[ WP ] The King is dying and decides to abdicate his throne before he dies . During the coronation ceremony , he places the crown on a servant 's head and declares him king , rather than one of his two sons .

The fire of twilight is chasing the blue from the sky as the cloaked figure reaches the wall at the top of the hill. The wall itself is solid hearthstone, older than the Elders themselves and impervious to even dragonfire; the gate is free of decoration, naked bars of pure black iron. To either side of the entrance, weather-worn statues stare solemnly towards the distant sunset, blades clasped at their sides. 
 
 This is a graveyard of kings. 
 
 The figure makes his way to the entrance and tests the heavy gate with a gloved hand. Wards carved into the steel bars of the entrance glow faintly. A faint whisper swirls around the man like the suggestion of a breeze. The sound is less like wind and more of the same creed as that of a hand reaching for a sword. He draws back his hood, red hair glinting in the twilight. His voice rings out: `` Rowan son of Edre, Left Hand of Robert Deschain.'' 
 
 A breath of silence. The whisper picks up again, now more questioning than threatening. The man nods in response. 
 
 `` It is.'' 
 
 An almost invisible tension in the air drops away and the whisper fades. The man reaches for the gates and, this time, they open at his touch. He strides through the graveyard, cloak flickering behind him. Of the many plaques, there is only one that appears new and yet unmarred by time and tide, a headstone of white marble. 
 
 > ROBERT, SON OF CARINTH, OF THE HOUSE OF DESCHAIN 
 
 > 9/17 MARK - 24/13 HARVEST 
 
 The cloaked man comes to a stop in front of the simple grave. He touches his forehead in salute. 
 
 `` Sorry it took so long,'' he says quietly. One hand reaches into his pouch and takes out a pair of keshi reeds. He strikes a match and lights both of them, placing one at the foot of the headstone. The man raises the other to his mouth and takes a long pull, blowing smoke into the darkening sky. 
 
 `` Took a while to get it through Bridenvale, what with me declared a traitor to the throne and all. And I had a devil of a time with the Rangers, they're trickier than they look.'' 
 
 The man pauses. He considers the grave at his feet. 
 
 `` But it's done, Robert. The Crown of Seven wo n't be harming anyone ever again.'' 
 
 The headstone is silent. The pair of guardsmen that appeared behind him, however, not so much. 
 
 `` Confirm, one trespasser on foot in the Royal Graveyard,'' one of them is saying. There is the crunch of a crossbow being primed. `` Step away from the grave. Place your hands on your head.'' Then, quieter: `` How the hell should *I* know how he got past the wards? That is n't my job.'' 
 
 The man sighs. He raises his hands resignedly and turns to face the guardsmen. One of the sentries takes a step backward with a sharp intake of breath. `` Black hands.'' 
 
 His comrade glances over. `` What?'' 
 
 `` That-'' The first guard gestures at the cloaked man with his crossbow. `` That's Rowan Edre!'' 
 
 `` Who?'' 
 
 `` The hand of Robert Deschain!'' The guardsman is incredulous. `` *He stole the crown! *'' 
 
 The second guardsman is gaping at both of them now. The first raises his crossbow carefully and aims it at the cloaked man. `` Rowan, son of Edre, you are under arrest by order of the high throne. And you're going to have to come with us. *Right now. *'' 
 
 Silent until now, the red-haired man turns back to the grave. A pair of crossbows immediately swivel to cover him. `` Robert Deschain,'' the red-haired man says formally. `` Has all your will been done?'' 
 
 A confused silence follows. Satisfied, the man turns back to face the perplexed guards. `` Alright,'' he says. `` I'm ready.''
