How did it happen

One week later...

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In the Great Sept of Baelor, the grandeur of the place seemed to dwarf even the mighty King Robert Baratheon, now lifeless in repose. The Seven statues stood tall and solemn, their expressions chiseled into stone, casting a watchful gaze over the deceased king.

As the hushed murmurs of mourners echoed through the vast sept, the scent of incense filled the air, mixing with the heavy, somber atmosphere. Robert's body lay upon a raised platform, draped in rich velvet, a crown of gold resting upon his chest. His eyes were closed, and his face, which had been filled with life and laughter, now bore a serene expression.

Candles flickered in a multitude, casting a soft, warm light upon the scene. Noble lords and ladies, as well as common folk, stood side by side, tears glistening in their eyes as they paid their final respects to the fallen king. The High Septon, robed in his ceremonial vestments, led the prayers, his voice filled with both sorrow and reverence.

The great doors of the sept remained open, allowing the gentle breeze to carry in the distant sounds of the city. Outside, the capital of King's Landing seemed to mourn in its own way, with the noise of the bustling streets hushed to a respectful silence.

In this sacred place, the weight of loss hung heavy in the air, and the Seven's statues seemed to weep alongside the grieving kingdom for the passing of their beloved king.

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Prince Joffrey knelt beside the platform where his father's body rested, his knees pressed gently against the cold, hard stone floor. His hands were clasped in prayer, long fingers intertwined in a gesture of reverence. Tears flowed freely from his cerulean eyes, tracing paths down his fair cheeks.

Despite the sorrow that weighed heavily upon the sept, Joffrey's face bore a serene smile, a delicate mixture of grief and admiration. His lips curved upwards, as though he found solace in the faith that his father had now found peace. His golden hair, cropped short, framed his face like a halo, its hue a stark contrast to the black and gold of his attire, signifying his royal lineage.

"Seven Who Are One, Father above all others,

I kneel before you with a heavy heart,

To beseech your grace and wisdom on this somber day.

Watch over my father, Robert Baratheon, in your eternal light.

Warrior, grant him the strength he wielded in battle,

Crone, illuminate the path he walked, guiding his wisdom,

Smith, mend the wounds of his soul, scarred by life's struggles,

Maiden, bless him with purity and love, as a father should know.

Father, keep him in your loving embrace, for he was the king,

And now he rests in your divine presence, as we mourn his passing.

Mother, console those he leaves behind, especially my mother, the queen,

Stranger, take him gently into your realm, that he may find peace.

Grant him a place of honor among your Seven, my lords and ladies,

And let his legacy be remembered with respect and admiration.

In the name of the Seven, I offer this prayer, so be it."

Joffrey's words echoed softly within the hallowed walls of the sept, a heartfelt plea for his father's soul to find solace in the divine presence of the Seven.

"So be it" echoed the bystanders watching the prince.

The Great Sept of Baelor was filled with a diverse gathering of mourners and onlookers who had come to pay their respects to the late King Robert Baratheon.

The spiritual leader of the Faith of the Seven stood tall and dignified, his robes adorned with elaborate religious symbols. His eyes were closed in deep prayer as he observed Prince Joffrey's devotion. 

Varys, Pycelle, and Renly watched the scene with a mix of solemnity and curiosity. Varys, the Master of Whisperers, observed the proceedings with his customary calm demeanor. Pycelle, the Grand Maester, offered silent prayers. Renly, the youngest brother of the late king, had a distant look in his eyes.

The Queen, now widowed, tried to conceal her emotions behind a mask of composure. However, a glimmer of relief shone through her eyes, unable to hide her happiness at her husband's passing.

The Kingslayer, with his unmistakable golden armor, watched from a distance. His face, usually arrogant, bore a rare expression of introspection.

The loyal knight and and commander of the Kingsguard, stood with a stoic and respectful demeanor, his white cloak draped over his shoulders.

The assembly within the sept was a tapestry of emotions and intrigue, each person carrying their own thoughts and secrets, all while Prince Joffrey prayed fervently for his father's soul.

And Eddard Stark, the somber and stoic Lord of Winterfell, stood at a respectful distance from the funeral proceedings, his face etched with profound sadness. His eyes, usually filled with an unwavering determination, now bore the weight of grief as they remained fixed on the lifeless form of the late King Robert Baratheon.

The lines on his furrowed brow deepened, revealing the heavy burden that rested on his shoulders. His strong jaw, often set in unwavering resolve, now quivered with the weight of the moment. The corners of his mouth, once firm with duty and honor, now sagged with sorrow.

Eddard's gaze remained unwavering, but it was clouded with memories of a friendship that had spanned decades. He recalled the battles they had fought together, the laughter shared over feasts, and the solemn oaths they had sworn. Now, those memories were all that remained.

His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, each one a testament to the pain he felt. The vibrant red and gold of his House Stark attire seemed muted in the dim light of the sept, a reflection of the gloom that had settled over his heart.

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Negary Pov : 

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It's been an uneventful week as I waited for my ,,father's,, carcass to reach the capital.

The most notable thing that happened is that the church went all gung-ho with their preaching , all but demanding my ass to be sat in the iron throne.

I didn't do it yet though, because I was trying to cultivate the impression that I was respecting my father's passing by mourning for a bit.

It was all bullshit.

This whole situation was bullshit.

The king dying for seemingly no reason practically screamed foul play.

And the only thing keeping Renly the Homo from crowning himself as the king was the fact that he would probably be burned at stake by overzealous priests.

My ,,mother,, was on cloud nine though, so at least somebody was happy with this whole thing...

On the bright side of things, I may have figured out a solution for my lack of soul refinement, but that's for later. 

Now , I was sitting on a wooden chair , right besides the empty iron throne.

But my focus wasn't on the cold, imposing seat of power , instead, it was fixed on the man before me.

Eddard Stark.

We were now back to the castle , having finished paying respects to the king's corpse in the Great Sept.

We were all alone in the throne room , with me having dismissed everyone else.

I watched impassively as he knelt on the cold stone floor. His shoulders, once square and unyielding, now slumped with the weight of grief. The lines etched on his face were deep, like scars from battles long past, and his eyes held a sorrow so profound it seemed to seep into the very air.

'Poor guy probably blames himself for what happened' I thought.

'Maybe giving him a new king to serve will help him forget his sorrow...heh' 

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Eddard Stark pov :

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I knelt there before the young prince, my heart heavy with sorrow. King Robert had died so suddenly, right before my eyes. The shock and grief welled up inside me, threatening to consume me entirely. The weight of his loss pressed down on me like a leaden cloak, and I felt an overwhelming sadness that seemed impossible to bear.

"Tell me again, Lord Stark , how did it happen?"

I heard a young but powerful voice ask.

As I looked up towards the young prince, I was taken aback by the transformation that had overtaken him , even though this was not the first time I laid my eyes on him. 

He sat on a humble wooden chair, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the Iron Throne. His physique was chiseled and well-defined, a testament to rigorous training, looking nothing like the young boy I had first met.

His face bore a serene smile, even though tears glistened on his cheeks. There was a sense of calm and maturity in his gaze, far beyond his years. 

The humility with which he sat and the aura of serenity that surrounded him left me perplexed. 

His choice to forgo the imposing Iron Throne, opting instead for the unadorned wooden seat, spoke volumes. It was a gesture of respect, both for his father's memory and for the somber occasion of his passing.

'He is truly fit to wear the crown' I heard a small voice whisper in my mind.

But as my eyes were drawn to the golden hair that crowned Joffrey's head, my thoughts drifted to the pages of the book about House Baratheon and the distinctive trait of dark hair that had characterized them for generations. I couldn't help but recall the passages that spoke of Baratheon blood and the certainty of their hair being as dark as coal.

It was a puzzle that had troubled my mind since the moment I took that Book from Maester Pycelle, in the morning of our departure towards Vale. 

His golden hair stood in stark contradiction to the Baratheon lineage. It was as though the very laws of nature had been bent, and I found myself questioning the truth I had held so firmly.

The enigma of Joffrey's parentage, a secret whispered in the shadows, now lingered in my thoughts more prominently than ever before. It was a question that bore the weight of uncertainty, a question that would shape the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms.

'But the prince asked me a question' That small voice kept saying.

And I obliged...

"*Sigh* , My prince....I do not understand what could have caused your father's death...but here is all that happened since we left King's Landings two weeks ago..."

And so , I told him the whole story....

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Third person pov :

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One week earlier .

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The Eyrie, perched atop the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale of Arryn, stood as a testament to both nature's grandeur and human ingenuity. It was a fortress that had seemed to touch the heavens themselves.

A narrow, winding path, aptly named the High Road, had led daring souls toward that lofty stronghold. As one had ascended, the air had thinned, and the world below had become a distant memory. Jagged peaks had enveloped the Eyrie, and its white stone walls had blended harmoniously with the snowy peaks, giving it an ethereal appearance.

The main keep, like a sentinel, had overlooked the landscape with an imposing presence. Its slender towers had seemed to defy gravity, standing tall against the backdrop of a clear blue sky or, perhaps, a canvas of stars. A silver waterfall had cascaded down from the Eyrie, shimmering in the sunlight and adding an air of mystique.

Within its walls, the Eyrie's chambers had been furnished with elegance and simplicity. Gossamer curtains had fluttered in the breeze, and the halls had been filled with the dulcet sounds of birdsong and the rustling of leaves.

But danger lurked within the Eyrie as well. 

The Moon Door, a harrowing feature within the Eyrie, was as infamous as it was chilling. This unsettling structure was more than just a door

It was a portal to oblivion, an instrument of execution that sent those unfortunate enough to pass through it plummeting to their deaths.

Carved into the very floor of the Eyrie, the Moon Door was a large, circular hole framed with a ring of smooth, white stone. It had appeared deceptively simple, almost like a piece of art. But its simplicity belied its malevolent purpose.

Standing on the edge of the Moon Door, one would look down into a seemingly endless abyss. There was no bottom to see, only darkness and emptiness. It was as if the Earth itself had rejected anything or anyone that dared to cross its threshold.

The Moon Door had earned its name because those unfortunate souls who met their fate there often resembled a falling crescent moon, arms flailing, eyes wide with terror, and their voices lost to the howling wind. The drop was so great that it would have been impossible to survive.

Surrounding the Moon Door, the floor had been kept immaculately clean, perhaps as a stark reminder of its purpose. And while it had served as a means of execution, it was also a powerful symbol of the Eyrie's unwavering commitment to defense.

But the once-immaculate floor surrounding the Moon Door was now marred by a gruesome scene. Crimson stains had replaced the pristine white, painting a gruesome tableau of death and despair. At the center of this macabre display lay the lifeless body of a woman.

She was clothed in tattered garments, her auburn hair unkempt and tangled. Her ashen face bore a grim expression, as if her final moments had been filled with terror and anguish. Her open, lifeless eyes seemed to still hold a glimpse of the horrors she had felt.

As the truth became evident, it was a chilling revelation. The woman, whose life had met such an end, was none other than Lysa Arryn, the Lady of the Eyrie. 

A dagger, stained with her own blood, was plunged into her chest. It was a haunting testament to her choice.

Three men stood at the precipice, gazing down at the gruesome scene that unfolded before them. Each bore a different countenance, reflecting their thoughts and emotions.

Eddard Stark, the somber Hand of the King, stood with a furrowed brow, his face etched with a mixture of sadness and solemnity. His deep-set eyes held a weariness that only increased with the sight before him. It was a reminder of the treacherous path he walked, filled with loss and duty.

Robert Baratheon, the late king, regarded the scene with a mixture of astonishment and detachment. His burly frame and grizzled beard contrasted starkly with the delicate circumstances at hand. His eyes, once filled with life and vigor, now betrayed a sense of distance, as if the world had moved on without him.

Commander Vardys Egen, the steadfast leader of the Knights of the Vale, observed the scene with a stoic determination. His strong jawline and unwavering gaze suggested a man accustomed to making difficult decisions. In this moment, his thoughts remained inscrutable, hidden behind a façade of duty and honor.

Together, they formed an unlikely trio, brought together by the circumstances surrounding Lysa Arryn's tragic end. Their respective roles and responsibilities converged at this fateful juncture, leaving them to contemplate the consequences of the lady's demise.

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Eddard Stark pov :

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I stood there, looking down at the lifeless form of Lysa Arryn, and I couldn't help but feel a torrent of emotions churning within me. Incredulity was the first to wash over me, as I struggled to comprehend the shocking reality before my eyes. I never expected that I would bear witness to such a gruesome end here in the Eyrie, let alone from someone so closely connected to my family.

Sadness descended upon me like a heavy shroud, settling deep within my heart. Lysa was the sister of my beloved wife, Catelyn. She was kin, blood of blood, and despite her many flaws and eccentricities, I couldn't help but mourn her tragic fate. Her son, Robin, had lost both his parents now, and that weighed heavily on my conscience.

Anger surged forth as well, a searing flame fueled by the knowledge that she had been ensnared by Petyr Baelish's web of deceit. She had allowed herself to become a pawn in his sinister games, believing his lies , and her own role in Jon Arryn's death . My fury was not only directed at her, but also at the man who had manipulated her so cruelly.

It was a somber moment, filled with conflicting emotions, as I grappled with the incredulous, the sadness, and the anger that welled up inside me. In the end, all I could do was stand there, silently contemplating the tragic demise of Lysa Arryn and the unsettling questions that her death left in its wake.

"Your Grace, Lord Stark," Vardys Egen began, his voice steady and devoid of embellishments. "This is how we found Lady Lysa. She got wind of the news from the capital, about what happened to Baelish, and locked herself in the throne room. When we managed to break the door, this is what we saw."

He gestured to the scene before them, his expression somber and eyes fixed on the lifeless body of Lady Lysa Arryn. There was no need for elaborate words or dramatic flourishes.

The grim reality spoke for itself.

"Damn that Baelish to the darkest depths of hell!" King Robert Baratheon's voice thundered through the chamber, his anger palpable in every word. "May the gods curse him for all eternity, and may his treacherous soul never find rest! To think he plotted against my Hand, against us all! The gods may have taken their vengeance, but I wish I could have strangled the life from him with my bare hands! Seven hells, I'd do it a thousand times over!"

The King's fists clenched at his sides, his face twisted in a mixture of fury and frustration. The divine retribution that had befallen Petyr Baelish seemed inadequate to quell the raging tempest of the king's anger. His voice continued to shake the room as he railed against the man who had dared to threaten his realm and the people he held dear.

As I stood there, listening to Robert's seething anger, I couldn't help but agree with him. The fury in the king's voice resonated with my own emotions, as I too harbored a deep loathing for Petyr Baelish. That wily, scheming snake had played a part in the death of Jon Arryn, my mentor and father figure. The knowledge of his deceit had shaken the very foundations of my beliefs.

While I understood the importance of divine justice and the gods' intervention in the form of that damning symbol upon Baelish's forehead, it was hard to deny the satisfaction that came from hearing the king curse the man who had sought to undermine our realm. In that moment, Robert's words echoed the feelings of many, and it was a small comfort to know that Baelish's treachery had not gone unpunished, even if it had come from otherworldly forces.

But King Robert's furious tirade came to an abrupt halt, replaced by an eerie silence that hung heavily in the air. His voice, once filled with righteous anger, now wavered and faltered as if he were struggling to find words

And then, a new sound emerged from the king, but it was no longer the coherent speech of a furious ruler. It was a series of incomprehensible, slurred noises, a garbled symphony of curses and mumbles. His once-mighty voice had deteriorated into a disconcerting cacophony.

As we watched in alarm, King Robert's body began to shake uncontrollably. His once-stalwart frame now seemed frail and vulnerable. It was as if some unseen force had seized him.

In the chaotic moments that followed my friend's sudden affliction, I found myself torn between disbelief and concern. His furious curses had given way to unintelligible muttering, and his body had begun to tremble uncontrollably. It was a sight that struck fear into my heart.

As the king's speech deteriorated into incoherent slurs, I instinctively took a step closer, my voice calling out in alarm. "Your Grace, what's happened? Are you all right?" I implored, desperately seeking some explanation for this inexplicable change.

But my words fell upon deaf ears, for King Robert's condition worsened with each passing moment. In an instant, I was at his side, just in time to catch him as he crumpled to the ground. His once-mighty form felt unnervingly fragile in my arms, his body trembling with a mysterious affliction.

I could only watch in dismay as the king's slurred words and involuntary convulsions continued unabated, leaving me grappling with the unsettling realization that something inexplicable and ominous had overtaken him.

Panic welled up within me as I shouted at Vardys Egen, the commander of the Knights of the Vale, in a voice that bordered on a howl, "𝗚𝗲𝘁 𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿! 𝗤𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗹𝘆!"

Time seemed to stretch as we awaited the arrival of a healer, every moment feeling like an eternity. The uncertainty of the situation weighed heavily on my heart, and I could only hope that the Maester would be able to discern the cause of King Robert's affliction and offer some form of treatment.

As the Maester rushed to King Robert's side, the words that tumbled from his slurred and trembling lips were both shocking and weighty. "Joffrey... make him... next... king," he managed to utter, his voice a ghostly echo of its former strength.

Those words struck a chord of unease deep within me. My mind raced back to the suspicions that had lingered in the corners of my thoughts, like shadows waiting to be unveiled. Joffrey's legitimacy as Robert's trueborn son was... 

a matter of doubt, at least according to the book Maester Pycelle gave me about bloodlines . 

The golden hair of House Lannister ran thick in him, but where was the strong Baratheon blood?

As I stood there, torn between loyalty to my friend and the unsettling uncertainty surrounding Joffrey's parentage, the weight of the realm's fate seemed to rest on my shoulders. The king's slurred words echoed ominously, casting a shadow of doubt over the future of Westeros.

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In a dimly lit chamber of the Eyrie, where the air was heavy with sorrow and despair, I watched helplessly as King Robert's life slipped through my fingers. The Maester, with all his knowledge and expertise, struggled to uncover the cause of the king's sudden affliction.

Desperation welled up within me as I saw the man I had called friend for so many years slowly fade away. His once-boisterous laughter and commanding presence had been reduced to frailty and slurred words. I clenched my fists in frustration, powerless to prevent the inevitable.

A profound sadness engulfed me, knowing that this was a battle I could not win

In the haunting stillness that followed King Robert's final breath, my thoughts raced like wildfire through the darkest corners of my mind. The unsettling parallels between his demise and Petyr Baelish's divine punishment gnawed at my shaken beliefs. Both had faced a fate that defied reason and explanation, both brought low by forces that transcended mortal understanding.

But Robert was not a man like Baelish. He was a man of valor, a man of mirth, and a man who carried the weight of a kingdom on his broad shoulders. He had his flaws, his vices, but he was, above all else, a good and fair man who deserved a better ending.

Fear of the unknown loomed over me, shrouding me in uncertainty. I had witnessed the divine hand at work, and it was a force beyond comprehension. What did it mean for the future of the realm? What lay ahead for Joffrey, the untested heir with uncertain lineage? The answers were elusive, and the path forward was veiled in shadows, leaving me with a sense of foreboding that I could not shake...

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Negary pov :

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Present time.

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Arteriosclerosis is like a grumpy old landlord for your arteries. It moves in uninvited, starts collecting "plaques" like they're rare coins, and eventually makes your arteries narrower than a tiny straw. As for its causes, think of it as a result of years of bad lifestyle choices, like your arteries are hosting a never-ending junk food party.

The symptoms? Well, your poor arteries start complaining with chest pain, shortness of breath, and even leg cramps when they're really fed up.

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This was the biological reason the Fat King died , as far as I could tell after analysing his body's condition.

Now , I find it hard to believe that this was truly a natural death , given the fact that a disembodied voice told me ahead of time what would happen.

No , what was most likely the case was that someone fed the king something that caused his blood pressure to rise , and his important blood vessels to pop.

And this meant that....the one who killed the king was a human.

An assassin. 

A skilled one , who made it look like ,,divine punishment,, for some reason.

But how is this all related?

The voice...the assassin...the seven gods...their desire for war yet lack of direct involvement.

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'Hmm ,what an interesting puzzle.' I thought as Eddard finally finished telling me his side of the story. I knew every detail already , from the messages he sent to the capital before arriving , but I wanted to hear it from the source.

"Rise, Lord Stark," I spoke with a voice that carried a measure of maturity and empathy. My golem's gaze was steady, devoid of any anger. "It was not your fault. I've heard your words, and it pains me greatly to think that my father is gone. But as much as it hurts, perhaps it was his time to go."

But his head remained bowed. He remained in a position of deference, though my words had urged him to rise.

'Huh , didn't see that coming' I thought with a small smile in my face.

"Is there something else that troubles you, Lord Stark?" I inquired , seemingly interested.

"I hesitate to speak of it, Your Grace," Eddard began, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "But there has been a shadow of doubt regarding your....lineage...."

'How ballsy' I thought. And he indeed was courageous. Such an insult...If I was literally anyone else , he would probably be labeled as a traitor before he could intone his house's motto.

But still , this saved me quite some time.

Because If he didn't approach the subject, I would have had to mention it myself. It was better to deal with his suspicions In a controlled and private manner. 

And so , even though I showed a deep frown on my golem's face , inside I was smiling.

'Who do you think told Pycelle to give you that book , little wolf?'

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A.N :

""Learn from it." Urahara's hand clasped my shoulder and steadied me.

"We've all made mistakes, but we made it past them by knowing what we did wrong, by learning from them and becoming better people as a result. 

If you mess up, don't quit. 

Don't resign yourself to dying. 

Don't crawl away in despair. 

Fight past it. 

Get better."