Chapter 124: The Bells of Mourning
The bells of King's Landing tolled without pause.
From the moment the first pale light touched the eastern horizon until long after the sun disappeared behind the Blackwater, every bell tower in the city rang in solemn mourning. Their deep, mournful notes rolled across rooftops and narrow streets like distant thunder, echoing through every market square, alleyway, and courtyard.
Black banners hung from the walls of the Red Keep, swaying heavily beneath the cold winter wind.
The capital, usually overflowing with noise and life, had fallen strangely silent.
Merchants spoke in hushed voices as they packed away their goods before sunset. Gold Cloaks patrolled the streets wearing black ribbons around their arms, their faces unusually grim. Even the taverns, where laughter and drunken songs echoed until dawn, had grown subdued. Tankards were raised quietly. Conversations became whispers.
It was as though the entire city understood that something fundamental had changed.
The Hand of the King...
Jon Arryn...
was dead.
He had passed during the night.
The official announcement came shortly after dawn.
Grand Maester Pycelle, dressed in black robes instead of his usual grey, stood before the assembled court with solemn dignity.
"It is with profound sorrow," the old maester declared, "that I announce Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, passed peacefully during the night after a sudden illness brought about by the frailty of advanced years. The realm has lost one of its wisest and most honorable servants."
No one questioned him.
Jon Arryn had lived a long life.
He had guided the Seven Kingdoms through the uncertain years following Robert's Rebellion.
He had advised a young king.
He had maintained peace among ambitious lords.
He had served the realm faithfully until his final breath.
Old age seemed a reasonable answer.
Only a handful of souls knew the truth.
A grieving widow.
A master of coin whose mockingbird hid countless schemes.
An aging Grand Maester whose hands still carried the faint scent of poison.
The rest of Westeros mourned a great lord...
Completely unaware that murder had just changed the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
Within the royal solar, King Robert Baratheon stood alone.
No courtiers.
No servants.
No musicians.
No wine.
Only silence.
Before him stood the empty chair that Jon Arryn had occupied for nearly two decades.
Robert stared at it for a long time.
It seemed strangely small now.
Empty.
Lifeless.
His thoughts drifted backward through the years.
He remembered a younger man.
A lord who had become far more than a guardian.
He remembered Jon Arryn standing beside him after the Battle of the Trident, placing a reassuring hand upon his shoulder while the weight of a broken kingdom rested on his back.
He remembered being scolded after drunken feasts.
He remembered endless lessons about justice, duty, and restraint—lessons Robert rarely admitted he needed.
He remembered Jon Arryn standing proudly beside him during his coronation.
When the crown had felt unbearably heavy...
It had been Jon Arryn who convinced him he could carry it.
"You stubborn old fool..."
Robert muttered, his voice rough.
"You were always cleaning up my messes."
A faint smile appeared upon his face.
Then it vanished.
He lowered himself heavily into his chair.
For the first time in many years...
King Robert Baratheon wept.
Not with loud sobs.
Not with drunken rage.
Only silent tears slowly traced the scars upon his weathered face.
Jon Arryn had not merely been his Hand.
He had been the closest thing Robert had ever known to a father.
The great oaken door opened quietly.
Ser Barristan Selmy stepped inside.
His spotless white cloak trailed softly across the stone floor.
The old knight immediately understood what he was witnessing.
He lowered his head respectfully.
Without speaking a single word...
He turned...
And silently closed the door behind him.
Some grief deserved witnesses.
Others deserved solitude.
High above King's Landing, Queen Cersei Lannister stood upon one of the Red Keep's balconies.
The winter wind pulled at her golden hair while she looked across the city below.
Everywhere she turned...
Black banners fluttered.
Jaime Lannister approached quietly, his white cloak shifting in the breeze.
For several moments they simply stood together.
Watching.
Listening to the endless bells.
Finally Jaime broke the silence.
"Whatever he discovered..."
"He carried it to the grave."
Cersei did not answer immediately.
Jon Arryn had become dangerous.
His questions had grown too precise.
His visits to certain books.
His conversations with Stannis.
The pieces had begun fitting together.
Now...
That danger was gone.
Or at least...
It should have been.
Yet an uneasy feeling settled deep within her.
Her instincts whispered that problems rarely disappeared.
They merely changed shape.
She looked toward the distant horizon beyond the city walls.
"The realm will need another Hand."
Jaime gave a faint nod.
"And Robert already knows who he'll choose."
"Ned Stark."
Cersei's expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
"Yes."
She turned away from the balcony.
"If Robert rides north..."
"...everything changes."
Far below them, the bells continued to ring.
Across the city...
Across the countryside...
Across the Seven Kingdoms...
The news spread from castle to castle.
From village to village.
One old man had closed his eyes forever.
With that single death...
The peace that had endured since Robert's Rebellion began to crack.
Kings would ride.
Great lords would make their moves.
Old friendships would be tested.
Ancient rivalries would awaken.
And the game that had slept for nearly seventeen years...
Had finally begun.
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Author's Note:
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📖 Reborn as Jon Snow with God System:
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