บท 36: You're out
Negary pov :
"𝗦𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲!" The king roared , trying and failing to calm down the chaotic crowd.
Some were on their knees , repenting for their sins.
Some were happy, having gotten proof that the gods were indeed real , that their faith was true.
And some just stared into space , mouth agape , not able to comprehend what they just saw.
It wasn't their fault, really.
After all , magic world or not , we were still in the middle ages. These guys were all at least a little bit religious.
"𝗣𝗲𝘁𝘆𝗿 𝗕𝗮𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵!" The Fat King continued talking, uncaring that barely anyone was paying attention to him. "The Gods themselves have spoken! Do you still claim that you had nothing to do with Jon Arryn's death!?" His earlier confusion seemed to have turned into rage as he slowly started to accept that fact that the little prick (heh) in front of us was the reason for his father figure's death.
From what I remember the former hand of the king raised both Robert and Eddard for some reason...maybe. I honestly can't remember exactly.
Hmm , maybe I can try and search my own memories? Food for thought...
"My king , I am sure this *Cough Cough*"
Little Finger started coughing blood once again , with the help of yours truly.
Honestly, I only needed to concentrate a little to scratch his pharynx each time he tried to talk his way out of the (frankly shitty) situation he was in.
It was disappointingly easy to frame the dude , due to my PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS and foreknowledge of the plot.
I just controlled a few corpses to walk around , talking shit about him.
Then I floated to his room and severed his left musculocutaneous, axillary, radial, median, and ulnar nerves. Ergo , I cut off all the sensory and motor nerves in his left hand to simulate a ,,curse,,.
I also tried to be extra sneaky , not allowing him to even feel my mana as I doused him in it.
Of course, I could have killed him then and there , but besides me wanting for him to confess his sins with his own mouth , I was also asking for ,,permission,,
Someone (probably the seven gods) was pulling some strings in the dark.
Me killing one of their puppets...needed to be done carefully...
*Boom*
The doors of the throne room were opened by none other than Eddard Stark , Lord of Winterfell, and hand of the king.
'Heh , he must have had an interesting night...'
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Eddard Stark interlude : Night of the Living Dead
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A few hours earlier...
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Eddard Stark had retired to his chambers, weary from the long journey to King's Landing and the weight of his new responsibility as the Hand of the King. He knew that his old friend, Jon Arryn, had perished under mysterious circumstances, and the burden of uncovering the truth now rested squarely on his shoulders.
The room was dimly lit by a few flickering candles, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Eddard sat at a small wooden desk, his furrowed brows deep in thought as he perused a stack of parchments bearing the weight of the realm's problems. It wouldn't hurt to start learning a bit , no?
Just as he was beginning to contemplate his bed, where the warmth of sleep awaited him, an unexpected intrusion shattered the tranquility of his chamber. The door swung open with a burst of urgency, and in strode a rotund figure, his robes whispering like the wings of a moth.
"Lord Stark," the man panted, his portly frame barely catching its breath after the apparent haste of his arrival. "I am Varys, the Master of Whispers on the Small Council."
Eddard's expression turned from curiosity to caution as he rose from his chair, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of the sword that was ever at his side. "What brings you to my chambers in the dead of night, Master Varys?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of suspicion.
Varys spread his hands wide, a placating gesture that did little to alleviate Eddard's wariness. "My lord, there is a matter of utmost importance. I know you just became hand of the king but...A crisis like this cannot wait for the light of day. Please, I implore you, come with me."
Eddard's gaze bore into the eunuch, searching for any signs of deception or ill intent. "Speak quickly," he demanded, his voice gruff but commanding. "What could be so pressing that it requires my immediate attention?"
Varys leaned in closer, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "The city, my lord, is gripped by a madness unlike any I have ever witnessed. The smallfolk speak of the dead rising, of divine curses upon those who have done wrong. The unrest grows, and the night is filled with their terrified cries."
Eddard's brow furrowed in disbelief, but there was a glint of concern in his eyes. The rumors of the undead and divine retribution were unsettling, and he couldn't dismiss them outright. "You ask me to investigate these tales?" he inquired, a sense of duty rising within him.
Varys nodded vigorously. "Yes, my lord. I believe it is of utmost importance that we address this situation promptly. The stability of the realm hangs in the balance, and it is the duty of the Hand of the King to protect the realm."
Eddard hesitated for a moment, his thoughts racing. The responsibility that had once seemed weighty now felt like a colossal burden. But he was a Stark of Winterfell, and duty was in his blood.
"Very well, Master Varys," he said, his voice resolute. "Lead the way. Let us see what truth lies beneath these tales of horror."
With that, Eddard followed the rotund spymaster into the chilling darkness of King's Landing's streets, where mysteries and dangers awaited them in the dead of night.
Eddard Stark and Varys traversed the moonlit streets of King's Landing, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night. The city, once teeming with life during the day, now appeared as a shadowy realm of uncertainty.
They approached a gathering of townsfolk who spoke in hushed tones, their faces etched with fear and disbelief. An old man, frail and trembling, recounted his eerie encounter.
"My son...He was on his deathbed, my lord," the man said, his voice quivering. "I thought he had passed on peacefully, but then... then he rose. Patted me on the back, just like he used to when he was alive. And then he left without a word, heading toward the city. I couldn't believe my eyes."
Eddard exchanged a solemn glance with Varys. The tales were consistent, and something unnatural was clearly afoot. "Did he speak of anyone or anything, my good man?" Eddard inquired, his tone gentle.
The old man shook his head. "No, my lord. He left in silence, as if guided by some otherworldly force. I... I can't make sense of it."
As they continued through the dimly lit streets, they encountered another witness, a woman of advanced age with tears glistening in her eyes. She clutched a shawl tightly around her shoulders, seeking warmth and solace amidst the growing dread.
"He was meant for the grave," she explained, her voice quivering. "I had prepared myself for his passing, my lord. But he rose, just like the others, and walked away without a word."
Varys leaned closer, his eyes penetrating and curious. "Did he say anything before he left, my lady?"
The woman's eyes brimmed with tears. "Only one thing, Master Varys. He whispered, 'Petyr Baelish,' before he departed. As if he wanted to ensure I knew who he held responsible."
Eddard exchanged a knowing look with Varys. The pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place, and the name Petyr Baelish continued to surface in these eerie accounts.
As Eddard continued his investigation into the mysterious resurrection of the deceased and their damning accusations against Petyr Baelish, a storm of conflicting emotions raged within him. His loyalty to his old friend and the assurance from Varys that Baelish was already in custody were the only things that kept his wrath in check.
Each step he took through the moonlit streets felt heavier, laden with the weight of responsibility and justice. If the allegations against Baelish were true, if he had truly been involved in the death of Jon Arryn, Eddard knew that vengeance would come in time. But for now, he needed to uncover the full scope of this unsettling phenomenon and ensure the stability of the realm.
They moved on, questioning more witnesses, each story adding to the mounting sense of foreboding. Eddard was troubled by the consistency of the accounts and the inexplicable return of the deceased.
Were the gods...truly talking through them?
As they continued their investigation, the hour grew late, and the moon hung high in the sky. Eddard's thoughts were consumed by the strange occurrences in King's Landing, and the weight of his new role as Hand of the King bore down upon him.
But one thing was certain—the answers to this enigma lay shrouded in darkness, and he was determined to uncover the truth, no matter where it might lead.
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As Eddard and Varys continued their journey through the dimly lit streets of King's Landing, a chilling encounter awaited them. They turned a corner and found themselves face to face with a young girl, her torn clothes stained with blood, her chest bearing the gruesome evidence of fatal stab wounds. The sight before them was nothing short of horrifying.
The girl limped forward, her movements unnatural, her eyes devoid of life, like empty sockets staring into the abyss. She was a specter, a wretched apparition, and yet, she moved with purpose.
In a hushed, eerie tone, she murmured words about divine retribution, her voice a haunting echo in the night. The hairs on the back of Eddard's neck stood on end, and his grip on his sword hilt tightened.
Varys, ever composed and enigmatic, watched the girl with a mix of curiosity and caution. The sight was undoubtedly disturbing, but he had witnessed many unsettling things in his role as the Master of Whispers.
Eddard, on the other hand, drew his sword, its steel singing softly as it slid from its scabbard. His eyes, a mixture of concern and determination, remained locked on the girl. To him, this was a nightmare given form, a perversion of life and death that defied all reason.
The girl's eerie presence in the moonlight sent shivers down their spines, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. They were faced with an abomination, a living corpse that defied the natural order.
The girl's lifeless eyes focused on Eddard, and her voice, though sweet, carried an otherworldly weight. Her words pierced the night air, each syllable laden with a cryptic message.
"Direwolf," she intoned, "the blood of your wife has betrayed her for the lies of a snake."
Eddard furrowed his brow, a mix of confusion and concern etched upon his face. The message was enigmatic, its meaning eluding him like a ghostly riddle. He glanced to Varys, who wore an expression of intrigue.
But girl's voice faded abruptly, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. She swayed like a marionette with her strings severed, her lifeless form crumpling to the ground. Eddard and Varys exchanged a glance of astonishment and concern, their senses heightened by the uncanny encounter.
Eddard, still clutching his sword, cautiously approached the fallen girl. He knelt beside her, checking for any sign of life, but there was none. Her empty eyes stared into oblivion, her breathless body devoid of any trace of the haunting voice that had just spoken.
Varys, his usually composed demeanor showing signs of unease, observed the lifeless girl with a furrowed brow. It was a chilling encounter, one that deepened the mystery surrounding the rising dead and their cryptic messages.
The streets of King's Landing held secrets that neither Eddard Stark nor Varys, the master of whispers, could fully comprehend, and with each passing moment, the enigma of Petyr Baelish's alleged crimes seemed to grow more complex and unsettling.
Varys, ever the pragmatist, was the first to break the silence that had settled over them like a shroud. His voice, though still tinged with unease, held an air of composed rationality.
"Lord Stark," he began, his eyes never leaving the lifeless girl, "I believe it would be prudent to return to the castle and report what we have witnessed to the king. These events are... unprecedented, to say the least."
Eddard nodded in agreement, sheathing his sword. He couldn't shake the feeling that something profound and unsettling was unfolding in the streets of King's Landing. It was a sensation that gnawed at his conscience, urging him to seek answers and confront the ominous specter of the rising dead.
"Agreed," Eddard replied, his voice resolute. "We must inform King Robert of these developments. Whatever dark machinations are at play here, they must be brought to light."
With their decision made, Eddard and Varys turned away from the lifeless girl, leaving her on the cobblestone street as they retraced their steps towards the Red Keep. The mysteries of the night weighed heavily on their minds, and the looming presence of Petyr Baelish's alleged crimes cast a long shadow over their journey back to the castle.
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The resounding boom of the throne room doors being thrust open with urgency echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of all within. Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, strode in with a gravity that seemed to match the growing turmoil in the room.
"I bring urgent news!" he announced, his voice commanding attention.
But as his eyes swept across the chamber, he was met with a scene of chaos and bewilderment. A crowd of onlookers, some weeping, others laughing nervously, and a few prostrating themselves before the gods, filled the space. The king himself, Robert Baratheon, seethed with a rage that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Red Keep. Beside him, Queen Cersei Lannister wore an expression of profound horror, her usually composed demeanor shattered.
In the center of the room, Petyr Baelish stood, his hands hanging lifelessly from his shoulders, his once-silver tongue silenced by the anguish that wracked him. The room fell into an eerie silence, punctuated only by the faint, rattling coughs that emanated from the master of coin.
And then, Eddard's gaze was drawn inexorably to Petyr's forehead, where a crimson seven-pointed star had been etched into his flesh, as if by the very hand of the gods themselves.
A chill ran down Eddard's spine as he realized the gravity of the situation. He had come with news, but the unfolding events in the throne room left him with a profound sense of foreboding.
As he stood there, amidst the tumultuous tableau, a thought crossed his mind, unbidden yet insistent...'I should have stayed in Winterfell.'
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Negary pov :
As the whole court tuned in to Eddard Stark's spiel, my eyes gravitated toward Varys instead , even as he tried to fade into the background.
The guy was the secret-keeping champ of King's Landing, no doubt about it. He had a knack for being everywhere and nowhere all at once. Almost like he was two different dudes in the same skin.
I mean, let's be real, this place was all about secrets and lies. People could weave a web of deceit thicker than a northern winter.
But Varys, he took it to a whole new level. He had this way of coming up on top , no matter what.
In this cutthroat game, where alliances changed quicker than you could say "winter is coming," Varys was like a walking puzzle.
He had his own agenda, that was for sure, and it ran deeper than any could fathom. While Ned Stark spilled the beans, I knew that Varys held more cards than anyone realized.
But then again , when playing a rigged game , no amount of cards could save you...
Eddard Stark concluded his tale with a heavy sigh, addressing King Robert directly, "And the undead girl said this to me before she collapsed: 'Your wife's blood betrayed her for the lies of a snake.'"
The throne room was tense, an electric current of unease running through the courtiers and onlookers. Amid this palpable tension, Petyr Baelish, who had remained eerily quiet, saw an opportune moment and seized it. With a sudden burst of energy, he shouted, "Yes! It was Lysa Arryn! She poisoned her own husband! She must have set me up!"
But in that fateful moment, Petyr Baelish's desperate proclamation fell upon deaf ears.
The courtiers, the king, and all those gathered in the throne room remained unmoved.
The symbol etched into his forehead, a crimson seven-pointed star, was seen as divine proof of his guilt, an indelible mark from the ,,gods,, themselves. (Heh)
In the face of such ominous symbolism, Petyr's words rang hollow, and doubt would not find a place to take root.
"Well then , why don't you tell us the whole story?" I asked the man , seeing that both Eddard and the Fat King were barely restraining themselves from bashing his head in.
They also understood the riddle I made , and they had no doubt who the ,,snake,, who deceived Catelyn's sister was.
"Yes! Yes , of course. It all began like this..."
If anything, I admired Petyr's stubbornness, refusing to give up until the very end.
Still , it was already over.
The ground I stood upon was so much higher than his...it wasn't even funny.
But he was a good actor , I had to admit.
He waved a story on the fly about the manipulative Lysa Arryn who deceived and used him , and how she threatened him with torture and death if he dared reveal her secrets.
It was by no means a perfect story , showing plenty of plot holes, but given the fact that he was probably only trying to postpone his execution until Lysa was brought before the king as well.
He would then try to use the blackmail he had on important people to try and escape , heal , and seek revenge.
He might even be able to do it...if I wasn't here , of course.
"I'll have to stop you right there, Mr. Baelish," I interjected firmly, cutting through the tension that had been building in the room. It was time to assert myself and take control of the situation.
"We can't wait for Lady Lysa Arryn to confirm or deny these accusations," I proclaimed. "Let's leave it up to the gods to decide. If they truly believe Lord Baelish is guilty, then let them show us a sign."
The entire assembly fell into a heavy silence, the weight of my words sinking in. I could feel the gazes of all those present upon me, their anticipation hanging in the air like a storm about to break. Both my father and Lord Stark regarded me with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. They remembered the last time I had asserted myself in such a manner, and it had not been easily forgotten.
As the silence dragged on , even Petyr fearing to speak aloud , maybe he himself praying for forgiveness , I didn't do anything.
This was the last chance I I was giving someone or something to interfere.
This was the true reason Baelish was still breathing.
I was trying to use him as bait , to try and catch a glimpse at my fellow players of the game.
But alas , the throne room remained silent.
The gods , if they were the masterminds , would not or could not save Petyr for some reason...
Interesting...
'But don't worry , Littlefinger , my dear friend , cause your god is right here , but he is unfortunately fresh out of mercy.'
I thought as I supremely concentrated on the mana I imbued the little guy with.
I gathered most of it in the upper part of his body.
And then...*swoosh*
The man crumpled in front of me , just like all the other corpses I've been controlling tonight.
And just as the crowd started cheering for the second ,,divine intervention,, of today , I caught a glimpse of both my father and Lord Stark watching me with awe and a bit of fear.
Indeed.
What better way to legitimize my claim to the throne besides ,,divine Providence,,
If I made the masses believe I was chosen by the gods , none would go against me.
Thank you , piss poor education of the middle ages , I am truly in your debt.
I also didn't need to burn children alive to perform miracles...that would be helpful, yes.
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Petyr Baelish pov :
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In the moment I knew I had a bloody star on my forehead, I felt as though I had descended into a waking nightmare.
Nothing made sense anymore, and the chaos that surrounded me threatened to consume everything I had ever worked for.
The gods, it seemed, had truly cursed me, and the sense of powerlessness gnawed at my very soul.
What did they know of the struggles of us mortals? What right did they have to meddle in the affairs of men and women?
It took all my efforts to restrain the bile that rose in my throat, to prevent myself from hurling insults at these unseen forces that had orchestrated my downfall.
'The gods,'' I thought bitterly, 'are nothing but fickle puppeteers, pulling the strings of our lives for their own amusement.'' It was a sentiment that had been festering within me, hidden beneath layers of cunning and ambition. But now, with my fate sealed by a cruel twist of divine intervention, I could no longer contain my disdain.
In the depths of my despair, I railed against the heavens themselves, hurling hateful remarks into the void. My anger and frustration poured forth in a torrent of venomous words, a defiant declaration against the gods who had, in their capriciousness, chosen to make me their plaything.
And as I stood there, in the shadow of the Iron Throne, my voice filled with bitter resentment, I knew that I had become a pawn in a game beyond my comprehension. The world had turned against me, and I was left to navigate this treacherous new reality, where the gods themselves conspired to see me fall.
But as I stood there, my forehead bearing the damning mark of the gods' judgment, I knew that I could not simply surrender to my fate. Giving up was not in my nature, and I had always been a survivor, a man who thrived on turning the tide of fortune in my favor.
When the Stark posed his riddle, a glimmer of hope ignited within me. It was an opportunity, a lifeline to cling to amidst the storm of accusations and divine retribution. I seized it with both...nevermind, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I was allowed to speak without the cruel interruption of coughing fits.
I cried, I begged, I painted a vivid picture of Lysa Arryn as the true orchestrator of this conspiracy.
I made her look like the puppeteer, the mastermind behind the tragic events that had unfolded.
And as I wove my tale of deceit and betrayal, I couldn't help but wonder if the gods, in their inscrutable wisdom, had finally decided to show me some mercy. Perhaps, just this once, they had allowed me to speak, to defend myself against the avalanche of accusations.
In that moment, I resolved not to give up until the very end. I would fight, tooth and nail, to shift the blame onto Lysa Arryn, to salvage what remained of my reputation and my plans. The gods may have cursed me, but I was not one to go quietly into the abyss.
As I stood there, desperately trying to shift the blame onto Lysa Arryn, I felt a glimmer of hope flicker in my chest. But before I could continue, the audacious young prince, Joffrey, interrupted me once more. He dismissed my claims as unverifiable in the short term, once again advocating for divine intervention.
Inwardly, I scoffed at the arrogance of the boy, who seemed to call for miracles at his whim. It was as if he believed his pleas would be answered, as if he held some secret knowledge of the gods' favor.
But then, a chilling thought seized me, freezing my very soul. What if Joffrey did know something? What if he had some insight into the mysterious forces at play here? The idea that the gods might answer his prayers, and not mine, filled me with a sense of dread I had never known before.
As the tension in the throne room thickened, I couldn't shake the feeling that something far more sinister was unfolding, something beyond even my intricate web of schemes and deceit.
As I scrutinized Prince Joffrey more closely, an unsettling realization clawed at the edges of my consciousness. There was something undeniably unnatural about him, a profound change that had occurred in just a matter of months. It was as if he had transformed into an entirely different person, and yet, no one in the room seemed to take notice or care.
The weight of despair pressed upon me with each passing thought, like invisible claws tightening their grip around my soul. In this chamber of divine judgment, surrounded by a bewildering cast of characters, I couldn't help but feel that I was caught in a web of forces beyond my comprehension.
As I stood there, overwhelmed by the bizarre turn of events and the strange aura surrounding Prince Joffrey, my vision suddenly blurred, and I felt my legs buckle beneath me. In an instant, I was face-first on the stone floor of the throne room.
My thoughts swirled in confusion as I tried to make sense of the inexplicable events unfolding around me, but the answers remained elusive, slipping like water through my fingers.
As I attempted to rise from the floor, I was confronted once again by the cruel reality of my condition. My hands, those once dexterous and cunning instruments of manipulation, now hung limp from my shoulders, as lifeless as the stone walls of the Red Keep. The sensation of impotence, of being stripped of my most essential tools, fueled a seething rage within me.
The pain, both physical and emotional, throbbed like a relentless drumbeat in my mind. The gods, in their inscrutable cruelty, had indeed cursed me, leaving me to navigate a world that had suddenly become hostile and incomprehensible.
But I refused to surrender to despair. No, I would find a way to overcome this wretched curse, to claw my way back into the game. The fire of determination burned fiercely within me, even as I lay helpless on the unforgiving stone.
But...a creeping dread began to replace the rage that had consumed me. With each futile attempt to move, to command my limbs to obey, it became painfully evident that the curse afflicting me extended beyond my hands. My body had become an unyielding prison, unresponsive to the commands of my mind.
Panic set in as I realized the full extent of my helplessness. My legs lay inert, my neck and shoulders refused to obey my will, and I was paralyzed from the neck down. Horror washed over me like a tidal wave, drowning my thoughts in a suffocating grip of fear.
What had been a nightmare was becoming an unending, waking hell. I was trapped in a motionless shell, a prisoner within my own body, with no escape in sight. The gods had truly condemned me to a fate worse than death.
As the realization of my complete paralysis set in, I desperately attempted to scream, to call out for help, to break the terrible silence that had enveloped me. But my efforts were in vain. My tongue lay still and unresponsive, and my voice remained locked within me.
Only my eyes retained their limited freedom, darting frantically around the room as I struggled to make sense of my dire predicament. I was a prisoner in my own body, condemned to witness the unfolding events without the means to intervene or communicate. A profound sense of powerlessness and terror gripped me, and I was left with nothing but the silent scream of my eyes, a desperate plea for salvation from the cruel grip of this cursed fate.
As I slipped into unconsciousness, the cold and authoritative voice of Prince Joffrey echoed in my ears, delivering my final, damning verdict. His words were a cruel, icy wind that extinguished any lingering hope. The last thing I heard before surrendering to the darkness was his command, an order that sealed my fate.
"The gods have spoken once again.
This man is without any doubt a traitor to the crown.
Guards , take him to the gallows" he declared, and I knew that there would be no reprieve, no mercy. In my incapacitated state, I could do nothing but await the inevitable. The world around me faded, and I was left to dwell in the torment of my own thoughts, trapped within a body that had become my prison.
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Petyr Baelish, also called Lord Littlefinger or The Master of Coin was found guilty of treason and sentenced to death by hanging.
This happened following the ,,divine retribution,, the man suffered for allegedly plotting the former Hand of the King's death.
All of this happened within 16 hours since the king's caravan returned to the capital , sending ripples throughout Westeros , and whispers of the Prince Blessed by the Gods began to surface shortly after.
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In the far , far , north , The Night King, a malevolent figure stood tall and imposing.
His icy blue eyes glowed with an unnatural, piercing light.
His skin was deathly pale, stretched taut over sinewy muscles. A cruel, twisted crown adorned his head, reflecting the coldness that emanated from him. Icicles clung to his armor like jagged spikes of death.
His visage was one of unrelenting darkness and malevolence, a chilling harbinger of doom in the world of ice and fire....And he clenched his fist...for but a single moment.
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The game had only just begun...
สถานะพลังงานรายสัปดาห์
-- การจัดอันดับด้วยพลัง 
-- หินพลัง