The Tears of Lys, said to be concocted by the enigmatic alchemists of the Free City from which they take their name, possess a taste as clear and sweet as fresh spring water. When dissolved in wine, they leave neither scent nor flavor to betray their presence.
This insidious poison disrupts the delicate workings of the stomach and bowels, bringing death within a day or two of consumption. To those untrained in the subtle arts of the Citadel, the symptoms appear indistinguishable from a common intestinal malady.
Many revile it as the coward's weapon, a poison favored by women and eunuchs.
Yet does the vial itself bear any blame? It rests quietly, awaiting the hand that would wield it.
Petyr came and took it away, passing it to a woman consumed by desperate love and bitter resentment.
The Tears of Lys have now become an innocuous flagon of Arbor red, waiting silently in the Hand's study.
Night had fallen hours ago, yet Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, remained hunched over his desk, eyes fixed intently upon the tome illuminated by guttering candlelight.
A Genealogical and Historical Account of the Great Houses of Westeros (Including Many Descriptions of Lords, Ladies, and Their Children), meticulously transcribed by Maester Malleon several centuries past, contained information both tedious and convoluted, seemingly irrelevant to matters of state.
Yet within its yellowed pages, the Hand had unearthed evidence of devastating significance.
In the legendary tales from the Age of Heroes, Lann the Clever, progenitor of House Lannister, was said to have stolen sunlight itself to gild his hair with its radiance.
The Lannister family's golden locks, inherited without interruption for thousands of years, were renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Thus, few had cause to question why the three royal children lacked the coal-black hair characteristic of House Baratheon. King Robert himself remained oblivious to this discrepancy.
But this ancient book documented every union between stag and lion with dispassionate precision.
The most recent such marriage had occurred more than ninety years past, when a Lannister bride delivered a stillborn son with hair as black as midnight. Three decades before that event, a Baratheon woman had borne four children to her Lannister lord husband, each blessed—or cursed—with raven-dark hair.
Jon traced his wrinkled finger along the brittle parchment, moving backward through generations. In every instance, golden always yielded to charcoal black.
"The seed is strong," he murmured to the empty chamber.
His mind roiled with conflicting emotions, having at last secured incontrovertible evidence of what he had long suspected. Yet how might such a revelation be managed without plunging the realm into chaos?
He could not help but recall that Cersei had departed King's Landing with her three children earlier that day, accompanied by the Kingslayer. Was this mere coincidence, or had his inquiries been discovered?
Under these circumstances, could any peaceful resolution be achieved?
Lord Arryn knew the answer deep in his bones.
"The seed is strong," he whispered once more.
He understood Robert's tempestuous nature better than any man alive. Should the king learn this truth without careful preparation, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms would tumble irretrievably into an abyss of blood and fire.
His wife, Lysa, entered the study with hesitant steps. "Jon, you must seek your bed soon. The hour grows late."
Catching a glimpse of his wife's evasive and fragile gaze, the Hand maintained his customary affable demeanor. "There remain matters requiring my attention. Do not wait upon my arrival. Has Robin found sleep?"
Whatever action he took, he must first ensure that Lysa and young Robert returned safely to the Eyrie.
With more than seventy years of life experience to guide him, Jon would no longer act with the impulsivity of youth. Only by securing his family could he fully address the looming crisis that threatened to engulf the realm.
Once Robin reaches the Vale, the knights of the Eyrie will shield him from harm. My sweet boy shall become the proud and glorious Lord of the Eyrie, inheriting the ancient honor of House Arryn.
As High As Honor. The words of his house echoed in his mind.
If only I might witness this with my own eyes, I could face the Stranger without regret.
"The Mother's blessing shines upon him," Lysa replied, her hands fidgeting with the material of her gown. "Little Robin sleeps soundly, neither fussing nor troubling himself." She stepped forward to refill her husband's wine cup unbidden. "The night air carries a chill. A measure of wine will warm your blood before you resume your labors."
The Hand smiled with genuine warmth and appreciation.
He demanded little of his young wife, asking only that she demonstrate maternal devotion toward their sickly son. Perhaps, he reflected, their marriage of political convenience had begun to develop more tender bonds.
His wife departed to seek her own rest, leaving Jon once more in solitude, with only flickering shadows for company.
His thoughts inevitably returned to the matter that had occupied him for many moons.
"The seed is strong."
Jon raised his cup and drank deeply.
The following morning arrived with merciless brightness.
After several urgent visits to his privy chamber, the Hand collapsed upon his bed, unable to rise again.
Excruciating pain ravaged his abdomen, destroying rational thought and leaving no prospect of relief or improvement.
Lysa Tully and her child Robert Arryn—called Robin by those closest to him—were conspicuously absent from the sickroom.
According to Lady Lysa's instructions, little Robin's delicate constitution made it imperative that he be shielded from potential contagion. Moreover, witnessing his father's suffering might inflict lasting harm upon the boy's fragile nerves.
Servants moved about the chamber in hushed efficiency, bathing the Hand's fevered brow and shifting his position to provide what meager comfort they could.
"Maester, what diagnosis can you offer?" asked a young man in the grey robes of the Citadel. "I initially suspected Lord Jon had consumed excessively chilled food and suffered a stomach chill, yet his condition deteriorates with alarming rapidity..."
Maester Colemon, House Arryn's dedicated healer, regarded the Grand Maester with undisguised anxiety.
Pycelle shook his head ponderously, chains clinking softly with the motion. "Alas, child, your youth blinds you to the fragility of advanced age. Even minor ailments may claim the lives of men who have seen as many winters as we."
Maester Colemon persisted, unwilling to surrender hope. "Perhaps we might administer additional purgatives or pepper water? Surely we cannot stand idle while the Hand suffers."
Pycelle rested a hand upon the younger man's shoulder with paternal gravity.
"Good child, your intellect and dedication do you credit. But permit an old man to share the wisdom gleaned from long years of service."
"For patients in such a weakened state, one must exercise the utmost caution regarding medicinal interventions. Ill-considered treatments often inflict greater harm than the malady itself."
Pycelle stroked his flowing white beard contemplatively.
"There are times when forbearance proves wiser than precipitous action."
Colemon's features creased with frustration. "But—"
Pycelle raised a hand, silencing further objections. "My boy, your concern honors you, but your anxiety clouds judgment. Pray, attend to other duties for a time. I shall oversee matters here personally."
Having dismissed the younger maester, Pycelle settled himself beside the Hand's bedside with the immobility of a stone sentinel.
The servants awaited the Grand Maester's instructions, but Pycelle merely directed them to continue their present ministrations.
Activity resumed within the chamber, though none could articulate the purpose of these labors beyond creating an illusion of useful intervention.
Grand Maester Pycelle sat motionless, eyes half-lidded as though drifting into slumber.
He had served four kings across the decades.
Robert Baratheon, first of his name; the last ruler of the previous dynasty, Aerys Targaryen, whom men called the Mad King; before him, Aerys's father Jaehaerys the Second; and before him, Jaehaerys's father Aegon the Fifth, known as "Egg the Unlikely."
Yet in the deepest chambers of his heart, Pycelle believed that the most regal man he had ever known—the one most deserving of the Iron Throne—was Tywin Lannister, who had never worn a crown upon his golden head.
Pycelle recognized his partiality toward House Lannister with clear-eyed honesty.
But what purpose remained for a man of eighty years? The fear of death and worldly comforts undoubtedly played their part.
But perhaps his truest motivation was the desire to effect meaningful change before departing this world—to leave behind a legacy worth remembering.
The king of the Seven Kingdoms, Pycelle believed, should possess both the capacity and the inclination to govern effectively. He must neither indulge his baser appetites nor permit others to do so. He must never descend into the cruel madness that had consumed Aerys Targaryen. Ideally, he would rule with the iron determination and clear vision of Lord Tywin.
The semiconscious Hand emitted a faint, indistinct sound.
Pycelle leaned closer to listen. Jon appeared to be calling for "Robert," though whether he sought the king or his frail son remained unclear.
An atmosphere of tension and unease had permeated the Red Keep in recent days.
Pycelle was well aware that the Queen desired the Hand's death, though she had never explicitly voiced such sentiments. Her eyes had conveyed her wishes with sufficient clarity.
Now, presented with this opportunity, what course should he pursue?
Was the Hand truly suffering from natural illness, or had some rare and subtle poison been administered?
Pycelle remained uncertain, electing to observe and wait. Time, that most patient teacher, would reveal all truths eventually.
May all proceed as it should, he thought, closing his eyes as Jon Arryn's labored breathing filled the silent chamber.