.
Jon glanced up at the Dragonpit, far at the top of Rhaenys' Hill. There was enough stone in that place to build a fortress. And yet…
Could build some kind of arena there… Jon thought. Almost like the tourney grounds at Harrenhal. Might take a few years but it would also serve to generate new revenues for the Crown. Almost like a secondary, but optional taxation system. The people would have to pay to watch the events in the arena, and the shopkeepers supplying food and tokens would pay a small tithe to the Crown.
Costly projects, yet ones that would no doubt improve the quality of life in King's Landing a hundredfold. Perhaps even, he could suggest such improvements to his father once they'd rooted out Jon Arryn's murderers.
Hoofbeats against the slushed stone brick road drew his attention away. He glanced behind him. The Manderly men-at-arms were on guard. He saw Jory make his way toward him.
"Lord Stark!" Jory cried. "I have word from your father. There's a man at the River Gate claiming he was sent for by you."
"What's his name?" Jon asked.
"He says his name is Marwyn, and that he's an Archmaester of the Citadel," Jory answered.
Jon felt the spark of excitement well within him-his former boredom thoroughly quashed at the prospect of following up on a lead. Quickly he wheeled his horse around and waved for the Manderly guardsmen to follow.
It didn't take them long to arrive at the River Gate.
The people had more or less parted upon seeing Ghost bounding along with Jon's horse in Jaehaerys' Square, and his trip down the Muddy Way was equally as quick as its beginning. Once he arrived in Fishmonger's Square, he made his way by the old wagons filled with barrels of stinking fish and approached the gathering of gold cloaks at the River Gate.
Marwyn stood in front of five armed men holding the reins to his horse in his left hand and his Valyrian Steel staff in his right. His hair was perhaps more grizzled than when Jon had last seen the Archmaester, with a sprinkling more salt than pepper. But other than that, Marwyn looked as healthy as he could be. Jon heard him conversing with the gold cloaks as he approached.
"-What kind of Archmaester shows up by 'imself, eh?" One of the gold cloaks asked. "Haven't you 'eard? Lord Stark's got more than enough trouble with vagrants taking up space in the city. We've got more than enough mouths to feed. Now, off with you."
"Young man," Marwyn sighed coldly. "I am trying to tell you that I have been summoned to court by Lord Stark himself, as you can clearly see on this seal here," He took out the letter that Jon had written him practically a moon ago. "This is clearly the seal of the Hand of the King, and that is Jon Stark's own signature."
The gold cloak-obviously the man in charge of the others-had glanced sharply at the letter and then back again at Marwyn. "I don't know who you think you are, old man, but I'm not easily fooled by trickery and forged letters." He crossed his arms, clearly standing a foot taller than Marwyn. "If you was important to Lord Stark, you woulda' come with an escort. Why I've half a mind to take your hand for using Lord Stark's name just so you can get into the city."
Marwyn locked eyes with Jon as he approached. "Well, I'm sure you can ask Lord Stark himself." He said, nodding to Jon. Jon nodded back.
The gold cloak must've noticed Marwyn's gaze, as he too glanced around his shoulder and immediately paled upon seeing Jon dismount his horse and be followed by Ghost.
"L-Lord Stark!" The man bowed along with the other four gold cloaks. "This man claims to have been sent for by your father. I-"
"It's quite alright," Jon said easily. "I did send for this man. He's come to King's Landing on my invitation and he is free to enter the city."
At this, the senior gold cloak had blushed. "My apologies, Lord Stark."
"Not at all, you were simply doing your duty." He reached into his satchel and procured a handful of gold dragons. He handed one to each of the five men who stood before him. "Drinks are on me tonight. My thanks for doing right by my father and the people of this city."
Jon knew the yearly salary of the gold cloaks. A man starting as a page or junior man-at-arms earned roughly one hundred silver stags per year. After a year in the Watch, they'd earn one-hundred-fifty. During this time, they'd be regulated to the less pleasant districts under the City Watch's jurisdiction-Flea Bottom, the Harbor, the River Gate, the Gate of the Gods, and River Row. Meanwhile, the more seasoned members had gotten comfier positions in the wealthier parts of the city, and more noticeably, nearby the Street of Silk, which held practically all the brothels in the city.
At that, the more senior members of the City Watch made nearly twenty times the salary of a greenhorn. Jon had not forgotten how expensive they were from Baelish's records. And Jon knew well enough that the City Watch of King's Landing was notoriously corrupt. Something would have to be done about that, too.
This man, Janos Slynt… His father had mentioned one of Jon Arryn's investigations into the Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Slynt had supposedly sold promotions and positions, taking bribes from officers all over the city. Two detractors were willing to step forward, yet they died before they could testify against Slynt. A likely story in any case.
Jon knew that if his father simply had Janos Slynt removed from office, he'd be made a martyr. Slynt was a butcher's son and not of the nobility. Though Jon could imagine he wasn't particularly well-liked by the smallfolk since the gold cloaks had done nothing to protect them from the bullying Lannisters and Tullys-they'd turn the moment he was gone. Claims would be made that Slynt was dismissed because of his lowborn status, though Jon knew those claims couldn't stack up against the impenetrable reputation of Eddard Stark, especially not in the long run. Jon was sure there was something they could pin on Janos Slynt, however. And that soon enough, he'd get the chance to do so.
As he handed the gold coins to the simple men guarding the River Gate, they each stared at the shiny golden face of Jaehaerys I as if it were a gift from the Gods themselves. The senior guard, likely not having seen one before, had stuttered. "B-B-But-"
"Thank you for your service," Jon said again, then looked to Marwyn so as to end the discussion. "Come on,"
Marwyn walked briskly passed the gold cloaks and followed Jon into the city.
Once they were away, Jon briefly glanced back at the guardsmen behind him in almost a second.
They were looking at him in awe.
Jon forcefully shoved down the loud embarrassment he felt in his bones. He couldn't quite stop the mild blush that flowered in his cold cheeks.
"Might as well be a knight in shining armor," Marwyn quipped. He then smiled broadly at Jon. "Good to see you, Jon."
"You too, Marwyn," Jon said, gripping the older man's large hand. The Archmaester's knuckles were wrapped in fresh bandages, a detail that neither of them missed.
"Had some trouble in the harbor. Field bandage." Marwyn said, scratching the back of his head. "Tosser wouldn't stop putting haddock in my face. Got violent when I kept saying no."
They mounted their horses and began making their way to the Hook, which would've taken them directly up to Aegon's Hill and to the Red Keep.
Marwyn looked over at the tall albino direwolf at Jon's side. "With what they say of you Starks in Oldtown, I would've thought your direwolf was bigger."
"Really?"
"Indeed," Marwyn nodded. "I don't spend much time at the Citadel these days, but believe me when I say they've not taken a liking to your pets. Even if I've knocked some sense into them about the higher mysteries as of late."
Jon gave the short man a sidelong glance. "You told them about Valyria?"
"Had to. Our little voyage answered a lot of questions, and produced thousands more at that." Marwyn said. "Of course, some of them disagreed with me at first. Said I was mad and that our sailing to Valyria was simply a ploy to sway the minds of the younger Maesters in the Citadel. Naturally, I showed them plenty of the books I brought back with me and they begrudgingly accepted that I had in fact gone to the end of the world and fought the Ironborn at that." He looked a bit pleased with himself and his explanation. "I suppose that I've done my job in shaking up the place, ultimately for the better, I hope. More people asking questions as opposed to spouting lines from books more used up than an Oldtown whore."
Jon coughed to hide his plain laughter.
Marwyn continued. "Used to believe the Conclave was out to snuff magic in Westeros for good, truth be told," he said, shifting in his saddle. "Realized their just making sure we don't end up like Valyria, though. They don't want a scare like the Others coming down on us all. Hard to control something like that."
"Indeed," Jon admitted. He knew very little on that particular subject, so he didn't see fit to comment on Marwyn's own crusade concerning the Conclave and the Citadel. "You mentioned that you were about to head out to Essos before you got my letter. Where were you going to go?"
"Wanted to see the Grey Wastes for myself," Marwyn shrugged. "I got a bit bold what with our last adventure together, so I was willing to risk it to see something supernatural again. Suppose a bit of Starag rubbed off on me in that respect. By the way, what is Starag up to these days?"
"He's somewhere in the Vale. On horseback, I imagine."
"Good." Marwyn nodded. "A man always needs an adventure. Makes him feel alive."
They made it out of the Hook and began trudging up Aegon's Hill. The Red Keep glowered angrily at them with its pinkish gaze from atop the hill. They passed by the much smaller market square at its front and continued up until they reached the immensely tall bronze gates that stood guarding the rest of the keep.
A simple wave to the guardsmen up on top of the walls was enough to get the gates open. They were all the more visible because of Ghost.
Once inside, Jon dismissed Jory and the Manderly men-at-arms, telling them to go and get some rest at the barracks for heading out with him early in the morning. From then on he handed off his reins to the stableboy-who was clearly not a bald eunuch in disguise-and made his way toward the Tower of the Hand with Marwyn at his side.
Once they were alone, only with Ghost to watch over them, Marwyn decided to pop the question. "So, what is it you need of me, Jon? Something to do with Lord Arryn's death?"
Jon was consciously aware of the people they'd passed by. The guardsmen, the servants, the kitchen girls. Which ones were ignorant, and which ones were spies? And for whom? "I've been told it's a curious disease of the heart, and then I've been told it was an eastern poison that got him."
"And naturally, there wasn't a book that held information about such a poison?"
"Not one," Jon admitted. The Archmaester was taking time out of his life to help Jon in a seemingly trivial manner. Albeit one that could prove important to the security of the realm. "When Lord Arryn's body was found, he was completely tense, as if his muscles and organs just clenched up and never let go. He was almost like a statue."
"Interesting…" Marwyn muttered as they began climbing the stairs. "Tell me, did Lord Arryn take any special medicines in the morning or before bed? Herbs, perhaps?"
Jon shook his head. "He was quite spry for his age, supposedly. Likely from climbing all these bloody steps."
"No doubt," Marwyn offered a small chuckle. His face then deadpanned into pure professionalism. "Do you know how the poison was ingested?"
"A mug of coffee," Jon answered. "I suspect it was put in his drink. Could've been anything though."
"Assuming it was his coffee, who brewed it?"
"Some kitchen girl. She disappeared before the guards could question her though."
"How convenient."
They arrived at the Hand's Chambers. His father was holding court again in the Throne Room and had offered the use of his office to Jon when he was not using it. Jon nodded to the two Manderly guardsmen, both of whom nodded back at him, and then entered the office with Marwyn and Ghost behind him.
Ghost took a place by the great window looking out over the entirety of King's Landing. Despite the city being a shithole, even it managed to look beautiful enough with the sun beaming down upon it from the cracks in the clouds.
Jon took his father's seat, and Marwyn took the chair opposite. "And his bowels? I assume they didn't release, either?" The Archmaester asked.
"They did not. My father spoke with Grand Maester Pycelle, who said as much." Jon said. "Is there a poison that could do such a thing? Paralyze a man to the point where he is heard would stop?"
"Not that I know of…" Marwyn shook his head, he looked up at the ceiling in concentration for a few moments before glancing back at Jon. "The person who told you it was from the far east. What else did they say about it?"
"That it was a rare poison unlike anything in Westeros or Essos. It came from 'lands we know very little about'"
"That could be pretty much anything," Marwyn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There happens to be quite a lot we don't know about." He commented, then deciding to go silent as he kept gazing up at the ceiling for a few moments. As if he was calculating the answer in that mind of his.
Jon for his part was simply glad to have someone who knew more about this particular subject than he did. It was far better than stumbling around blindly in the dark. Far better than feeling like a pawn in someone else's game.
Marwyn smacked the table with his open palm. "Assuming it was colorless and without scent… Perhaps even tasteless as well…" He looked sharply at Jon. "I may be wrong on this, yet I believe that your eastern poison was not poison at all, but simply water."
"Water?" Jon asked. How in the Seven Hells could Jon Arryn be done in by water?
"Yes, water," Marwyn said, holding up his index finger. "But not just any kind of water from here or Essos… Water taken specifically from the Ash river in Asshai."
"Why isn't it a poison?"
"Because there's not a single known poison in Yi Ti, Mossovy, or Ulthos that can cause a healthy man to freeze up and die in a matter of seconds. If there was, I'd know about it." Marwyn answered. "But the water in the Ash river more or less lines up with what you've told me about Jon Arryn's death. It's quite the same reason why there are no animals in Asshai-because the animals are even more susceptive to the elements there than we are."
Jon leaned forward in his seat. "What makes this 'ash-water' so dangerous?"
"We could only speculate on that one," Marwyn said. "The Ash River flows down from the Mountains of the Morn through the Vale of Shadows and down toward the Jade Sea. Along the river is the lone city of Stygai. The Shadowbinders refer to it as 'the corpse city' and even they are afraid of traveling upriver to see it for themselves."
"Why?" Jon asked. "Why would the Shadowbinders fear it?"
"Don't rightly know…" Marwyn shrugged. "Supposedly, dragons and demons live there. And the sun is only present just around noon, I believe."
"Sounds quite a bit like Valyria, doesn't it?"
Marwyn nodded. "It does, which leads me to believe that something else happened there a long time ago. Something perhaps on the same scale as the Doom of Valyria, but… different. Not connected to it in the least. Whatever it was, clearly affected Asshai as well." Marwyn leaned forward. "Nobody in Asshai ever shows their faces. They have food and fresh water shipped in from the outside. The fish in the waters around the city and in the river are both blind and are deformed with strange tumors. Only a fraction of the buildings in that gargantuan city are ever used-keep in mind it's far bigger than both Oldtown and King's Landing combined. This means," He put his index finger down on the wooden table with an air of certain authority. "They had their equivalent of the Doom. And whatever it was, had a plethora of harmful after-effects. And the water from the River Ash being contaminated is certainly one of them."
"How do you know the water is what killed Jon Arryn?"
"A Shadowbinder showed it to me, of course." The Archmaester sat back in his chair. "The ship I came in with had a pet monkey that was aging. I bought it from the Captain and had the Shadowbinder show me the effects of the ash-water. The monkey simply drank a few drops of it and shriveled up moments later." He explained. "Fish are quite adaptable, but other animals aren't quite as prepared in that regard. The monkey also seemed in a frozen-like state when it died, which is why I believe that Lord Arryn had perished in a similar manner."
This was quite a lot for Jon to take in. Corpse cities, eastern lands, magical fallout akin to Old Valyria… It all made for one kind of sick joke.
He almost wondered if that was the same fate headed for Westeros at this very moment. Stygai had been killed by the Shadows, Valyria by Fire. And now Westeros was about to be snuffed out by Ice. By the Others north of the Wall, and their so-called god, the Great Other.
Jon remembered why he was there, and why Marwyn was there. Not to comment and speculate on corpse cities, but on what was used to kill Jon Arryn. "Is there any way to counter this… ash-water?"
"Amputation," Marwyn answered stolidly. "If it came into contact with your skin, then your best chance is to cut off the limb that touched it. If it was digested, like in Lord Arryn's case, then a quick, painless death is certain."
Jon strummed his fingers against the desk. "Painless, you said?"
"Of course," Marwyn nodded. "The organs would shut down, the central nervous system would be paralyzed-like in the monkey's case. The victim would not necessarily feel pain because his body would simply stop functioning in a few moments."
"So, whoever had Lord Arryn killed wanted to do him one last kindness," Jon concluded.
Marwyn scratched his beard in contemplation. "There are certainly more well-known poisons that could get the job done. And there are much cheaper ways to have a man killed."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's not exactly safe to export ash-water." Marwyn elaborated. "Captains don't exactly want it on their ships. Ash-water is not safe to drink, much less touch. Hence, your man had to pay more than his share of gold to do one bit of kindness for Lord Arryn."
Gold… Littlefinger always seems to get his hands on gold. Did Baelish supply the funds to have this ash-water exported to Westeros? Assuming Lord Arryn had found out about whatever financial play Baelish was making and was investigating it like Jon himself was… It did give cause for Baelish to figure out a way to put Jon Arryn down before he could make light of it.
Slowly, gradually, a case was forming in Jon's mind against Petyr Baelish. Assuming he was also responsible for the Tully-Lannister conflict, which Jon Arryn was supposedly about to put a stop to…
The accusation made more than enough sense in his mind. If Jon Arryn fell ill after a few days from a more common poison, then it might've been seen with more suspicion. Which meant a much harder investigation would've befallen everyone in the Red Keep, which meant that potentially, the Hour of the Wolf would come again.
But why hadn't Baelish done anything to Jon's father? Eddard Stark had already made the final agreements between Tywin Lannister and Lysa Tully practically a moon prior. Surely by now, Baelish would have taken action?
Perhaps he never had the chance… Jon wondered. Perhaps even… He didn't need to. What if he's simply waiting for something?
Or what if Lord Arryn knew something that Jon's father didn't? Something that would've put Baelish on the executioner's block in a moment's instant? This business of the royal children not being Robert's… Was he trying to hide this as well? But then why lead me straight to one of Robert's bastards?
There was something he wasn't seeing, something that would unravel this whole mystery if he could just put his finger on it. What is it?
Perhaps Jon had it all wrong, and it was the Queen who had Jon Arryn murdered. Or perhaps even, the Spider that continued to spin his web around him and his father.
The evidence all pointed directly at Petyr Baelish-and perhaps even at the Queen herself. If she told Baelish to have Jon Arryn killed, Littlefinger might've simply decided to go a more merciful route by giving Jon Arryn a painless death.
Yet… How did the Spider play into this? And if Varys knew so much, why hadn't he come forward about it?
There were plenty of guilty parties in King's Landing, Jon decided, and not simply one. In this cesspit of a city, plots were merely tripping over one another all to get to the finish line, to see which one would ultimately set off the casket of wildfire.
And which one, Jon wondered, would create the first spark?
He realized that he'd been staring down at the table. Jon readjusted his gaze and looked at Marwyn. "You don't know it, but you've done a whole moon's worth of work in only a few minutes." He smiled at Marwyn. "Would you stay in the city for a few weeks? I may have need of you in case we find Jon Arryn's killer."
"Testify in a court trial?" The Archmaester asked. "Of course, Jon."
They both stood up from the table and began making their way to the door. "Where can I find you in the city?" Jon asked.
"I'll be in the Street of Looms," Marwyn said. "Big house at the northern end of the street. Couldn't miss it. I'll be staying with an old friend of mine, so knock four times."
"Good to know," Jon said. They left the Hand's Chambers. Jon shook Marwyn's hand one more time. "See you around, Marwyn."
"You too, Jon." Said the Archmaester with a warm grin.
Jon made to close the door behind him as Ghost followed him out. The two guards were standing just on the other end having come back from their break on duty. They were chatting nonchalantly with one another.
Yet by the time Jon turned back around to give Marwyn one last nod, he frowned upon seeing that the Archmaester had completely vanished.
"Your Grace, I…"
The farmer stood by himself, surrounded by the assembled crowd of nobles, and at the front of the long line of smallfolk that had come to press their issues at the feet of the Hand of the King. "I've a small boon to ask of you. My family and I have owned the granary at Maidenpool for over seven generations." He even held his hat in his hands as he spoke. "The Lannister men had taken plenty from our stores. With them leaving, we can finally get back to work, yet I fear we'll have little to live off of ourselves. We need only a fortnight's supply to eat, that's all. By then we'll be able to live off our own grain. Can… can ye give us only a few bushels, Your Grace? Just to get us started through winter?"
Your Grace. The two words were said with genuine reverence. These people thought they were standing before Robert Baratheon himself, not Eddard Stark of Winterfell.
Jon's father sat high above the rest of the assembled crowd, looking as stern and cold and iron-resolute as the Lord of Winterfell should. Jon had seen that look hundreds-if not thousands of times before as a child. It was the same look he wore when dealing with petitioners in Queenscrown, the mask he had to wear in front of his people.
Jon figured that his father had had to correct the smallfolk before, to tell them that he was not in fact King Robert, but only his Hand. Judging by the flash of resignation on his face, Eddard Stark had decided against repeating himself for the umpteenth time.
"I cannot give you what you ask," His father's voice had boomed, echoing further than the confines of the throne room. This farmer hadn't been the only one to ask for bushels of grain, he wouldn't be the last. And the people in the city needed to be fed. "I can only grant you accommodations in the city for a few days, blankets, a warm fire, and hot food to fill your belly."
At the stern, commanding words, the farmer had deflated and simply nodded his head with a look of saddened resignation.
And yet. "However, there may be a chance for you to earn the bushels for you and your family." Jon's father announced. "Maidenpool is a fishing town as well. Do you have any connections with the fisheries there?"
"Aye, I do, Your Grace." The farmer nodded, an almost childish excitement beamed across his weathered eyebrows and taut skin. "My sister's husband runs the best one in town, I daresay!"
"Good." Eddard Stark nodded in approval. "If you will have your man send regular shipments of smoked fish to King's Landing beginning in a fortnight from now, you can have the bushels of grain you've requested. The Crown will pay handsomely for a private shipment every moon."
There was a sudden burst of commotion among the nobility, but it was squashed a few moments later when Jon's father simply raised his hand. All fell quiet again.
"O-of course, Your Grace!" The farmer squeezed his hat, his voice dripping with appreciation. "I can more than do that!"
His father ignored the farmer's comments. "And when you have your stone mill working again, you will also send a suitable shipment every moon to King's Landing for the foreseeable future. When summer has come, you will instead send shipments of coin. Do you understand?"
The farmer did not care that about the shipments, he was more than happy to pay tribute to the man sitting on the Iron Throne. "I do, Your Grace! I do!"
"Send word to your man. Once the first shipment of smoked fish has arrived, you will be supplied ten bushels of wheat by the Crown and must look after it yourself."
"Thank you, Your Grace!" The farmer bowed graciously and made his way out of the Great Hall back the way he came, standing just a bit taller than when he entered.
Jon Stark watched on from the outer balcony on the outskirts of the great hall. He leaned on the caramel and white marble railing with tall columns inlaid with golden patterns and symbols. Great hunting trophies were hung on the walls; heads from massive bears, wolves, and boars. Even a treecat's head was placed precariously next to a large painting of King Robert hunting a great brown bear with only a spear in his hand.
Even simply watching his father do his duty reminded Jon of the days when he was only a boy wandering the grey, well-lit halls of Winterfell. He'd escape his lessons when Maester Luwin was concentrated on some notes of his, and then Jon would find his way down to the great hall, wobbling down each stone step as a four-year-old.
Jon had always heard the voice of Eddard Stark pulse throughout Winterfell, even through the walls of grey immobile stone, even when he was asleep. That same day, he'd heard his father's voice in the winding halls, and he'd decided to seek it out.
By the time he would reach the bottom of the stairs, he'd be a bit tired from the effort, but not enough to want to rest or give up. Jon would then pass by some serving girl who probably had gotten back from a private meeting with one of the guardsmen. She would ask him where he was going, and naturally, Jon had said "Father,"
The good-natured girl had led him to the great hall by the hand. But then he still couldn't see his father. There were so many people standing around the hall. Why weren't they sitting like they normally would? He'd ask to see his father, and the girl would pick him up and place him on her shoulders. All so he could see the high dais at the end of the hall.
His father would be sitting in that oaken chair. Just as stern and cold and hard as he was today. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, would be gazing down upon the smallfolk who'd come to see him. He never smiled, but they always seemed to be happier after speaking with him. His father always seemed to do right by them.
But then, only for the briefest of moments, Jon would see that his father was looking back at him, having dismissed one of the smallfolk. For only a small reprieve, it seemed the hard mask of the Lord of Winterfell cracked for but a single moment, revealing that warm and gentle smile. The cold grey eyes would turn kind and fatherly. And then Jon would clap and smile back.
A moment later, the mask returned, and Jon's father resumed his role as Lord of Winterfell. The cycle started again as another peasant took up the other's place.
"He wears his station well,"
Jon suddenly came back to the present, hiding his surprise at being snuck up on expertly. He heard Arthur's voice in the back of his mind. Sloppy.
Slowly, he looked over to his right. Tywin Lannister was standing only about five feet away from him, also watching Jon's father as he held court in the great hall.
"Aye, he does." Jon agreed.
"You admire your father, no?"
Jon looked at the older man as if he'd grown a second head. "Of course." The answer was obvious.
Tywin glanced at him. "That's good. A son should always aspire to make his father proud." He said with an almost barely perceptible tug at the lips. "And the best sons, always seek to improve upon their father's work."
Jon didn't know why the Old Lion himself had chosen that specific moment to come speak to him. Or why Tywin Lannister decided to talk about this particular with Jon of all people. Jon was the second son of the Warden of the North, not anyone that Tywin Lannister should be interested in.
As such, he was unsure of how to proceed-if only for a moment. His surprise was mired by reflection, and then, he decided to hear out the old man. If only, out of curiosity.
Tywin had looked back at Jon's father, who began addressing the next petitioner in line. "My daughter has only laid complaints at my feet about you and your father. Complaints and stupidity. Yet I keep telling her that it was Eddard Stark who had stopped Tully soldiers from marching into my lands."
Because she thinks we're threatening her children. Jon knew. The royal children were probably illegitimate, and if the Starks found that out, then the Lannisters would have become extinct. "Her Grace has been kind enough," Jon said plainly.
"Hmph," Tywin grunted, not bothering to correct him. "I owe your father a great debt. One that I intend to pay." He turned to Jon then. "Do you understand?"
Jon calculated all the potential outcomes that might've come from this meeting. All of the ones presented a more favorable hand for Tywin Lannister. He found it immediately. "If you wish to speak with my father about marriage, he's just over there."
"And I will, once he's finished with his duty," Tywin said effortlessly. "But I wish to know what you would do in his situation. And why."
I wouldn't put my children near any of your grandchildren. He did not dislike the royal children, not even Joffrey for all his distasteful habits. Myrcella and Tommen were good children, kind-hearted, and faultless. As a father, though, Jon would not marry off his children to bastards born to a Great House that was hanging on by just a thread. "I would have my brother Bran betrothed to Myrcella."
"And not your sister Dyanna to Joffrey?"
No. I would kill Joffrey before he ever put a hand on my sister. "That would also be a good match." He said with great effort, forcing the ice into his veins. "Bran and Myrcella are a good match because they're of the same age, and they might begin to love each other as they grow older."
"Love," Tywin said dryly. "Love." He said once again, looking out at Eddard Stark, the man sitting on the Iron Throne. Jon sensed that he'd disappointed the Old Lion with that answer. "Yes, perhaps they might."
Every day as a child, Jon had seen the passing glances between his father and his mother. The heartwarming laughter, the soft gazes, all of the nonsense that Dyanna would talk about in her tales of Florian and Jonquil. It became even more real for him when he experienced it for himself with Margaery. A bond like that could never die. It was stronger than any formal alliance because it solidified the relationship between two houses.
A marriage pact could just as easily be taken away as it was created. And formal alliances were fickle.
No, a castle built on solid ground was a castle built on trust. And Jon only ever would deal with the people he trusted.
And Tywin Lannister was not among them.
The Old Lion had opened his mouth once again to say something, yet that was the precise moment when the sound of bells ringing throughout the entire keep could be heard.
All the commotion in the throne room had ceased. Everyone was quiet as they listened to the sound of a bell.
Then, from the open doors of the throne room, from beyond the halls of the Red Keep that led out to the courtyards and then to the city far below Aegon's Hill, came a shrill cry that thundered out into the room around them.
All it took for Jon Stark's blood to run cold was four words. Four words that replayed again and again in his mind.
"The King is dead!"
"The King is dead!"
"The King is dead!"
Author's Notes:
Well, this one's a bit longer than usual. I'm not complaining, though.
I mainly wanted to continue developing Jon in this chapter-as well as solidifying some of his suspicions, while also giving Tywin and Marwyn their respective scenes.
Why is Eddard seen as a badass? Well… because he is a badass. Simple enough.
Eddard Stark is by far one of the most underrated characters in the whole series-and everyone thinks he's a dumbass. It's entirely comedic.
Regardless, next chapter is Starag's! Time for a good old-fashioned prison break!
higherbrainpattern: A Knight's Tale was by far one of biggest inspirations for The Last Tour. Great movie, too.
Destroyer2003: I've really got to thank you,
Because after I read your review about gold, pricing, and why heavy plate is actually the single best armor you could ever have-I decided to take research that much more seriously. And it's a solid skill that I've now used to greater effect in my other work.
So, yeah, thank you G
1shinChan: Well… If there's a bunch of dudes who geek out over wildfire, and who call themselves the "Alchemist's Guild", I figure our man Starag could put them up to something.
Besides, I wasn't going to write the story unless Starag got to smoke his pipe. So I made it happen.