"The seed runs deep and true!" Within the Tower of the Hand, the seasoned Lord of the Eyrie and King's Hand, Jon Arryn, whispered to himself, striding restlessly across his study floor.
A sword, forged by his devoted wife Lysa, graced the wall—a blade he donned whenever he presided over the Iron Throne in King's Landing, standing proxy for King Robert. Silver wire etched its length with sweeping mountain vistas under endless skies. The pommel mimicked a falcon's fierce head, while the crossguard unfurled like outstretched wings.
"As High as Honor!" Lord Jon gazed upon the falcon sword, a pang of sorrow twisting within. As High as Honor. He yearned to soar free as an eagle over mountain gales, unbound from the tangled webs ensnaring him in King's Landing's shadowed halls.
Upon Lord Jon's broad desk rested a weighty volume, borrowed from the venerable Grand Maester Pycelle: "The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms (With Descriptions of Many Lords, Ladies, and Their Children)." This sprawling chronicle proved as arid and laborious as ancient scrolls.
"I believe I've unearthed the core and the unvarnished truth!" Lord Jon reflected intently. Every bastard borne by the King bore locks as dark as midnight skies.
This pattern held firm, from Edric's raven mane to Mya's inky tresses, the fresh babe from a King's Landing courtesan, and even those whispers drifting across the Narrow Sea. Then loomed the Queen's demeanor: Queen Cersei swelled with arrogance year upon year. Her temperament mirrored her father's unyielding ruthlessness. She possessed the boldness to betray her vows. Lord Jon had once chalked up the silencing of those bastards to her volatile spirit; now suspicion deepened—perhaps a bid to bury damning traces.
Echoes from the past corroborated the thread; no matter how far Lord Jon delved through the frail, jaundiced leaves, golden hues always bowed to ebony strands. Grand Maester Munkun chronicled the final mingling of stag and lion ninety years prior: Tya Lannister wed Gerold Hightower—no, wait, Gerold Baratheon, the third scion of his line. Their lone offspring, an unnamed infant son, perished in cradle, noted in Munkun's annals as: "Robust, voracious in feed, crowned with a thick shock of black hair." Three decades earlier, a Lannister lord claimed a Baratheon bride. She gifted him three daughters and a son, each head topped with midnight black.
"Poor Robert!" Jon embraced Stannis's gnawing doubt: Queen Cersei Lannister's heirs flowed not with Baratheon vitality but sprang from the illicit fire between the Kingslayer and his queen. "The cunning lion pilfered the sun's own rays and gilded his mane. House Lannister endures as kin to deceivers and pilferers."
"I must steer the realm toward stability and untangle this knot! Yet I cannot act with blunt force; ending the children would tarnish my legacy, and provoke House Lannister's wrath! I need a path both just and subtle—to dispatch the Kingslayer north beyond the Wall, address those heirs with care, and safeguard this fledgling dynasty's fragile bloom!"
In the budding Baratheon era, Lord Jon had orchestrated the grand architecture. "That venomous Lannister bride, and her incestuous blade!" Without dragons to anchor it, the house stood on shaky sands, demanding a architect like Lord Jon. From sealing ties with House Lannister through Westerlands unions, to mending fences with House Martell for fragile accord, each thread wove his intricate design.
Yet what Lord Jon never foresaw was his masterful alliance with House Lannister now unraveling as the very source of turmoil! Back then, it had balanced the Westerlands' might to fortify the newborn reign.
As Lord Jon sank deeper into his brooding reflections, his wife, Lysa Tully, swept into the study. Lysa inherited House Tully's vivid blue eyes, pursed lips that spoke of stern resolve, and a cascade of soft, auburn waves tumbling to her waist.
Years had etched their mark; in her bloom, Lysa had been a vision of fragile beauty—slender, ample-figured, with a shy grace that captivated. Wed to Jon Arryn, she weathered a string of heartbreaking losses—miscarriages that shattered her spirit—and at last bore their son Robert, though her form thickened in the wake. Two years Catelyn's junior, Lysa appeared a decade her senior; her frame swelled soft and heavy, pale skin caked thick with powder.
"Did you summon me, my lord?" Lysa inquired upon entering, her voice tentative yet edged.
"Nothing urgent, yet our dear Robin nears an age of growth. A touch more seasoned, young heirs often serve as pages, fostered wards, or cupbearers in noble halls! I plan to place him under Lord Stannis's wing on Dragonstone!" Lord Jon regarded his wife, striving to soften his lined face with warmth.
Lord Jon outaged even her father, Lord Hoster; absent passion, their union of elder groom and youthful bride still carried threads of indulgence. Lady Lysa's sway proved potent, from elevating Littlefinger to shielding the Blackfish in his choices.
"You scheme to wrench Sweet Robin from my arms? Never! Perils lurk in every shadow!" Lysa cried out, her voice fracturing into hysteria. Lysa had endured five miscarriages—two at the Eyrie, three in King's Landing—followed by twin stillbirths, before heaven granted their son, Robert Arryn. The final loss had twisted her into suspicion's grip, convinced foes haunted every corner.
"My cherished wife, steady your heart! Sweet Robin counts six summers now. He stands as the Eyrie's rightful heir, no longer a babe at your breast! Every step I take shields the Vale and our boy!" Lord Jon urged, locking eyes with her, his plea earnest.
"I always knew this day loomed. You wed me not for love, but to claim my father's levies! Father's words still sting—he bade me count blessings that a storied lord would take a bride no longer pure! I despise him, and you most of all!"
"Those shadows from our past—why dredge them now?" Lord Jon's weathered face crumpled in quiet defeat. Lysa's premarital entanglements and their vast age gulf had stripped their bond of affection from the start.
"Cease this, my lady! I merely sought your thoughts!" Lord Jon soothed gently, then guided Lady Lysa—still seething with grudges and whispered barbs—toward the door, easing her from the chamber.
Solitude now cloaked the space, embracing the enduring yet weary Lord Jon alone.
In that hush, Lord Jon ached for his lost brides. How vibrant life would gleam if they breathed still, cradling the robust sons he'd cherished. Some fell to war's cruel scythe, others to the Mad King's flame.
"For that frigid, spiked Iron Throne! I steel myself onward, and for now, my anchor lies with Stannis!" Lord Jon had long clashed with Stannis's rigid ways. Entrusting Robert Arryn to him now sprang from profound deliberation. Among the realm's titans, trustworthy pillars stood scarce.
Once scandal erupted, Lord Tywin would rage against King's Landing. Winterfell's chill spurned the frail, and Robin's frailty begged warmer climes; Lysa's rift with Catelyn barred the North besides. Renly? Lord Jon mistrusted the youth's glib charm utterly!
"The realm craves rightful order! With the King's union void, bereft of trueborn issue from the bed, succession crowns Stannis by ancient writ!" Lord Jon pondered. "Stannis grates—stern, unyielding, unloved by many. Yet annulling his brother's vows elevates him as prime claimant. Only fresh heirs from Robert would shift the line!"
In essence, Jon and Stannis mirrored one another—bound to unswerving justice.
"Robert's succession hangs vacant—how will the hungry maneuver?" Lord Jon fretted anew. "Bastards and the dragon heir beyond the sea, sly Renly with his silver quips, Lord Tywin coiled in Casterly Rock." Yet these paled as afterthoughts; first demanded unraveling the heirloom crisis and unseating the Queen.
"I endure!" Lord Jon resolved. "Vitality alone equips me for this tempest! Not solely for Robert, but for my boy's sake!"
"Lysa will grasp my burdens once I unfold them true!" Lord Jon reassured his weary soul.