The atmosphere in the throne room had turned somber, as if a dark cloud of uncertainty had settled over the once-regal chamber. Petyr Baelish stood before the imposing Iron Throne, his once-confident posture now defeated, both of his arms hanging limp and lifeless from his shoulders. His eyes were cast downward, avoiding the accusatory gazes of the court and the members of the small council.
A hushed silence had descended upon the room, broken only by the faint murmurs of the assembled crowd. The air was thick with a palpable tension, as if the very walls of the Red Keep were echoing with the weight of accusations and betrayal.
Whispers of curses and divine wrath rippled through the courtiers, each word carrying a weighty sense of judgment. The people had believed in the curses, and they saw in Petyr Baelish a scapegoat for their fears and suspicions. He was a man accused of dark deeds, his once-shrewd reputation now tarnished by the shadow of divine retribution.
The members of the court exchanged uneasy glances, their once-confident demeanor shattered by the uncertainty that now hung in the air. Petyr Baelish's fate remained in the balance, a symbol of the chaos that had engulfed King's Landing.
King Robert Baratheon, who had spent his life on the battlefield, was ill-equipped to navigate this treacherous terrain of intrigue and superstition.
And so , the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, sat upon the Iron Throne, his brow furrowed with disbelief and frustration. He had been roused from a peaceful slumber by the urgent words of his wife, Queen Cersei, who stood at his left. To his right sat his oldest son, Joffrey, who had an air of unease about him.
The throne room was filled with the members of his court and the small council, their faces etched with a mix of fear and confusion. But it was the downcast form of Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, that drew the king's attention.
"What in the bloody hell is happening?" Robert muttered under his breath, his voice gruff and coarse.
He turned to his wife, his expression a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. "Cersei, what in seven hells are you blabbering about?" He used no regal address, his informal speech reflecting his nature.
Cersei's eyes were wide with worry as she recounted the strange tale. "Robert, I woke up to reports of people dropping dead in the streets , and they were saying that it's because of Lord Baelish . That he's been cursed by the gods for his involvement in Jon Arryn's death."
Robert's brows knitted together in frustration. "Cursed? Are you telling me people believe in curses now?" He scoffed, the idea sounding preposterous to him.
But as he surveyed the faces of those gathered in the throne room, the unease was palpable. His subjects, normally bustling with their duties, now appeared to be living in a world gone mad.
"Someone better start making some sense here," he grumbled, his eyes settling on Petyr Baelish. "Littlefinger, you've always been good with coin and trading. Tell me this is all some bloody nonsense."
His eyes remained fixed on Petyr, as if searching for any signs of deceit or guilt on the master of coin's face.
Jon Arryn, a dear friend to the king, had met an untimely end, and Robert had long harbored suspicions that his death had not been entirely natural...but it made no sense for Petyr to do it...
He was close to Jon , him being the one who brought Littlefinger to the capital to serve as the Master of Coin.
As Petyr Baelish opened his mouth to respond, a fervent voice pierced through the tension in the throne room. It was the voice of a Septon priest, his words filled with righteous conviction.
"There is no need, your grace!" the Septon declared, his eyes blazing with fervor. "The gods themselves have spoken! I have seen the dead myself! Before they collapsed, they were housing the divine! Just look at the cursed one's hands! He can't use them anymore. That is divine punishment!"
The Septon's words echoed through the hall, and all eyes turned to Petyr Baelish, who stood before the Iron Throne with both of his hands hanging limp and lifeless. His paralysis was undeniable, a visible mark of something inexplicable and foreboding.
The court, once filled with whispers of curses and betrayal, now bore witness to a chilling spectacle. The somber atmosphere grew heavier as the implication of divine retribution settled upon them all.
Petyr Baelish, despite the mounting evidence and the dire circumstances, summoned the last vestiges of his cunning. With a voice that trembled with desperation, he attempted to deny all accusations, his eyes darting around the room for any sign of sympathy or understanding.
"I'm framed," he protested, his words coming out in gasps. "This is a conspiracy, a vile plot to ruin me! I've done nothing—"
But his protestations were abruptly cut short, replaced by a fit of violent coughing. Blood speckled his lips as he doubled over as if something were stabbing him from the inside. The courtiers and nobles watched in a horrified hush as the master of coin's frantic denials were replaced by the harrowing sounds of his suffering.
Petyr, chilled to the bone and drenched in a cold sweat, could feel the walls closing in around him. Panic welled up within him as he realized that he could no longer rely on the silvered tongue that had served him so well in the past. His inability to lie in this moment of crisis was a damning revelation that he could not escape.
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Yet, salvation dawned from an unforeseen quarter. A resonant voice, youthful yet imbued with unwavering strength, broke the charged silence.
"He may indeed be correct," it declared with a resonance that defied the youth of its bearer.
Petyr's gaze was drawn upward, seeking the source of this unexpected lifeline. Before him , standing to the right of the Iron Throne , stood Prince Joffrey, but his transformation was staggering. Time had sculpted him into a figure almost unrecognizable to Petyr's memory.
The young prince had transformed since Petyr last laid eyes upon him, growing taller, his physique bearing the signs of martial training. His short-cropped blond hair and the newfound maturity etched upon his face lent him an air of authority that belied his youth.
The prince's unexpected defense of Petyr sent ripples of uncertainty through the throne room.
As Joffrey continued to speak, his words held a weight and wisdom far beyond his years. "This indeed seems like someone framed him," he declared, his voice steady and unwavering. "It seems a bit too convenient for Lord Baelish to lose both his hands and be accused of murder at the same time. Also, the Gods, while they surely do exist, wouldn't meddle with the affairs of us mortals, no? The way I see it, someone poisoned the master of coin, bribed some people to spew lies about him, and then poisoned them too."
Petyr couldn't help but feel a rush of hope at the prince's words. It was as if a lifeline had been thrown to him in the midst of his darkest hour. His heart soared with gratitude, even though he knew not the source of this unexpected ally.
The courtiers and nobles assembled in the throne room were left in contemplative silence, their minds whirring as they considered the prince's words. It was a stark departure from the fervor of condemnation that had gripped the room just moments before. The somber atmosphere of judgment was now infused with a palpable sense of doubt.
"Very well, then," the king declared with a regal air, his voice resonating through the grand chamber. "Let us consult our foremost expert—Maester Pycelle!" The words carried both command and authority, a testament to his royal station, as he beckoned for the aged Maester to present his wisdom to the court.
The king's thunderous voice shook the air, demanding clarity amidst the swirling chaos. He turned his gaze to the aged Grand Maester Pycelle, who appeared before the court with a visage marked by a trembling apprehension.
"Y-Yes, my King," the old Maester stuttered in response to the royal summons, his frail frame seemingly fragile in the grand hall. He hesitated, a shadow of unease draped over him as he continued. "Lord Baelish sought my counsel some hours ago, Your Grace. He presented a most perplexing case—a sudden paralysis of his left arm. In all my decades as a Maester, I have never witnessed such an ailment."
The king's brow furrowed in confusion. "His left hand?" he inquired, seeking understanding. "But it appears he can't move either of them—left or right. Moreover, he seems to be afflicted by bouts of coughing blood."
"Indeed, my King," Maester Pycelle replied with a solemn nod. "Those symptoms are entirely new—a grave departure from his condition when I conducted my initial examination."
In the midst of the tension-laden silence that followed the Grand Maester's words, the Septon priest suddenly raised his voice again, his fervor unyielding. "The gods have spoken!" he cried out, his eyes filled with zealous conviction. "A curse, I say! A divine curse upon this man for his wicked deeds! Witness the punishment—the paralysis, the blood!" His words carried a sense of righteous condemnation, and many heads in the court nodded in solemn agreement.
Amidst the murmurs of the court, Prince Joffrey's voice rang out, commanding attention with a authority. "Enough!" he declared, his words cutting through the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air. His demeanor demanded respect.
"I don't believe this charade," he continued, his tone defiant and unwavering. "But pay attention, everyone. If the gods truly believe this man is guilty, why not give us a sign, hmm?"
A ripple of curiosity coursed through the assembled courtiers. Petyr felt a glimmer of hope rise within him, a beacon amidst the darkness that had enveloped him. The assassin, if that's indeed what this was, would find it nearly impossible to harm him now, surrounded by a vigilant crowd.
As the prince challenged the notion of divine intervention, Petyr's mind raced with thoughts of retribution. He would uncover the puppeteer behind this intricate scheme and make them rue the day they crossed him. And in this moment, he couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the young prince's cunning, even if it foretold challenges in the future.
Prince Joffrey, now commanding the attention of the entire court, stood tall near the Iron Throne, his voice ringing with authority and conviction. His eyes, filled with a wisdom seemed to pierce through the very heavens as he made his declaration.
"Seven Gods," he began, his words echoing throughout the throne room, "if Petyr Baelish is truly guilty of plotting the death of the former Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, we demand a sign from you. You, who see all and judge all, reveal to us the truth. If this man is guilty, show us your divine justice."
It was a bold challenge to the very gods themselves.
The words hung in the air, heavy with expectation.
The king himself was silent , watching his eldest son make such a bold statement.
The court, from the highest nobles to the lowliest servants, held their breath, waiting for some sign, some indication that would either damn or exonerate Petyr Baelish.
The silence in the throne room was deafening, broken only by the agonized hiss that escaped Petyr Baelish's lips. He doubled over his arms limply flailing by his sides, wracked by apparent pain. The entire court watched in rapt attention, some expecting divine retribution to strike him down at any moment.
But to everyone's astonishment, Petyr remained standing, his body trembling, but not consumed by the wrath of the gods as the Septon had proclaimed. It was a moment of palpable tension, the court holding its collective breath as it witnessed a man in torment, yet still defiant.
"See, my King?" Petyr's voice, though laced with pain, carried an eloquence that few could match. "I have been unjustly accused and slandered. I am feeling pain all over from the poison that is undoubtedly ravaging through my body. I beg of you to believe me and not be swayed by those that seek my death."
His plea hung in the air, a plea for life and innocence, a plea that seemed to sway some hearts in the court. Petyr had managed to regain his composure, the earlier fit of coughing blood having subsided.
King Robert, however, remained wide-eyed, staring at the man in disbelief. The entire assembly mirrored his incredulity, and the air was thick with uncertainty and fear.
It was then that a collective gasp swept through the crowd, and all eyes turned to Petyr Baelish's forehead. There, as if etched by some divine hand, a perfectly symmetrical seven-pointed star had appeared, carved right into his flesh.
The shock was palpable. Whispers of curses, betrayal, and the wrath of the gods filled the chamber once more. And in the midst of it all, Prince Joffrey, his youthful face a mask of inscrutable knowledge, allowed a fleeting smile to tug at his lips, unnoticed by those around him.
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A.N:
"Why would insults matter to me?
Insults were insults, what could they do?
A superficial person would be angry due to curses and would be happy due to praises.
These were just bystanders' way of looking at you. Those who lived according to other's points of view were really pitiful.
They are just pawns, merely restrained dogs.
What truly stalls a person's success is not talent, but mindset.
Criticize, trying to impart these morals to the people, not allowing others to have more freedom than them. In this process, they would even enjoy this ridiculous moral superiority and bliss.
Any organization, once a person is born, would impart their morals and rules, constantly brainwashing.
Those that want to surpass humanity's achievements have to break this restraint on their mindset.
Sadly, most people are trapped by this their entire lives, using this to move forward with motivation and even use their chained collar as a
symbol of pride."
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A.N 2 :
No changes in the stat sheet.
Also , I decided on the next worlds and will start planning the events that will happen there.
And so , I present you the list:
2-Avatar the last Airbender (next world)
3- Cyberpunk
4- Demon Slayer or Harry Potter
5- Mother of learning =)))
.
I also what to visit RWBY , Danmachi and MHA later , in no particular order.
And then we will get to higher level worlds like Naruto , one piece, bleach yada yada.
And....in the far future....Lord of the Mysteries and Reverend Insanity.
That's the dream , my friends , that's the dream...
Hopefully I will be an experienced enough writer at that point to make them ,,worthy,,