The afternoon heat pressed down upon King's Landing like a smith's hammer, turning the narrow streets into baking stone ovens.
Within the Hand's bedchamber, seven septons in crystal crowns surrounded the bed where Jon Arryn lay. They held aloft copies of The Seven-Pointed Star as they implored the gods to spare the beloved Hand of the King.
Born in the hills of Andalos across the Narrow Sea, the Faith of the Seven had long established itself as the predominant religion throughout much of Westeros, particularly among the nobility.
The Seven were one god with seven aspects, each representing a different facet of existence: the Father, who judges with fairness; the Mother, who nurtures with compassion; the Warrior, who provides strength in battle; the Maiden, who preserves innocence; the Smith, who creates with skill; the Crone, who guides with wisdom; and the Stranger, who comes at the end of life's journey.
"Righteous Father," intoned the eldest of the septons, his voice cracking with emotion, "a man who has devoted his life to justice and honor should not endure such torment in his final hours."
"Merciful Mother," continued another, "grant peace to this world, that it might be free from strife and pestilence."
"Mighty Warrior," called a third, "bestow upon Lord Arryn the courage and fortitude to overcome this affliction."
Each in turn offered their supplications, until at last all eyes turned to the wizened septon who had remained silent throughout.
"Wise Crone," he whispered, "illuminate our path with your golden lantern, that we might find a means to ease his suffering."
"Stranger," they concluded in unison, "we entreat you—come not today, not this day..."
Jon Arryn, however, could hear none of these earnest prayers.
Ravaged by the mysterious illness that had struck him down with such terrible swiftness, he had fallen into a deep fever-dream that carried him through the corridors of his long life.
At times, he seemed to return to his childhood in the Eyrie, a carefree boy racing through the marble halls of that soaring castle, with harried servants in pursuit.
In another moment, he transformed into a steady young man, diligently absorbing knowledge of statecraft and swordplay, forming friendships with nobles, merchants, and knights that would serve him well in years to come.
He lived again through his marriages—the sweet joy of newfound love, the bitter sorrow of watching his brides pass into the Stranger's embrace. He appointed one heir after another, only to witness each succumb to tragic circumstance.
He recalled with perfect clarity the day two boys arrived at the Eyrie to become his wards. Robert's boisterous laughter soon echoed throughout the castle's austere chambers, drawing reluctant smiles even from the solemn, serious Eddard.
Those boys grew into young men under his careful tutelage.
Then came the raven bearing the Mad King's command, insisting that he surrender his foster sons to royal justice. How could he possibly consign these boys he loved as his own children to certain death?
As High As Honor. The words of House Arryn. He had followed the honor inscribed upon his heart.
The Rebellion began.
The rebel forces possessed considerable strength—the combined might of the Vale, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the North, with four great lords raising their banners in defiance of the Iron Throne.
Yet many lesser lords beneath his own authority remained loyal to the crown or hesitantly neutral. These internal divisions required resolution before the true fight could begin.
Robert and Eddard proved their mettle from the outset, securing victory after hard-fought victory.
They reclaimed Gulltown from royalist forces, triumphed at the Battle of Summerhall, and gradually eliminated or subdued those who refused to acknowledge their cause.
The decisive Battle of the Bells saw the royal army retreat in disarray, bolstering the rebellion's prestige throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
At the Ruby Ford of the Trident, Robert's warhammer shattered the three-headed dragon emblazoned on Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate, scattering rubies like drops of blood across the rushing water. With that single blow, the death knell of the Targaryen dynasty resounded across Westeros.
What glorious days those had been, filled with purpose and righteous conviction.
Afterward, Robert assumed the crown, growing ever larger in girth while diminishing in spirit, indulging in wine and women as the burdens of governance fell increasingly upon Jon's aging shoulders.
Then, when hope had all but abandoned him, his wife Lysa had given him a son—his only living child.
My sweet boy, Robert. My little Robin. Grow tall and strong with all haste. The Vale shall need you sooner than I had believed.
"Robert..."
Grand Maester Pycelle heard the Hand's voice once more.
Not the meaningless, indistinct mumbling of previous hours, but a name repeated with surprising clarity.
"Robert... Robert... Robert..."
The king finally arrived, bursting through the door with characteristic impatience. "Pycelle! How fares the old man? Why has his condition deteriorated so suddenly?"
King Robert's expression betrayed both shock and profound grief. Apart from Lyanna's death, this represented the cruelest blow fate had dealt him.
The Grand Maester rose respectfully, his face a mask of compassionate concern.
"Your Grace, I have exhausted every remedy at my disposal. However, considering Lord Arryn's advanced age and the tremendous strain of state affairs he has borne these many years, his body and mind have reached their limits. This sudden illness, while tragic, is not wholly unexpected."
The king's countenance darkened ominously.
Pycelle trembled visibly, stammering with evident fear, "His condition shows no sign of improvement, I regret to say. Perhaps... perhaps we might administer milk of the poppy, Your Grace. At the very least, it would alleviate his suffering."
Milk of the poppy, while effective for pain relief, offered little hope of actual recovery.
The king's rage erupted instantly. His massive right fist clenched as though preparing to strike the elderly maester. "Useless advice from a useless man! Get out, Pycelle! Remove yourself from my sight before my fist forgets your station!"
Pycelle hastily withdrew, nearly tripping over his own robes in his eagerness to escape.
The chamber grew quiet save for Jon's labored breathing. King Robert gazed around helplessly before slumping onto the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders bowed with grief.
For what seemed an eternity, he clasped his foster father's hand, reminiscing about happier times—hunting expeditions in the Vale, tournaments where Robert had claimed victory, the day Jon had arranged his betrothal to Lyanna Stark. Yet the Hand's condition remained unchanged, his consciousness surfacing only to call Robert's name before sinking once more beneath the dark waters of delirium.
Lady Lysa continued to insist that little Robert be kept far from his father's sickbed, fearing contagion.
After a time that seemed to stretch beyond measure, the king surrendered to inevitability. "Summon Pycelle," he commanded, his voice hollow with defeat.
After being administered milk of the poppy, Jon Arryn awakened briefly, like embers flaring in a dying fire. Seeing his foster son and wife gathered at his bedside, he parted his cracked lips to speak.
In that fleeting moment, countless thoughts and images cascaded through his fading mind—everything he had discovered, all he had planned, the terrible danger he had uncovered.
Yet in the end, Jon managed only a few cryptic words: "The seed is strong," he whispered, before his eyes closed once more, returning him to his dreams.
After that final utterance, he grew still and spoke no more.
In the shadows beyond the Hand's Tower, Lord Petyr Baelish awaited final confirmation of Jon Arryn's passing.
Lord Jon, your impatience has proven your undoing. Did you truly believe success could be achieved without proper preparation?
Though Littlefinger had orchestrated this murder, he considered it merely a contingency measure, far from the elegant solution he would have preferred.
The Lannisters' incestuous secret had never been truly unknown.
It had remained concealed for so many years only because those aware of the truth either considered the risk too great or the potential reward insufficient to justify action.
Before Lord Stannis and the Hand "discovered" the truth and determined to send Lysa back to the Eyrie, Littlefinger had counted himself among these silent observers.
Damn Varys with his little birds. Curse Renly with his ambitions.
He could have crafted chaos with surgical precision had circumstances allowed, but now he had been forced to move prematurely.
There was no alternative. Lysa represented a perfect pawn in his greater design, and Petyr had specifically intended her for other critical roles. How could he permit her return to the Vale under these conditions?
Nevertheless, he remained confident in his ability to turn lion against stag, wolf against eagle.
The vaunted alliance of the five kingdoms—so carefully constructed through Robert's Rebellion—would collapse within a fortnight.
War had become inevitable. The Riverlands would bleed endlessly as armies marched across its fertile plains. The Reach and Dorne could not remain indifferent to such upheaval.
Glorious chaos approached on swift wings.
The recent tournament had provided ideal cover for his machinations.
The Hand had been closing in on definitive evidence. Once the book had been secured, Petyr had instructed Lysa to administer the poison. The plan had been simple: Jon Arryn, in his final agonizing moments, would reveal the terrible truth to his foster son the king.
By that point, Lord Tywin's substantial forces would be present in King's Landing, making bloody conflict unavoidable.
Yet unforeseen complications had emerged in rapid succession.
The Imp had somehow inspired Prince Joffrey to seek dragon eggs, and with the queen's formidable influence still intact, Petyr had devoted an entire day to arranging this unexpected diversion.
Then came Jon Arryn's methodical pace—Littlefinger had anticipated swifter action, but the old man had only located the crucial book the previous night.
Most devastating of all, Lord Tywin had unexpectedly departed merely three days after the tournament, taking with him not only his own substantial retinue but also Queen Cersei, her three children, and even the Kingslayer!
Foolish Cersei! Arrogant Tywin!
With the Lannisters absent from the capital, the chaos Jon Arryn's death might have generated would be significantly diminished.
The combined strength of stag, eagle, trout, and wolf—all bound by King Robert's leadership—far outmatched the isolated lion. When confronted with such odds, the coldly pragmatic Lord Tywin would set aside considerations of pride. The Westerlands would suffer, certainly, but any resulting conflict would conclude swiftly.
This outcome failed to serve Petyr Baelish's true purpose.
Yet he refused to surrender to disappointment.
Having labored patiently for years to reach his current position, he possessed the fortitude to await the next opportunity.
Though the lions' withdrawal from King's Landing represented a setback rather than catastrophe, the fundamental contradictions between the Seven Kingdoms would only intensify without the unifying force of the original alliance.
He caressed the mockingbird sigil adorning his doublet, his lips curving in a secretive smile.
Without the destruction of several great houses, how could House Baelish hope to elevate itself to similar prominence?
Petyr's ambitions soared beyond all reasonable bounds—from minor lord to high lord, from high lord to paramount lord, from paramount lord to king. To achieve such transcendent power, chaos sufficient to overturn established hierarchies must first engulf the Seven Kingdoms, shattering the rigid, antiquated shackles of order.
Only through such upheaval could the bloodline of a declining minor noble ascend beyond its station, rising above thousands of more illustrious houses.
When Aegon the Conqueror forged the Iron Throne, after all, he had relied upon dragons rather than birthright or legal claims!
As these thoughts occupied Littlefinger's mind, an unremarkable servant approached cautiously, leaning close to whisper several words into his ear.
Petyr's face transformed with unprecedented astonishment.
How could this be?!
Jon Arryn!
Never had Littlefinger despised the old man more intensely than at this moment. He had accounted for countless variables and contingencies, yet this particular complication had eluded his calculations entirely.
"The seed is strong"? These were your final words?
This cryptic phrase and nothing more?!
Who could have predicted that the Hand would carry his discoveries to the grave rather than denounce the Lannister twins in his final moments?
Petyr felt the bitter sting of humiliation.
He had orchestrated such an intricate design, yet achieved only the most meager result.
The Hand was dead, yes—but the Lannisters remained untouched, the king remained ignorant, and the future remained stubbornly opaque.
Littlefinger found himself unable to consider the broader implications at present.
The seed is strong!
Jon Arryn, you stubborn old fool! May the seven hells welcome you warmly!