Seed is Strong

A sweltering afternoon.

Inside the Hand's bedchamber, seven septons held copies of the Seven-Pointed Star and prayed to the Seven Gods for their beloved Hand, Jon.

The Seven Gods, originating in the Mountains of the Moon, had long since become the mainstream faith of Westeros.

The Seven Gods were one entity with seven faces: Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone, and Stranger, guiding people to live out their lives correctly.

"Righteous Father, a man who has done good all his life should not have to suffer such hardship."

"Merciful Mother, bless the people with peace, free from disaster and disease."

"Warrior, grant him the courage and strength to overcome his illness."

"..."

"Wise Crone, please guide us to a way to save him from his affliction."

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

Jon Arryn could not hear any of this.

Ravaged by illness, he had already sunk into a deep delirium.

At times, he seemed to return to the child he had been at the Eyrie, running and leaping joyfully through the castle while a host of servants chased after him.

At times, he suddenly grew into a composed young man, studying knowledge and swordsmanship while befriending nobles, merchants, and knights.

He married and watched his wife die. He named one heir after another and watched them meet with accidents.

He gained two foster sons. Robert's lively, hearty laughter rang through the entire Eyrie every day, and even the quiet, solemn Eddard gained some vitality from it.

Robert and Eddard gradually grew up.

He received the Mad King's strict command, but how could he bear to push his own foster sons into a hell of death?

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

The War of the Usurper began.

The rebel army was far from weak. Four liege lords—the Vale, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the North—raised their banners in rebellion together.

Yet many of the lords under their command still supported the king or remained neutral. Those people had to be dealt with first.

Robert and Eddard both performed brilliantly, winning victory after victory.

They captured Gulltown, fought the Battle of Summerhall, and destroyed or subdued the forces under them that refused to submit.

The Battle of the Bells shattered the royal army, and the rebels' reputation soared.

On the banks of the Trident River, one mighty blow from Robert's warhammer shattered the three-headed dragon ruby on Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's chest into countless pieces. The death knell of the Targaryen Dynasty rang with it.

What an exhilarating time it had been.

Afterward, Robert became king. He grew fatter and spent his days reveling, yet somehow ended up being the man who sat on the Iron Throne most often.

Then he received a single son from 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 a meaningless, indistinct moan, but a repeated call.

Robert, Robert, Robert...

The king finally hurried 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 the worst thing he could have imagined.

The Grand Maester respectfully rose, his expression compassionate.

"Your Majesty the King, I have done everything I can. However, given Lord Arryn's age and the fact that he has borne the burdens of the realm for so long, his body and mind are exhausted. A sudden illness was difficult to avoid."

The king's expression looked ready to devour someone.

Pycelle trembled all over. Fighting down his fear, he stammered, "His condition shows no sign of improvement. Perhaps we could give Lord Arryn some Milk of the Poppy. At least it would ease his suffering."

Milk of the Poppy, used to dull pain and induce sleep, could hardly be called a good treatment.

The king's fury exploded in an instant. His enormous right fist shot straight toward Pycelle's face. "What kind of bullshit is that! Pycelle, get out! Get out! My fist doesn't know you, you useless old fool!"

Pycelle hurriedly slipped away.

The room fell silent. King Robert looked around, then finally sat dejectedly beside the bed.

For a long while, he held his foster father's hand and spoke of the happy times they had shared. But the Hand's spirits still did not rise. He merely cried out "Robert" loudly from time to time.

Lady Lysa still refused to let little Robert come near.

No one knew how much time passed.

The king also sorrowfully gave up hope. "Bring Pycelle here."

After drinking the Milk of the Poppy, Jon Arryn awoke for a few breaths as though in a final burst of life. Seeing his foster son Robert and Lady Lysa, he opened and closed his mouth.

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

But in the end, Jon said only, "Seed is Strong," then murmured and closed his eyes, sinking back into his delirium.

After that, he calmed down and said no more.

In the shadows.

Master of Coin Petyr Baelish was waiting for the final news.

Lord Jon, you were too impatient. How could things work without giving people time to prepare?

Although he had planned this murder from beginning to end, he considered it an unavoidable move, far from perfect.

The Lannister secret was not unknown to everyone.

The reason it had remained hidden for so many years was merely that those who knew about it had lacked the motive, deeming the risks too great or the benefits too small.

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

Damn Varys. Cunning Renly.

He could have created much more perfect chaos, but now he had no choice but to act ahead of schedule.

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

Even so, he was confident he could still turn Lion, Wolf, Stag, and Eagle against one another.

The so-called Five Kingdoms Alliance would collapse in a single day.

A great war was unavoidable. The Riverlands would inevitably bleed without end, and neither the Reach nor Dorne would remain uninvolved.

Wonderful chaos was about to arrive.

The days of the tourney were the best opportunity.

Jon Arryn had already come close to the final evidence. Once he obtained that book, he would have Lysa act, and the ailing Old Jon would tell his foster son, the king, the truth before he died.

By then, the old lion Tywin's army would be in King's Landing, and a bloody battle would be unavoidable.

But unexpected factors kept appearing one after another.

The Imp had actually egged Joffrey on to demand some dragon eggs. The Queen's intimidation had yet to fade, and Petyr had been forced to spend an entire day making arrangements.

Then there was Jon Arryn. He had thought the action would proceed more quickly, but the old man had only found the book last night.

Last and most fatal of all, Lord Tywin had actually set out to return on the morning of the third day after the tourney—yesterday—and Cersei, her three children, and even the Kingslayer had gone with him!

Foolish Cersei! Arrogant Tywin!

Once the Lannisters left, the chaos created by the Death of the Hand would be greatly reduced.

The power of Stag, Eagle, Fish, and Wolf, bound together by King Robert, was not something the Lion alone could match. At that point, cold and rational Lord Tywin would not care about appearances. Though the Westlands would pay a price, the war would end quickly.

That was not Petyr Baelish's objective.

But he had not lost heart.

He had made it through all these years. He had enough patience to wait for the next opportunity.

The Lion's withdrawal from King's Landing was not the best outcome, but at least without the Five Kingdoms Alliance, the conflicts and divisions among the Seven Kingdoms would grow ever wider.

The next opportunity was not far away.

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

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

Petyr's ambitions were vast: count, duke, Iron Throne. To obtain the highest power, there had to be enough chaos to overturn the Seven Kingdoms and shatter the shackles of their rigid, antiquated order.

Only then could the bloodline of this fallen minor noble climb higher, rising above tens of millions of people.

When Aegon forged the Iron Throne, he had relied on neither bloodline nor a claim!

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

Petyr's face revealed an astonishment he had never shown before.

How could this be!?

Jon Arryn!

Littlefinger had never hated the old man as much as he did now. He had considered every possible unexpected factor, but he had never imagined that something would go wrong here.

Seed is Strong! Was that your last message?

That was all you said?!

Who could have imagined that the Hand, before dying, would not expose the Lannister siblings, but instead take the secret into his grave!

He practically felt like a clown.

After plotting so much, he had ended up with nothing but this result.

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

Petyr had no mood to think about it now.

Seed is Strong!

Jon Arryn, you stubborn old fool! You deserved to go to the Seven Hells!