"Lord Arryn is dead!" Gendry stared at the maps spread across his desk, the news from the Narrow Sea acting as a catalyst for his next move.
Qyburn's face twisted into a faint, knowing grimace. He spread his thin hands. "Old Jon lived a long time for a man trying to keep a broken world from spinning apart. He was the only thing standing between the King's appetites and the Queen's ambitions."
"His death wasn't just age," Gendry said mysteriously, keeping the details of the Lysa-Littlefinger conspiracy to himself.
"Chaos is coming to Westeros," Qyburn said flatly. "For years, Robert has played at being a king while Jon Arryn did the heavy lifting. Now, the stag is alone. He will be desperate for someone to hold his hand while he drinks and hunts. He won't have time to look east for a long while."
Gendry felt no malice toward Jon Arryn, the man who had protected his secret for years. But as the architect of the Baratheon dynasty, Jon had failed to solve its rot; he had only delayed its collapse. With the Hand gone and Hoster Tully bedridden, the alliance of the "Stag, Falcon, Fish, and Wolf" was a fractured memory.
"The King will turn to the only man he has left," Gendry noted. "Ned Stark."
"The Wolf of the North will find the capital a cold place," Pretty Boy added. "The Wolf Pack may share Northman blood, but we are no longer vassals to Winterfell. We didn't march for the Starks during the Rebellion, and we won't march for them now."
"Good," Gendry said. "Let them tear each other apart in the south. It gives us the window we need. We don't strike for the Iron Throne yet. We strike for Tyrosh."
Tyrosh was the final piece of the puzzle. It still looked to Lys, Volantis, and the Iron Throne for support. But with the Stepstones and Myr already in Gendry's hand, the island city was an isolated fortress.
"Tyrosh must return the fugitive Myrish fleet and their Magisters," Gendry declared. "Or we bring the war to their doorstep. While King's Landing is in mourning, we will be in blood."
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was silent, save for the flickering of torches. Jon Arryn's coffin sat in state, guarded by four knights of the Kingsguard in their snow-white armor. The old man looked fragile in death—his aquiline nose sharp against his pale skin, his falcon-headed sword resting on his chest.
"My dear foster-father," King Robert whispered, staring at the body. "I wish you were here. We could share a cup, and you could tell me how to fix this mess."
"Robert! Robert! Jon was thinking only of our Robin at the end!" Lysa Arryn shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings and ruining the somber mood. "He wanted him to grow strong and take his seat in the Eyrie!"
"Lysa, be quiet," Robert grumbled. "The boy is six. He needs a harder hand than yours. I've already suggested fostering him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. It's a great honor."
"You won't take him! No one will take my sweet Robin!" Lysa's hysteria was a needle in Robert's brain. "Everyone in this city is an enemy! They killed my Jon!"
Robert turned away in disgust. Mad woman. Jon probably died to escape her screeching.
"Your Grace," Varys's voice was a soft, oily intrusion. "The realm needs a Hand. The position cannot remain vacant while the 'Hammer King' gathers his fleet in the east."
"I know what the realm needs!" Robert roared. He looked at Cersei, who stood in her crimson silks, her eyes bright with expectation.
"My father is the only choice, Robert," Cersei said. "Tywin Lannister has the wealth and the will to keep your throne safe."
"Enough, woman!" Robert bellowed. "I am the King! I won't have a Lion holding my leash. I'm going north. I'm going to find the only man who ever fought for me without asking for a lordship in return."
Robert looked at the coffin of Jon Arryn one last time. "I'm going to get Ned Stark. And if the Targaryen bastards and the 'Hammer King' want a fight, they'll have to deal with the Wolf and the Stag together."