Tears of Lys

Tears of Lys was said to have been invented by alchemists in Lys. It tasted as sweet and clear as water, and once mixed into wine, it could neither be smelled nor tasted.

It ravaged the stomach and bowels, killing within a day or two while appearing to be an ordinary intestinal illness.

Some people therefore called it a poison.

But it simply sat there in silence, letting people do as they pleased with it.

Was that its fault?

Petyr took it and gave it to a lovestruck woman.

Now the Tears of Lys had become a jug of seemingly ordinary red wine, waiting quietly in the Lord Hand's study.

It was late at night, yet the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, still stared absently at a book by candlelight.

The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms (With Many Descriptions of Lords, Ladies, and Their Children) had been written by Maester Mellion a century ago. Its contents were petty and sprawling, with little apparent practical value.

Yet the Hand had found the most crucial evidence within it.

Evidence mattered.

In tales from the Age of Heroes, the Lannister family's ancestor, "clever" Lann, had stolen sunlight from the sun and dyed his hair gold.

The Lannister family had been famous for its inherited golden hair for thousands of years. No one had questioned why the three royal children had none of their father's black hair. King Robert was no exception.

But the book clearly recorded unions between stag and lion.

The most recent was over ninety years ago: a lioness's son, who died in infancy, had black hair. Thirty years before that, a doe had borne a lion four children, all black-haired.

He traced the lineages back through the yellowed pages. Whenever gold met coal-black, gold had always yielded.

"The seed is strong."

Jon's thoughts were in turmoil. At last he had irrefutable proof, but how was he to bring this to an end?

He could not ignore that Cersei had left King's Landing with the three children that very day. The Kingslayer had gone too. Was it a coincidence?

Could this still be resolved peacefully?

Jon knew the answer.

"The seed is strong," he murmured.

He knew Robert's temper better than anyone. If Robert learned the truth without warning, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms would plunge beyond saving into the abyss.

His wife Lysa came over. "Jon, get some rest."

Noticing the fragile, evasive look in his wife's eyes, the Hand spoke with his usual kindness. "I still have work to do. Don't wait up for me. Is Robin asleep?"

Whatever happened, he would wait until Lysa and Robin had returned to the Eyrie before deciding what to do.

After more than seventy years of life, Jon no longer acted on impulse. Only once his family was safely settled could he devote himself fully to the crisis facing the Seven Kingdoms.

Once Robin returns to the Vale, the Falcon's bannermen will protect him. My little Robin will become a proud and honored new King of the Eyrie and inherit the glory of House Arryn.

High as Honor.

If I can see that day with my own eyes, I'll die without regret.

"May the Mother be praised, little Robin is sleeping soundly. Not a peep from him." Lysa filled her husband's winecup. "It's cold at night. A little wine will warm you up so you can keep working."

The Hand smiled with relief.

He asked little of his young wife. Her love for Robin was enough. Now it seemed their marriage, too, was taking a turn for the better.

His wife went to rest, leaving Jon alone once more in the dim, quiet room.

His thoughts inevitably returned to the matter troubling him.

"The seed is strong."

Jon raised his winecup and took a long drink.

Early the next morning.

After several trips to the privy, the Hand collapsed onto his bed and could not rise again.

Violent pain in his abdomen tore at his thoughts and reason, with no sign of easing.

Lysa Tully and their child Robert Arryn, nicknamed Robin, were nowhere in the room.

As Lady Lysa put it, little Robin's health was poor to begin with. What if Jon's illness was contagious, or the sight of him distressed Robin? That would be dreadful.

The servants kept wiping the Hand down and working his limbs, doing everything they could to make the Lord Hand more comfortable.

"Grand Maester, have you found anything? At first I thought Lord Jon had chilled his stomach by eating too much ice, but his condition keeps getting worse..."

Maester Coomon, Lord Arryn's maester, asked anxiously.

Pycelle shook his head and sighed. "Ah, my child, you are too young to know how fragile the elderly are. Even a minor ailment can take the life of someone our age."

Maester Coomon did not give up. "Perhaps we could give Lord Jon another dose of purgative and pepper juice. We can't do nothing."

Pycelle patted his shoulder.

"My good boy, you are clever and capable, but let me share one more thing I've learned in my old age."

"Never administer medicine lightly to a weakened patient. You may only harm him."

Pycelle stroked his long white beard and sighed.

"Sometimes doing nothing is far better than acting rashly."

Coomon still could not understand. "But..."

Pycelle raised a hand to stop him. "My child, Maester Coomon, you're overwrought. Go and rest. Leave this to me."

The Grand Maester sent the young Maester Coomon away, then sat quietly beside the Hand's sickbed.

The attendants waited for the Grand Maester's instructions, but Pycelle merely told them to continue.

The room grew busy again, though no one knew what good it did. Perhaps it only made them feel less useless.

Grand Maester Pycelle sat motionless, as though asleep.

He had served four kings.

Robert Baratheon; the last king of the previous dynasty, Aerys Targaryen, the "Mad King"; Aerys's father, Jaehaerys II; and Jaehaerys's father, Aegon V the "Fortunate."

Yet to Pycelle, the man in the Seven Kingdoms who bore himself most like a king, the man who truly ought to rule, was Lord Tywin Lannister, who had never worn a crown.

Pycelle knew he cared too much about the Lannister family.

But what reason did a man in his eighties have to live? Fear of death and worldly desires could not be ruled out, of course.

The most important reason, perhaps, was the wish to change something and leave something behind.

The king of the Seven Kingdoms should be skilled at ruling and take pleasure in it. He should indulge neither himself nor others, nor should he be as cruel as the Mad King. Ideally, he would be like Lord Tywin.

The unconscious Hand made a muffled sound.

Pycelle leaned closer. It sounded like "Robert," though he could not tell whether Jon was calling for the king or frail little Robin, whose name was also Robert.

The atmosphere in the Red Keep had been strange these past few days.

Pycelle knew the queen wanted Lord Arryn dead!

She had never said so aloud, but Pycelle needed only to look into her eyes to understand.

Was this his chance?

Had Hand Jon fallen ill, or was it some rare poison?

Pycelle was not certain. He chose to wait and see. Time would tell.

May all go well.