"Lord Jon teeters on the brink of death!" Gendry declared, his gaze fixed on the sprawling map unfurled across the desk.
Qyburn's features contorted briefly, and he extended his palms in a gesture of resignation. "For a veteran who toiled endlessly to knit the realm's fraying threads, Old Jon savored a remarkably enduring span!"
"Lord Jon's passing stems from far more than mere years!" Gendry intoned cryptically, withholding the sharper edges of his insight. Lord Jon had fallen prey to that treacherous duo, Lady Lysa and Littlefinger, their shadows eroding him from within.
"Tumult in Westeros looms on the horizon!" Qyburn affirmed with unshakeable resolve. "Through endless seasons, King Robert drowned in revels and ale, Queen Cersei swelled with haughty ambition. Solely Old Jon braced the storm's fury! With the Hand's fall, the King plunges into disarray, craving a steward for his indulgences—feasts, brews, and fleeting joys. Our distant stirrings fade from his fretful mind!"
Truth be told, Gendry harbored no grudge against Lord Jon. Yet as the Baratheon Dynasty's chief architect, Jon Arryn sidestepped its foundational fractures, merely delaying the inevitable cracks.
Fate offered scant mercy; the fledgling house lacked iron roots, its sovereign a sot and philanderer. The Lannister consort seethed with spite and overreach, her tendrils coiling through King's Landing. The King's siblings inspired scant faith.
"I wager King Robert's sole anchor now rests with Lord Eddard!" The Handsome Man asserted with firm conviction.
"The Wolf Pack dwells beyond the Narrow Sea. Did you track Westeros's tangled politics from afar?" Qyburn queried The Handsome Man.
"The Narrow Sea spans scant miles, and the North pulses as the Wolf Pack's ancestral hearth. We've gleaned fragments of House Stark's fortunes, pieced from drifting reports.
Yet we've crossed those waters to forge our path. Though Northmen's vigor courses in our veins, the Wolf Pack bows to no Stark banner! In the Usurper's War, as Northern blades surged south for vengeance, the Wolf Pack's then-commander held our ranks from the fray."
"Spot on—press forward!" Gendry urged The Handsome Man onward.
"The Usurper's War hinged on stag, eagle, fish, and wolf. Lord Eddard and King Robert bloomed as Lord Jon's fostered charges. Lord Hoster bound his daughters to Lord Jon and Lord Eddard in strategic knots. Later, Lord Jon forged the King's union with the Lannister lioness.
Now Lord Jon fades, Lord Hoster battles lingering ailments. Viable Hands dwindle; Lord Tywin tempts, yet King Robert shuns yielding King's Landing wholly to Lannister claws! Strict Stannis endures, but alas, the King mistrusts his kin."
"Lord Jon's demise thrusts the direwolf into the fray!" Gendry sensed destiny's wheels grinding, the grand contest igniting anew.
"Let Westeros tangle in its own knots! Absent our prodding, those splintered bands might rally against us once more!"
"Lord Jon's end gifts us a vital breach!" The Handsome Man countered, hastening to clarify lest misunderstanding bloom. "Not to clash blades with the Iron Throne, but to seize Tyrosh!"
"A prime moment indeed. Tyrosh leans on Lys's sails, Volantis's legions, and the Iron Throne's distant nod." The Wolf Pack's armada spanned Stepstones to Myr's harbors. Tyrosh, that vast isle amid the chains, demanded conquest.
"Tyrosh yields our escaped Myr vessels and their rogue governors—or war's horns blare eternal!"
"King's Landing reels from the Hand's shadow, yet will Pentos, Lys, and Volantis plunge deeper? Braavos's iron fist looms largest!"
"Braavos scorns the slaver's yoke, Lys and Volantis dawdle in councils, Pentos hoards coin sans souls! The breach gleams fleeting!"
Fleets from across the Narrow Sea lagged; Gendry braced for the backlash of Tyrosh's grasp.
"We parley with every envoy, weaving delays to our weave!"
...The Red Keep, Throne Room. Jon Arryn's bier rested solemnly. The departed neared eighty winters, perhaps the eldest Hand to ever serve.
Four Kingsguard in pristine white flanked the scene, a tribute the elder could no longer claim.
Jon's eyes gleamed blue, his tresses golden, nose sharp as a hawk's—yet gaps marred his smile; half his teeth had fled before Lysa Tully's vows.
This pillar of the Baratheon founding, his eclipse struck a grievous wound to the King and the realm's fragile weave.
In his final throes, Lord Jon gasped "Robert" ceaselessly, entrusting Lady Lysa Tully and King Robert with his parting riddle: "The seed is strong." His speech soon tangled, and dawn claimed him.
"My steadfast foster father, how I ache for your revival! We'd share tales over flagons; perchance I squandered our hours!" King Robert mourned, eyes on his mentor's shell.
"Robert! Robert! Jon's final breath wove words of my Robin, Your Majesty!" Lady Lysa interjected, her voice fracturing into frenzy. "He'll thrive robust, claiming the Eyrie as his throne!"
"My Lady! Your cherished Robin heirs the Eyrie, yet envision him fostered in the Westerlands under Lord Tywin's wing!" Robert proposed. "Lord Tywin claims no wards yet; such favor graces few."
"Sweet Robin clings to me alone! None shall sever us!" Lysa wailed, her clamor shattering the solemn air. "King's Landing crawls with villains; they snuffed my Jon."
"Deranged soul! Jon withered under her ceaseless gale!" King Robert seethed inwardly.
"The true dragon echoes beyond the Narrow Sea, the Hand's successor! Oh, return and guide your beleaguered foster son!" King Robert implored the silent form, turmoil churning.
"Your Majesty, though Lord Jon's loss cuts deep, paramount looms the Hand's mantle!" Varys cooed, his tone smooth as spiced wine.
"True enough—choice weighs heaviest!" King Robert conceded. He shunned Small Council drudgery, leaning on Jon's steady helm for overlong. The decision demanded his crown.
Yet a Hand blending clout and unwavering bond proved elusive. Stannis's ties frayed, Hoster ailed. Prince Doran's grudge scorched. Lord Tywin's pride repelled!
"Eddard!" King Robert's mind wandered to Eyrie days, summoning a bedrock ally. Eddard would steer the realm and muster hosts, freeing Robert for unbridled feasts, hunts, and beds.
"Your Majesty!" The golden-tressed woman in crimson swept in—Queen Cersei. Her bond with Lord Jon hovered tepid, rendering her vigil an oddity.
"I grieve the Hand's shadow. Statecraft strains now; you crave a Hand of iron will and proven heart!" Cersei urged. "In prowess and devotion, my father, Lord Tywin, stands unmatched!"
"Silence, woman! I rule as King, my designs my own!" King Robert thundered, fury blazing. "My warhammer crushes all foes!"
"So be it! Your Bastard's tempests and Targaryen ghosts demand your hand alone!"
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