The Seed is Strong

A sweltering afternoon.

In the Hand of the King's bedchamber, seven septons held the Seven-Pointed Star as they prayed to the Seven for the beloved Hand, Jon Arryn.

The Faith of the Seven, born in the Mountains of the Moon, had long become the dominant faith of Westeros.

The Seven were one god with seven aspects: the Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger, guiding mankind through the proper course of life.

"O just Father, one who has done good all his life should not be made to suffer such torment."

"Merciful Mother, bless the people with peace, free from calamity and illness."

"O Warrior, grant him the courage and strength to overcome this sickness."

"..."

"Wise Crone, please guide us to a cure for this affliction."

"Stranger, come back later. Not today, not today..."

Yet Jon Arryn could not hear them.

Tormented by illness, he had already fallen into a deep dream.

Sometimes, he seemed to become that child in the Eyrie again, running and leaping joyfully through the castle while servants chased after him.

Sometimes, he abruptly became a composed young man, studying knowledge and swordsmanship, meeting nobles, merchants, and knights.

He married and watched his wife pass away. He named one heir after another, then watched them meet with misfortune.

He took in two wards. Robert's lively, hearty laughter echoed through the Eyrie every day, and even the silent, solemn Eddard seemed to gain some spirit from it.

Robert and Eddard gradually grew up.

He received the Mad King's stern command, but how could he bear to push his own wards into the hell of death?

High as Honor. He followed the honor in his heart.

The War of the Usurper began.

The rebel forces were formidable. The four Liege Lords of the Vale, Stormlands, Riverlands, and The North raised their banners in rebellion together.

Yet many among their vassals remained loyalists or neutrals. Those men had to be dealt with first.

Robert and Eddard both performed admirably, winning battle after battle.

They captured Gulltown, fought the Battle of Summerhall, and destroyed or subdued the disobedient forces under their command.

At the Battle of the Bells, they shattered the royal army, and the rebels' prestige soared.

On the banks of the Trident River, one crushing blow from Robert's warhammer smashed the three-headed ruby dragon upon Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's breast into countless fragments, tolling the death knell of the Targaryen Dynasty.

What stirring days those had been.

Afterward, Robert became king, grew fatter and fatter, and spent every day indulging himself. He, Jon, became the one who sat the Iron Throne most often instead.

Then, he had his only son with his wife, Lysa.

My son, Robert, my little Robin, grow up quickly. Grow strong quickly.

Robert...

Pycelle heard the Hand's voice again.

It was not some meaningless, indistinct moan, but a repeated call.

Robert, Robert, Robert...

The king finally rushed over. "Pycelle, how is the old man? How did this suddenly..."

King Robert was both shocked and grief-stricken. Other than what had happened to Lyanna, this was nearly the worst thing he could imagine.

The Grand Maester rose respectfully, his expression mournful.

"His Majesty the King, I have done all I could. But at Lord Arryn's age, having borne the burden of the realm for so long, his body and mind were utterly exhausted. A sudden illness was truly difficult to avoid."

The king looked ready to devour someone.

Pycelle trembled all over, swallowing his fear as he stammered, "There... there are no signs of improvement. Perhaps Lord Arryn could be given some Milk of the Poppy. At the very least, it would ease his pain."

Milk of the Poppy, used to numb pain and induce sleep, was hardly a proper cure.

The king's fury erupted at once. His huge right fist shot toward Pycelle's face. "What kind of horseshit is that? Pycelle, get out! Get out! My fists don't know useless trash like you!"

Pycelle hurriedly slipped out.

The room fell quiet. King Robert looked around, then finally slumped down beside the bed in defeat.

For a long while, he held his foster father's hand and spoke of the happy days they had shared. Yet the Hand's spirits never lifted. He only cried out "Robert" from time to time.

Lady Lysa still refused to let little Robin come near.

No one knew how much time passed.

The king finally gave up hope in grief. "Bring Pycelle here."

After drinking the Milk of the Poppy, Jon Arryn became lucid for a few breaths, as though making a final return to life. Seeing his foster son Robert and Lady Lysa, he opened his mouth.

In that instant, countless thoughts and images flashed through his mind.

But in the end, Jon only said, "The Seed is Strong," before murmuring as he closed his eyes and returned to his dream.

After that, he calmed down and spoke no more.

Within the shadows.

Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, waited for the final news.

Lord Jon, you were far too hasty. How could you give anyone no time to prepare?

Though he had planned this murder himself, he considered it an act of necessity, far from perfect.

The Lannister secret was not unknown.

The reason it had remained hidden for so many years was merely that those who knew considered the risk too great or the benefits too small to give them any motive to act.

Before Lord Stannis and Hand Jon "independently" discovered the truth and decided to send Lysa back to the Eyrie, Littlefinger had in fact been one of those keeping the secret.

Damn Varys. Cunning Renly.

He could have created far more perfect chaos, yet now he had been forced to act ahead of schedule.

There was no helping it. Lysa was simply the perfect piece, and Petyr had other important plans for her. How could he allow her to return to the Vale just like that?

Even so, he was confident he could still turn lion, wolf, stag, and falcon against one another.

The so-called Five Kingdoms Alliance would collapse overnight.

War would be unavoidable. The Riverlands would surely bleed without end, while The Reach and Dorne would not stand idle either.

Wonderful chaos was about to arrive.

The days of the tourney had been the best opportunity.

Hand Jon had already come close to the final evidence. He had only needed to obtain that book before having Lysa act. Old Jon, weakened by illness, would then reveal the truth to his foster son the king before he died.

By then, old Lion Tywin's great host would be in King's Landing, and a bloody battle would be inevitable.

Yet unforeseen factors arose one after another.

The Imp actually egged Joffrey on about wanting dragon eggs. The Queen's influence had not yet faded, forcing Petyr to spend an entire day making arrangements.

Then there was Jon Arryn. He had thought the operation would proceed even faster, but the old man had only found the book last night.

The final and most fatal point was that Lord Tywin had actually set out to return on the third day after the tourney—yesterday morning—and Cersei, her three children, and even the Kingslayer had gone with him!

Stupid Cersei! Arrogant Tywin!

With the Lannisters gone from King's Landing, the chaos caused by the Death of the Hand would be greatly reduced.

The power of stag, falcon, fish, and wolf, linked by King Robert, was not something the Lion family alone could rival. When that happened, the cold and rational Lord Tywin would not care about saving face. Though the Westlands would pay a price, the war would end swiftly.

That was not Petyr Baelish's goal.

But he did not lose heart.

He had endured for so many years. He had more than enough patience to wait for the next opportunity.

The Lion's withdrawal from King's Landing was not the best outcome, but at least the Five Kingdoms Alliance no longer existed. The conflicts and divisions between the Seven Kingdoms would only grow deeper.

The next opportunity was not far away.

He rubbed the mockingbird sigil on his chest and smiled mysteriously.

Without the destruction of several great lordly houses, how could House Baelish be reborn?

Petyr's ambitions were vast: an earldom, a lordship, the Iron Throne. To attain supreme power, there had to be chaos great enough to overturn the Seven Kingdoms and shatter these rigid, stale Shackles of order.

Only then could he, a descendant of a fallen minor noble house, climb higher and higher, until he stood above tens of millions.

When Aegon forged the Iron Throne, it was not bloodline or claim that won it for him!

At that moment, an inconspicuous servant approached and whispered a few words into his ear.

A look of unprecedented shock appeared on Petyr's face.

How could this be!?

Jon Arryn!

Littlefinger had never hated the old man as much as he did now. He had considered every possible unforeseen factor, except that something could go wrong here.

The Seed is Strong! That was your dying message?

That was all you said?!

Who could have imagined that before his death, the Hand would not accuse the Lannister siblings, but instead take the secret to his grave!

He felt like a complete fool.

After plotting so much, this was all he got in the end.

The Hand was dead, the Lannisters were unharmed, the king knew nothing. What would happen next?

Petyr had absolutely no mood to think about it.

The Seed is Strong!

Jon Arryn, you stubborn old fool! May you rot in the Seven Hells!