"A strong lineage!" Inside the Tower of the Prime Minister, the elderly Duke of the Eyrie, Prime Minister Jon Arryn, murmured to himself as he paced back and forth in his study.
On the wall hung a sword forged for him by Lady Lysa Jon Snow, which he wore whenever he sat on the Iron Throne in place of King Robert in King's Landing. The blade shimmered faintly in the lamplight — silver threads embroidered along the fuller depicted the mountain skies, the hilt was carved into the shape of an eagle's head, and the guard spread into two wings.
"As high as glory," Duke Jon Snow thought bitterly as he gazed at the Falcon Sword. As high as glory — he should be like an eagle soaring freely in the mountain winds, not ensnared by the countless traps of King's Landing.
On his desk lay a colossal tome borrowed from the equally aged Grand Maester Pycelle: "The Genealogy and History of the Major Noble Families of the Seven Kingdoms (with many descriptions of lords, ladies, and their children)." The volume was vast, yellowed, and painfully dull — yet Jon read it with a zeal born of revelation.
"I may have discovered the truth," he whispered. The hair of every one of the king's bastard sons was as black as night.
This was the reality — whether it was Edric, Mia, the newborn babes of King's Landing's brothels, or those scattered across the Narrow Sea, they all shared the same dark hair. And then there was the Queen — Cersei's behavior grew more arrogant each year, her cruelty as sharp as her father's. She was bold enough to commit adultery, Jon realized. What he once thought a mere temperament of vanity — the king's killing of his bastards — now appeared a deliberate erasure of evidence.
History bore witness: no matter how far Jon Snow traced back through the thin, yellowed pages, gold always yielded to black. Grand Maester Merylene recorded the last union between stag and lion over ninety years prior — Tiah Lannister wed Gwyn Baratheon, the family's third son. Their only child, a stillborn boy, was described as "large, with a good appetite, and a full head of black hair." Thirty years earlier, a Lannister man had married a Baratheon daughter. She bore him three daughters and a son — all with black hair.
"Poor Robert," Jon sighed, acknowledging Stannis's grim suspicion. Queen Cersei Lannister's children were not Baratheons at all, but the offspring of her own brother, the Kingslayer. "Clever Lann stole sunlight to dye his hair gold. The Lannisters truly are descendants of liars and thieves."
"I must restore order to this realm," Jon resolved. "But I can't act rashly. Striking at the queen's children would stain my honor and provoke the Lannisters' wrath. I need a careful plan — send the Kingslayer to the Wall, deal with the children quietly, and preserve the dynasty."
In the fragile Baratheon realm, Lord Jon Snow had long been the architect behind every careful patch and alliance. "Damn these Lannister women, and that Kingslayer," he muttered. The dynasty, lacking dragons, already wobbled on weak foundations, relying heavily on his steady hands. Whether it was courting the Lannisters, marrying into the Westerlands, or forging a tenuous accord with the Martells, every step had been part of Jon's grand design.
Yet now, his masterpiece — the alliance with the Lannisters — had become the root of all disorder. What was meant to consolidate the crown's power had birthed chaos instead.
While Jon pondered the crisis, the door opened. His wife, Lysa Tully, entered the study. She had the signature blue eyes of House Tully, small but stern lips, and long, reddish-brown hair cascading down her waist.
Time had not been kind. In her youth, Lysa had been a delicate, beautiful girl — slender, shy, and bright. But after marrying Jon Arryn and enduring multiple miscarriages before finally giving birth to her son Robert, her figure had softened and her features aged. Though two years younger than her sister Catelyn, she now looked ten years older. Her once radiant skin had turned pale beneath layers of powder.
"What do you need me for, my lord?" Lysa asked sharply as she stepped inside.
"It's nothing grave," Jon said gently. "Our good Robin is of age. When he grows a bit older, the young lords will take their pageboys and foster sons. I want to send him to Dragonstone — as Lord Stannis's adopted son."
Jon's tone was calm, even kind, though behind his eyes calculation flickered. He was older than Lysa's father, Lord Hoster, and though there had never been love between them, he had always treated her with a sort of patient tenderness. Her influence, though volatile, was not without effect — she had placed her cousin, the Blackfish, in his service, and relied heavily on her confidant, Littlefinger.
"You're taking my Robin away from me?" Lysa's voice broke into a shriek. "No! You can't! There are enemies everywhere!"
She was trembling now, her hands clutched against her chest. Five miscarriages — two at the Eyrie, three in King's Landing — and two stillbirths had left her scarred, both in body and mind. Robert Arryn, frail as he was, had become her world. After her last stillbirth, paranoia took root; she saw foes in every shadow.
"My dear wife, calm yourself," Jon pleaded. "Robin is six years old — the heir to the Eyrie, not a babe at the breast. Everything I do is for him. For his future, and for the Vale."
"I knew it!" Lysa screamed, her eyes wet with fury. "You never loved me. You only married me for my father's army! I remember his words — that I should thank the gods a great lord would take a woman who'd lost her maidenhead! I hate him! And I hate you!"
"Those things… those things," Jon sighed, his wrinkled face full of helplessness. "Why bring them up again?"
Their marriage had been built on politics and duty, not affection. She had entered his household as a fragile girl burdened with shame; he had taken her as a bargain sealed in war.
"Enough, my lady," Jon said softly. "I was merely seeking your opinion."
He guided the still-trembling Lysa from the room, enduring her bitter mutters and curses with weary patience. When the door closed, the study fell silent once more.
Only the aged yet unyielding Duke Jon Snow remained, surrounded by the ghosts of his choices.
He stood by the window, looking out at the pale dawn rising over the Vale. A chill wind whispered through the mountains. His thoughts drifted to his lost wives — the ones he had truly loved, the heirs who had died too soon, some on the battlefield, others burned by the Mad King's madness.
"All for that cold, thorny iron chair," he whispered. "I must endure. For the realm. For my son."
His mind turned again to Stannis. They had never been close — both rigid men, both bound by principle. But Jon saw in him a man who could restore order. Sending Robert Arryn to Dragonstone was not sentiment; it was strategy. Few great lords could be trusted now.
Once the scandal of the queen's children was revealed, Lord Tywin Lannister would surely turn against the crown. The North was too far and too cold, and Robin's health would fail there — besides, Lysa loathed her sister. Renly? Jon trusted that ambitious boy even less.
"The kingdom must return to its rightful path," Jon thought. "The king's marriage is invalid, his heirs illegitimate. Stannis, by law and blood, is the true successor."
He paused, exhaling slowly. "Stannis may be stern and unloved, but he is just. When Robert remarries and begets a new heir, Stannis will stand second in line. That is how it must be."
In a way, Jon and Stannis were cut from the same stone — inflexible, principled, and burdened by duty.
But duty weighed heavy tonight. "What happens when the throne stands heirless?" Jon wondered. "What will those ambitious men do? The bastards and the dragon princess across the sea, the sly Renly, Lord Tywin lurking in Casterly Rock…"
All these players were dangerous, but the greater threat lay within — the scandal, the queen, and the succession itself.
"I must endure," Jon told himself again. "Only by staying alive can I navigate this storm. Not only for Robert, but for my son."
He closed the great tome on his desk, its dust rising like smoke. "Lysa will understand," he whispered to the empty room. "Once she knows my intentions… she will understand."
Outside, the mountain wind howled like an eagle's cry, echoing through the halls of the Eyrie — proud, lonely, and high as glory.
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