Year 297 AC – King's Landing – The Hand's Tower
Jon Arryn sat behind the massive oak desk in his study, surrounded by stacks of scrolls and maps. The room smelled of old parchment, ink, and aged wood.
A small fire crackled in the hearth, but it couldn't push back the deep chill that had settled into the stones. It was well past midnight. The only sound in the tower corridors was the steady tread of patrolling guards.
At sixty-eight, Jon looked far older than he had just a year ago. His hair was almost pure white, heavy shadows ringed his pale blue eyes, and the hand holding his quill trembled slightly.
A report on a border trade dispute with Dorne lay open in front of him, but he had been staring at the same page for over half an hour without really seeing it.
Ever since the trip to Dragonstone, a heavy dread had clung to him like a shadow, gnawing at his mind day and night.
Stannis's icy stare… the dark-skinned baby… Dorne's sudden marriage proposal… All the pieces kept spinning in his head, forming a picture that left him cold to the bone.
He rubbed his temples and let out a tired sigh. At that moment, the study door opened softly.
Lysa Arryn—Jon's much younger wife, nearly thirty years his junior—stepped in carrying a silver tray.
She wore a pale-blue silk gown, her golden hair catching the candlelight with a soft glow. A gentle smile curved her lips.
But if you looked closely, the smile never reached her eyes. There was something hollow and distant in her gaze.
"Darling, you really should rest," she said softly, setting the tray on the corner of the desk. "I brought you something to eat."
Jon looked up. On the tray sat a cup of deep-red wine and a few simple items. One of them caught his eye immediately.
It was two triangles of bread with crispy golden crusts, stuffed with fried bacon, some dark-green leafy vegetable, and melted cheese. The edges were slightly charred—just the way the new fashion demanded.
"Is this… the 'sandwich' they're selling at the Dragonpit Trade Center?" Jon asked, frowning slightly.
Lysa's smile warmed a fraction. "Yes, my lord. Everyone in King's Landing is copying it now. From noble feasts in the Red Keep to street vendors in Flea Bottom. We don't have Lord Pierce Celtigar's special mayonnaise or tomato sauce, but people have come up with their own versions."
She picked up one triangle and offered it to him. "I tried mixing honey and a little lemon juice for the sauce, then added some crushed nuts. Will you try it?"
Jon took the sandwich and studied it. In the past year, Pierce Celtigar's influence on King's Landing had grown like wildfire.
The young lord of Crackclaw Point hadn't just flooded Westeros with Eastern luxuries through his Golden Fleece shops and the Dragonpit Trade Center—he had introduced entirely new ways of living.
"Hamburgers," "sandwiches," "afternoon tea parties"… these strange foreign ideas were quietly changing how the nobility ate and socialized.
He took a bite. The bread was crisp outside and soft inside. The salty bacon, fresh greens, gooey cheese, and sweet-tangy honey-lemon sauce blended perfectly.
"Delicious," Jon said honestly. Some of the exhaustion in his chest eased. "When did you learn to make these?"
Lysa sat across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap. "At Lady Bessie's tea gathering last week. The ladies don't just gossip and embroider anymore—they trade recipes trying to match the Dragonpit style."
She paused, lowering her voice. "A lot of people still call Pierce Celtigar an upstart, but… the things he's brought really have made life more interesting."
Jon took another bite, chewing slowly. His thoughts drifted to the golden-haired, violet-eyed young man.
Pierce Celtigar… The boy was too complicated, too hard to read. His achievements on Dragonstone were astonishing. The miracles he had worked on Crackclaw Point felt almost supernatural. Yet there was always something in his eyes—an ancient calm, like he had already seen every rule of the game and decided how it would end.
What worried Jon most was how many powerful people Pierce seemed connected to. Princess Arianne Martell had been staying at Golden Port for months. Tyrion Lannister was a drinking companion. Even Queen Cersei treated him with unusual respect.
And according to Varys's carefully vague reports, Pierce's commercial network across Essos was frighteningly vast.
"My lord," Lysa's voice pulled him back. "Are you still worrying about Robin?"
Jon's hand froze. Robin—his and Lysa's only son, the single thread of his own blood.
The boy had been sickly since birth, plagued by terrible fits that left him shaking and foaming at the mouth. The Citadel maesters had tried everything with little success.
A year earlier, after Pierce's physicians cured Shireen Baratheon's greyscale scars, Jon had made a painful decision: he sent Robin to Dragonstone to be fostered by Stannis, hoping the same miracle workers could help his son.
The choice had sparked a fierce argument between husband and wife. Lysa had screamed that Jon didn't love their boy, that he was sending him to that "cold, sulfur-stinking rock."
It had taken Jon three full days to calm her, promising it was only temporary—once Robin grew stronger, he would bring him home.
"Robin is doing well on Dragonstone," Jon said gently but firmly, setting the sandwich down. "Maester Cressen's latest letter says his fits have halved. Stannis is stern, but he won't mistreat the boy. And Shireen… well, you know her face is completely healed now. Pierce's physicians really do have real skill."
Lysa lowered her head, fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. Candlelight cast shifting shadows across her face, hiding her expression.
"I know you only want what's best for him," she whispered, voice thick. "It's just… I miss him so much. Every time I think of him so far away, all alone…"
Jon stood, walked around the desk, and pulled his wife into his arms. He could feel her trembling.
This young wife could be willful and emotional, but her love for their son was genuine.
"I understand," Jon murmured, stroking her golden hair. "Once winter passes, once we settle the Riverlands grain issues, once the Dorne marriage talks bear fruit… I'll sail to Dragonstone myself and bring him home. I swear it."
Lysa nodded against his chest but said nothing. Her face was hidden, so Jon never saw the storm in her eyes—rage, pain, hesitation, and a sickening resolve all tangled together.
After a long moment she gently pushed him away, wiping at eyes that held no tears. "Finish your food, my love. Drink the wine while it's still warm. I heated it specially—it helps you sleep."
Jon returned to his chair. He ate the rest of the sandwich, then picked up the cup of deep-red wine.
The liquid glowed like a ruby in the candlelight, rich with the scent of dark fruit and aged oak. A gift from House Tyrell—one of the better Reach vintages.
He took a sip. Warmth spread down his throat.
But almost instantly something felt wrong. The wine tasted more bitter than usual, and a faint burning lingered on his tongue.
Jon frowned. "This wine… has it gone off? It tastes a little strange."
Lysa stood across the desk, watching him. In that moment the gentle mask she always wore cracked away, replaced by a cold, terrifying calm.
"Does it?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I added something extra."
Jon's heart lurched. He set the cup down and tried to stand, but his legs had turned to water.
Numbness started in his mouth and raced across his face, down his neck, and through his chest.
"Lysa… you…" His words slurred. His tongue felt thick and foreign.
Lysa stepped closer. The candlelight now fully illuminated her face—the same face that had always looked sweet and dutiful. Now it was utterly emotionless.
"Tears of Lys," she said quietly, as if stating the weather. "Very expensive poison. Colorless, almost tasteless in wine. Of course, when you warm it… there's a faint bitterness. But you were so tired you didn't even notice."
Jon tried to shout. Only a hoarse rasp escaped. His body began to jerk. His fingers clawed at the desk, knuckles white. His vision blurred. Lysa's figure split into several swaying shadows.
"Why…" he forced out with the last of his strength.
Lysa smiled then—a twisted, venomous smile that had nothing to do with the gentle wife he had known.
"Why?" she repeated, voice rising sharply. "You ask me why? Jon Arryn, you old fool! You've lived sixty-eight years, ruled the Seven Kingdoms for more than a decade, and you still don't understand the simplest truth: some things are better left alone!"
She leaned across the desk, staring down at her convulsing husband. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think your secret little investigations could stay hidden forever? You were looking into Robert's children! You were looking into Cersei and Jaime! You were digging into the one truth that could shatter the Iron Throne!"
Jon's eyes widened. He wanted to deny it, to explain, but the poison had already reached his nerves. He couldn't even shake his head.
"You could have lived out your days in peace," Lysa's voice trembled with fury. "Kept your title as Hand, enjoyed your honors and power, died quietly in bed. But no—you had to meddle! You had to poke at secrets that should never see daylight! Do you have any idea what would happen if the truth came out? Heads would roll across King's Landing! The entire realm would drown in blood again!"
Her face twisted with rage, pain, and something close to madness. "And I—I would lose everything! Robin would lose everything! Do you think Stannis would show us mercy if he became king? That cold-hearted stone man? He would cast us aside like garbage—just like he did with Selyse and her bastard!"
Jon's convulsions grew violent. He slid from the chair and crashed to the cold stone floor. He lay on his back, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, pupils dilating, throat making wet, choking sounds.
Lysa knelt beside him, gazing at the man who had been her husband and protector.
For a fleeting second, a flicker of regret crossed her eyes. Jon had never been cruel. He had given her status and safety. He had tolerated her moods and never raised a hand to her—even after learning her heart belonged to another.
But the regret vanished, swallowed by something far stronger.
She thought of her father, Hoster Tully, who had forced her to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather.
She thought of Petyr Baelish—the boy she had truly loved, the clever, gentle man who had promised her real happiness.
"Father told me I should be grateful when he married me to you," Lysa whispered, voice thick with years of resentment. "He said you would give me position and security. He never once asked what I wanted. I wanted love! I wanted Petyr—the man who truly understood me, who cherished me!"
Her voice rose, all the bitterness she had buried for years exploding at last. "In Riverrun everyone called me Hoster Tully's precious daughter. They said I would have a bright future. Instead I was sold like a political pawn to an old man on the edge of the grave! Every day I had to look at your wrinkled face, your exhausted eyes, your endless piles of paperwork!"
Jon's spasms were weakening. Life was leaving him, but he could still hear every word. Each one cut like a knife into his fading mind.
"Do you know what's truly funny?" Lysa's expression suddenly turned dreamy and sweet, lost in fantasy. "Petyr has always loved me. Since we were children in Riverrun, he has loved me. He promised that when the time was right, he would take me away and give me the life I deserve."
She reached out and gently stroked Jon's now-cold cheek, the gesture almost tender—except for the cruelty in her eyes. "So I'm sorry, Jon. You have to die. Your death will create chaos… and chaos is Petyr's ladder. He will become the new Hand—or something even higher. And I will stand at his side as his true wife."
A dreamy smile bloomed on her face. "We will be happy. Petyr promised me. We will have a real home, healthy children, a life without fear. And you… you will be nothing more than a name in some maester's book—a loyal servant who worked himself to death."
She stood, smoothed her skirts, and slipped the gentle-wife mask back into place. Then she walked to the door, took a deep breath, and let worry flood her features.
"My lord? Are you all right?" she called into the corridor, voice perfectly pitched with panic. "Guards! Someone help! The Hand has collapsed!"
Footsteps rushed down the hall. Lysa took one last look at Jon Arryn—motionless on the floor, eyes wide and empty.
The tiniest smile touched the corner of her mouth.
Then she began to sob—great, wrenching cries that would break anyone's heart for the young wife who had just lost her husband so suddenly.
Inside her mind, a single soft voice whispered: Petyr… I did it. For our future… I did it.
The night in the Hand's Tower shattered with sudden screams and chaos.
But no one yet knew that this death would strike the Seven Kingdoms like a stone dropped into still water—sending ripples that would soon become a tidal wave.