m_findlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
m_findlow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fan_flashworks2022-06-20 10:37 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fan_flashworks2022-06-20 10:37 pm
Entry tags:
Game of Thrones: Fanfic: Taken to the grave
Title: Taken to the grave
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Jon Arryn, Maester Pycelle, Petyr Baelish
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,020 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 374 - Seed
Summary: Jon Arryn uncovers a deadly secret.
Jon Arryn knew just how deadly secrets could be. He hadn't been made the Hand of the King simply because he and Robert had been friends for longer than anyone could remember. A king like Robert liked an easy rule, which made his Hand's job that much harder.
Jon could have said he was the power behind the throne, but he wasn't a man who craved power of any kind. What he wanted more than anything was a peaceful rule and prosperity for all the people of the Seven Kingdoms, not just those that occupied the walls outside King's Landing. It was no easy task. Even after Aegon Targaryen had been removed from his rule and his inherent madness, there was still a restlessness between the seven kingdoms as to whether the victors were also fit to rule in his place.
Despite the fact that they'd had years of relatively peaceful rule, there was still something that nagged at Jon Arryn. He couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what it was. Perhaps it was the loud arguments he heard issuing from the King's private chambers as he put his queen in her place, or perhaps it was the even louder screams and hoots of laughter that emanated from the room when his queen was in absentia, replaced by younger and prettier women known to frequent the kinds of establishments that Jon Arryn disapproved of. Especially when those women were found more often in the halls of the Red Keep than they were in the slums of Fleabottom. How many bastards carried the King's blood in their veins?
It was those questions that sent Jon Arryn to the top of the Maester's tower, after a book that had scarcely been touched in a generation or more. The histories of all the important houses were kept here in King's Landing, but only one was of consequence to Jon Arryn - that of House Baratheon. What he uncovered in those dusty and withering pages was more than he could fathom. Every Baratheon of the ages had a single thing in common - hair black as a raven's. Yet all of Robert's children and heirs… golden and fair like their mother. One perhaps might buck the trend of generations of consistency, but three?
He regretted having delved into that mystery now as he lay in his bed in a lather of sweat, so weakened that he couldn't even raise his head. The gods had looked down upon his mistrust and exacted a price, so it would seem. He'd been a strong and healthy man before now, despite his slowly growing age. To feel as he did now was to feel as he hadn't since he was a young boy with scarlet fever. The gods had graced him with good fortune on that occasion but it appeared they would not do so again.
His mind was a jumble of hazy thoughts but one kept returning more oft than any other. It troubled him now as it had done a few days ago. The seed is strong. Robert's seed, that brought life into the world, strong enough to pass down those paternal looks for a dozen generations. His own strength was failing fast and he couldn't understand why. Only one devastating thought entered his mind before the darkness sought to take him - that this was no accident. Someone knew what he knew and didn't want anyone else to find out the terrible secret. Poison was the only explanation for his sudden turn of ill health.
His weakened hand reached out to Maester Pycelle who remained by his bedside to tend to him upon the King's orders. The Maester couldn't know what poison had been slipped in his food or drink, or he'd have found the King's Hand a cure. Someone else had to know the truth.
'I'm here, Lord Arryn,' Maester Pycelle said, taking the hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Jon licked his lips, feeling them growing numb. 'The seed is strong.' If anyone could understand what he meant it would be the Maester. He was the one who'd given Jon the book which contained all the answers to his suspicions. The answer would create generations of war and kill millions. Pycelle had to understand what he meant and why it could not possibly remain a secret.
'It is, my Lord,' Pycelle agreed, but in his heart Jon could tell the man was only giving him the platitudes a dying man deserved; to agree with whatever madness spilled from his lips as milk of the poppy did nothing to ease his suffering.
'The seed is strong,' he repeated, trying to put as much strength into his voice as he could. Once upon a time people had listened to what he had to say when he scarcely but uttered the words. He wasn't loud and brash like Robert. His voice was quiet and calm yet the Small Council would fall silent enough that even a whisper from him was as clear a command as any shouts in anger.
Robert, he thought despairingly. The man had no idea his children were not his own. His dynasty was a lie, and with no heirs of his own, the throne could fall to either of his brothers - the youthful but inexperienced Renly or the dour and unpopular Stannis. Either could tip the country into turmoil. Worse was the sudden thought that it would be Robert's children who would inherit the throne. Lannisters, he realised, and in that last awful moment of his life he knew precisely who knew what he did. There could be only one certainty. A man whose designs for power knew no end. Tywin Lannister.
His head was lifted and a cup of wine brought to his lips before he could utter the words, revealing his poisoner. Another voice floated into his consciousness. 'How is he?' it asked, and the calm quiet tones of Lord Baelish made themselves apparent.
'He is near the end, I fear,' Pycelle replied, no longer giving Jon Arryn the courtesy of lies.
Lord Baelish tutted. 'Such a loss to us all.'
Jon Arryn knew just how deadly secrets could be. He hadn't been made the Hand of the King simply because he and Robert had been friends for longer than anyone could remember. A king like Robert liked an easy rule, which made his Hand's job that much harder.
Jon could have said he was the power behind the throne, but he wasn't a man who craved power of any kind. What he wanted more than anything was a peaceful rule and prosperity for all the people of the Seven Kingdoms, not just those that occupied the walls outside King's Landing. It was no easy task. Even after Aegon Targaryen had been removed from his rule and his inherent madness, there was still a restlessness between the seven kingdoms as to whether the victors were also fit to rule in his place.
Despite the fact that they'd had years of relatively peaceful rule, there was still something that nagged at Jon Arryn. He couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what it was. Perhaps it was the loud arguments he heard issuing from the King's private chambers as he put his queen in her place, or perhaps it was the even louder screams and hoots of laughter that emanated from the room when his queen was in absentia, replaced by younger and prettier women known to frequent the kinds of establishments that Jon Arryn disapproved of. Especially when those women were found more often in the halls of the Red Keep than they were in the slums of Fleabottom. How many bastards carried the King's blood in their veins?
It was those questions that sent Jon Arryn to the top of the Maester's tower, after a book that had scarcely been touched in a generation or more. The histories of all the important houses were kept here in King's Landing, but only one was of consequence to Jon Arryn - that of House Baratheon. What he uncovered in those dusty and withering pages was more than he could fathom. Every Baratheon of the ages had a single thing in common - hair black as a raven's. Yet all of Robert's children and heirs… golden and fair like their mother. One perhaps might buck the trend of generations of consistency, but three?
He regretted having delved into that mystery now as he lay in his bed in a lather of sweat, so weakened that he couldn't even raise his head. The gods had looked down upon his mistrust and exacted a price, so it would seem. He'd been a strong and healthy man before now, despite his slowly growing age. To feel as he did now was to feel as he hadn't since he was a young boy with scarlet fever. The gods had graced him with good fortune on that occasion but it appeared they would not do so again.
His mind was a jumble of hazy thoughts but one kept returning more oft than any other. It troubled him now as it had done a few days ago. The seed is strong. Robert's seed, that brought life into the world, strong enough to pass down those paternal looks for a dozen generations. His own strength was failing fast and he couldn't understand why. Only one devastating thought entered his mind before the darkness sought to take him - that this was no accident. Someone knew what he knew and didn't want anyone else to find out the terrible secret. Poison was the only explanation for his sudden turn of ill health.
His weakened hand reached out to Maester Pycelle who remained by his bedside to tend to him upon the King's orders. The Maester couldn't know what poison had been slipped in his food or drink, or he'd have found the King's Hand a cure. Someone else had to know the truth.
'I'm here, Lord Arryn,' Maester Pycelle said, taking the hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Jon licked his lips, feeling them growing numb. 'The seed is strong.' If anyone could understand what he meant it would be the Maester. He was the one who'd given Jon the book which contained all the answers to his suspicions. The answer would create generations of war and kill millions. Pycelle had to understand what he meant and why it could not possibly remain a secret.
'It is, my Lord,' Pycelle agreed, but in his heart Jon could tell the man was only giving him the platitudes a dying man deserved; to agree with whatever madness spilled from his lips as milk of the poppy did nothing to ease his suffering.
'The seed is strong,' he repeated, trying to put as much strength into his voice as he could. Once upon a time people had listened to what he had to say when he scarcely but uttered the words. He wasn't loud and brash like Robert. His voice was quiet and calm yet the Small Council would fall silent enough that even a whisper from him was as clear a command as any shouts in anger.
Robert, he thought despairingly. The man had no idea his children were not his own. His dynasty was a lie, and with no heirs of his own, the throne could fall to either of his brothers - the youthful but inexperienced Renly or the dour and unpopular Stannis. Either could tip the country into turmoil. Worse was the sudden thought that it would be Robert's children who would inherit the throne. Lannisters, he realised, and in that last awful moment of his life he knew precisely who knew what he did. There could be only one certainty. A man whose designs for power knew no end. Tywin Lannister.
His head was lifted and a cup of wine brought to his lips before he could utter the words, revealing his poisoner. Another voice floated into his consciousness. 'How is he?' it asked, and the calm quiet tones of Lord Baelish made themselves apparent.
'He is near the end, I fear,' Pycelle replied, no longer giving Jon Arryn the courtesy of lies.
Lord Baelish tutted. 'Such a loss to us all.'