Ned is meeting with Grand Maester Pycelle. It is hot as fuck.
Pycelle: Oh, it's so damn hot. Not the hottest ever though. That was back in the days of King Maekar. Serving wench, get us some cold sweet milk!
Ned: Okay, so Pycelle. I'd like to talk about--
Pycelle: --Ah, that summer was so hot and it lasted seven whole years. I remember being a young lad, getting my Maester chain formed. It was--
Ned: Dude, I don't care about this. I'm here to talk to you about about Jon Arryn.
The serving wench comes back with the milk and hands it to them both.
Pycelle: Ah, so refreshing!
Ned: Oh, I think I'm going to vomit in my mouth. What the fuck is this shit? Milk full of fucking sugar? You know in Winterfell we drink beer when it's warm. And by warm I mean anything above freezing.
Pycelle: Jon Arryn. He was a sad man, but healthy. His sickness came suddenly. A total shock. One day fine and asking to borrow a book from me. The next day... BOOM, dead!
Ned: Hrmm, a book you say?
He pulls out his trusty CSI notebook and writes that down.
Ned: And I've heard a story that you sent his Maester away when Jon was getting sicker?
Pycelle: Oh yeah, Maester Colemon. Total dipshit. Jon would have died if that moron kept treating him. Well, I guess he died anyway. But he would have died even sooner. He's all into that holistic zen bullshit like liberal White women. I'm pretty sure that moron got his medical advice from Gwyneth Paltrow off of Goop.
Ned: And as Jon lay dying... did he have any final words?
Pycelle: Yes, he kept talking about "Robert." He said it over and over again. Maybe he was talking about his son. Maybe he was talking about the King. Robert Blackwood? Robert Frey? Probably not Robert Quince, the castellan of Dragonstone who was murdered there during the Dance of Dragons.
Ned: Well, that's not helpful. Did he say anything else?
Pycelle: Yes. He said, "the seed is strong."
Ned: Uh... did he take up planting or something?
Pycelle: No, I assume he was talking about his son, Robert.
Ned: Please, have you seen his shitty little weak son? Doubt it. But I'll write that down in my CSI notebook anyway. So, moving on... was there anything else strange or different about his death? His wife Lysa seemed to think so.
Pycelle: Meh, Lysa is a crazy bitch. But to answer your question... every death is strange and different. And yet every death is the same.
Ned: That sounds like some deep Tyrion shit there. Any reason you'd think he could have been poisoned?
Pycelle: Poison? A woman's weapon! Or virtual women like eunuchs. Or people from the east. If you catch my drift. I'm talking about Varys.
Ned: Yes, I got it. Well, I think I'll excuse myself now. Oh, but before I go there is... just one more thing. That book you mentioned earlier. The one Jon wanted to borrow from you. What was it? I'd like to see it myself.
Pycelle: Ugh, some boring book about lineages. I guess I can try to find it for you. You won't find it interesting though. I think he was trying to get into genealogy or something. He just couldn't wait until the invention of Ancestry DNA, which I fear is still a very long away from now.
Ned: Okay, cool. Peace out.
Ned leaves and returns to the Tower of the Hand. There he finds Arya standing on one foot.
Ned: Whattup Aly Raisman?
Arya: That's a pretty shitty comparison. She didn't even medal on balance beams since she's more of a Floor Exercise specialist. You should have said "Shawn Johnson." She got gold in Beijing.
Ned: So, what the hell does Syrio have you up to now?
Arya: Syrio says that an experienced water dancer can stand on one toe for hours. So that's what I'm trying to do.
Ned: Yeah, and you'll probably fall and bruise yourself a bunch.
Arya: Water dancers don't fall!
Ned: Hrm, I heard some similar shit like that from your brother Bran and you see how that went.
Arya: Bran! Is he coming down here, father? Now that he's awake again he should join us. And he's going to come and join the Kingsguard, right?
Ned: Uh, no. Bran needs to get a lot stronger before he can travel. And he won't be able to be a knight anymore. But I'm sure there are plenty of things he could do instead as a cripple in a medieval-like society. For insance, uhmm... I dunno. Septon or something? Maybe an architect. Councilor, I suppose.
Arya: Those sound pretty cool. Can I do that?
Ned: Hahaha, no Arya. You're a girl which means you just marry a king and pop out babies.
Arya: No, that's Sansa shit there. It's not me.
Ned shakes his head at his little girl. Just what is he going to do with her?
Later he finds himself back in his room where Baelish joins him.
Littlefinger: Ah, whattup Hand of the King? Man, look outside your window at all these lords practicing their fighting skills. Looking forward to this tournament?
Ned: Not this tournament shit again. Can you just cut to the point of why you're bothering me this time?
Littlefinger: Why, I notice you've been snooping around the city. Asking questions. Inquiring. Mind to tell me what about?
Ned: You think I trust your ass? Hahaha, no.
Littlefinger: Well, I know anyway. You're asking about Jon Arryn's household. You believe they've all left the city and gone back to the Vale. But they haven't. Four remain. One who remains behind was his squire, Hugh. Right after Jon's death he was knighted. Peculiar, no?
Ned: SHIT... how do you know all this? I need to talk to these four people! Give me their info and I'll track them down.
Littlefinger: Oh, that would not be wise. This city is full of spies. Look out the window... those ones belong to the Queen. And over there... those ones belong to Varys. There are others I don't even know about.
Ned: I fucking hate this place.
Littlefinger: I have an alternative suggestion to you - while these spies can follow you all day, they certainly cannot follow every single one of your men. I say find a loyal colleague to help you with these investigations.
Ned: Man, that's some good advice Littlefinger. Every Gil Grissom needs a Catherine Willows to assist him. You know, maybe I was wrong not to trust you.
Walter Donovan: Trust no one, Doctor Jones!
Ned: GET OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR FUCKING SWEET MILK, PYCELLE!
Pycelle: Oh, it's so damn hot. Not the hottest ever though. That was back in the days of King Maekar. Serving wench, get us some cold sweet milk!
Ned: Okay, so Pycelle. I'd like to talk about--
Pycelle: --Ah, that summer was so hot and it lasted seven whole years. I remember being a young lad, getting my Maester chain formed. It was--
Ned: Dude, I don't care about this. I'm here to talk to you about about Jon Arryn.
The serving wench comes back with the milk and hands it to them both.
Pycelle: Ah, so refreshing!
Ned: Oh, I think I'm going to vomit in my mouth. What the fuck is this shit? Milk full of fucking sugar? You know in Winterfell we drink beer when it's warm. And by warm I mean anything above freezing.
Pycelle: Jon Arryn. He was a sad man, but healthy. His sickness came suddenly. A total shock. One day fine and asking to borrow a book from me. The next day... BOOM, dead!
Ned: Hrmm, a book you say?
He pulls out his trusty CSI notebook and writes that down.
Ned: And I've heard a story that you sent his Maester away when Jon was getting sicker?
Pycelle: Oh yeah, Maester Colemon. Total dipshit. Jon would have died if that moron kept treating him. Well, I guess he died anyway. But he would have died even sooner. He's all into that holistic zen bullshit like liberal White women. I'm pretty sure that moron got his medical advice from Gwyneth Paltrow off of Goop.
Ned: And as Jon lay dying... did he have any final words?
Pycelle: Yes, he kept talking about "Robert." He said it over and over again. Maybe he was talking about his son. Maybe he was talking about the King. Robert Blackwood? Robert Frey? Probably not Robert Quince, the castellan of Dragonstone who was murdered there during the Dance of Dragons.
Ned: Well, that's not helpful. Did he say anything else?
Pycelle: Yes. He said, "the seed is strong."
Ned: Uh... did he take up planting or something?
Pycelle: No, I assume he was talking about his son, Robert.
Ned: Please, have you seen his shitty little weak son? Doubt it. But I'll write that down in my CSI notebook anyway. So, moving on... was there anything else strange or different about his death? His wife Lysa seemed to think so.
Pycelle: Meh, Lysa is a crazy bitch. But to answer your question... every death is strange and different. And yet every death is the same.
Ned: That sounds like some deep Tyrion shit there. Any reason you'd think he could have been poisoned?
Pycelle: Poison? A woman's weapon! Or virtual women like eunuchs. Or people from the east. If you catch my drift. I'm talking about Varys.
Ned: Yes, I got it. Well, I think I'll excuse myself now. Oh, but before I go there is... just one more thing. That book you mentioned earlier. The one Jon wanted to borrow from you. What was it? I'd like to see it myself.
Pycelle: Ugh, some boring book about lineages. I guess I can try to find it for you. You won't find it interesting though. I think he was trying to get into genealogy or something. He just couldn't wait until the invention of Ancestry DNA, which I fear is still a very long away from now.
Ned: Okay, cool. Peace out.
Ned leaves and returns to the Tower of the Hand. There he finds Arya standing on one foot.
Ned: Whattup Aly Raisman?
Arya: That's a pretty shitty comparison. She didn't even medal on balance beams since she's more of a Floor Exercise specialist. You should have said "Shawn Johnson." She got gold in Beijing.
Ned: So, what the hell does Syrio have you up to now?
Arya: Syrio says that an experienced water dancer can stand on one toe for hours. So that's what I'm trying to do.
Ned: Yeah, and you'll probably fall and bruise yourself a bunch.
Arya: Water dancers don't fall!
Ned: Hrm, I heard some similar shit like that from your brother Bran and you see how that went.
Arya: Bran! Is he coming down here, father? Now that he's awake again he should join us. And he's going to come and join the Kingsguard, right?
Ned: Uh, no. Bran needs to get a lot stronger before he can travel. And he won't be able to be a knight anymore. But I'm sure there are plenty of things he could do instead as a cripple in a medieval-like society. For insance, uhmm... I dunno. Septon or something? Maybe an architect. Councilor, I suppose.
Arya: Those sound pretty cool. Can I do that?
Ned: Hahaha, no Arya. You're a girl which means you just marry a king and pop out babies.
Arya: No, that's Sansa shit there. It's not me.
Ned shakes his head at his little girl. Just what is he going to do with her?
Later he finds himself back in his room where Baelish joins him.
Littlefinger: Ah, whattup Hand of the King? Man, look outside your window at all these lords practicing their fighting skills. Looking forward to this tournament?
Ned: Not this tournament shit again. Can you just cut to the point of why you're bothering me this time?
Littlefinger: Why, I notice you've been snooping around the city. Asking questions. Inquiring. Mind to tell me what about?
Ned: You think I trust your ass? Hahaha, no.
Littlefinger: Well, I know anyway. You're asking about Jon Arryn's household. You believe they've all left the city and gone back to the Vale. But they haven't. Four remain. One who remains behind was his squire, Hugh. Right after Jon's death he was knighted. Peculiar, no?
Ned: SHIT... how do you know all this? I need to talk to these four people! Give me their info and I'll track them down.
Littlefinger: Oh, that would not be wise. This city is full of spies. Look out the window... those ones belong to the Queen. And over there... those ones belong to Varys. There are others I don't even know about.
Ned: I fucking hate this place.
Littlefinger: I have an alternative suggestion to you - while these spies can follow you all day, they certainly cannot follow every single one of your men. I say find a loyal colleague to help you with these investigations.
Ned: Man, that's some good advice Littlefinger. Every Gil Grissom needs a Catherine Willows to assist him. You know, maybe I was wrong not to trust you.
Walter Donovan: Trust no one, Doctor Jones!
Ned: GET OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR FUCKING SWEET MILK, PYCELLE!
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