Chapter 27 – The Shifting Balance
Oldtown, Citadel of the Maesters
In a dimly lit chamber filled with the faint scent of melted wax, a single candle flickered on a polished oak table.
A young acolyte in a gray robe stood respectfully beside an aged archmaester—his beard streaked with white, a heavy chain resting against his chest—quietly reporting the latest intelligence.
"Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone remains elusive," the acolyte began. "We tried contacting Maester Cressen, but his replies were vague. Rumor has it a red-robed woman has arrived on the island. He seems... cautious about the matter."
The old man's brow furrowed. The acolyte continued.
"Prince Doran of Dorne is still observing the chaos in King's Landing from afar. He's shown no signs of intervention. However, the Martell family has begun recruiting hedge wizards from the countryside—apparently quite intrigued by recent events."
"Renly Baratheon is doing much the same. He's just left Storm's End, planning to rally troops from the Stormlands while watching the situation unfold in the capital. But after... that incident, he seems in no rush to move."
"As for Casterly Rock—it's locked in fierce battle with the North. Ravens can barely slip past their archers, but some estimate that the war will soon halt altogether once they hear the news."
The acolyte hesitated, then frowned. "Are wizards truly that powerful, Archmaester? There have been mages meddling in Westerosi politics before, but never with such impact."
The old man shook his head. "This is different. Those so-called wizards of old could never threaten—let alone influence—a king. That's why they were dismissed as charlatans. But this one... this black sorcerer managed it."
The acolyte still looked unconvinced. His role as an information gatherer across the Seven Kingdoms made him skeptical of anything that smelled of superstition. And yet, every raven that reached the Citadel told the same story: the entire realm was shaken by one mysterious man.
"Believe what you will," the Archmaester said softly. "But consider this—Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, is not easily swayed. He's a cautious man. His restraint alone could change the outcome of this war."
The acolyte nodded uncertainly, not entirely grasping the connection between the Stark lord's prudence and the sudden pause in the fighting. Still, he pressed on.
"Maester Marwyn has already departed for the North upon hearing the news."
The old man sighed—not in anger, but in weary acceptance. "Perhaps that's for the best. Marwyn is the only one among us who truly studies the arcane. If anyone can uncover this black sorcerer's nature and intent, it's him."
"...Anything else?"
"Nothing further, Archmaester."
"Then you may go."
The acolyte bowed and left.
Alone, the Archmaester turned toward the corner of the room, where a silver candelabrum held a slender, crystalline cylinder—the fabled glass candle.
Its surface shimmered faintly, though it was unlit.
"Mystery upon mystery…" he murmured. "The glass candle sleeps—so why has magic awakened?"
---
King's Landing
Elsewhere in the capital, the atmosphere was just as tense.
"Our dear king is throwing a fit in the Maegor's Holdfast," whispered a tall, thin man to a rotund, bald companion. "He's shattered several antique vases from Aegon's era, stabbed two serving girls, and even slapped the Grand Maester."
"Oh, the old fool deserved that," the bald man lisped in his peculiar sing-song tone. "But what was the reason, I wonder?"
"The reason," the thin one replied, unfazed by his master's mannerisms, "was the notebook. You can guess—His Grace is livid about losing face before the realm. But more than that, he's obsessed with what dark secrets might have been written in it."
The bald man tilted his head, eyes glinting. "And the Queen Mother?"
"She's locked herself inside Maegor's Tower. Some say she's frightened. Personally, I think the incident reminded her of... unpleasant memories."
"Unpleasant?" The bald man feigned ignorance.
"Something about a forest witch, my lord. You know the tale. It left quite a mark on her as a child."
"Ah, yes… if only Ser Jaime were here—we might have been treated to another romantic tragedy in armor." The bald man sighed dramatically. "And the Hound?"
"He fled after knocking out the king."
"Pity. The Hound truly was fond of little Joff, though the boy never returned it."
Both men chuckled softly, though beneath the bald man's smile flickered a shadow of concern.
"A king without soldiers," he murmured, "and a mother who commands the lion's share of the realm's power... if the Queen were to fall ill, Lord Tywin would not be merciful."
His companion smirked. "After all, the Queen has more than one son."
The bald man's smile deepened, but his eyes turned cold. "And now... a sorcerer enters the game."
---
At Sea
"Thank you all for your hard work. Once we reach Dragonstone, I'll see you well rewarded," said Eddard Stark, his limp more noticeable on the uneven deck.
He stood before the crew, his expression stern but his tone lighter than it had been in King's Landing. Since escaping the capital, he hadn't rested for a moment—organizing routes, encouraging sailors, and ensuring no Lannister spies remained aboard.
Though he was no politician, Eddard Stark was ever the cautious man.
"No thanks needed, my lord," said the ship's captain with a nervous grin. "It's an honor to carry you and your family."
Even as he spoke, his eyes flicked toward a young figure standing quietly at the stern—Charles, gazing out over the black waters beneath the moonlight. The captain quickly looked away, unease flickering in his gaze.
With a sorcerer powerful enough to crush a man into a doll with his bare hands aboard their ship, not a single sailor dared to slack off. The fear of invoking the wrath of the "black wizard" kept them working in nervous silence—every rope pulled tighter, every command followed instantly.
Eddard noticed their fear, though he said nothing. After all, these men were not his own bannermen; their loyalty was bought, not earned. Instead of reassurance, he merely gave a few curt reminders to stay vigilant, then limped toward the bow of the ship—where a young man leaned casually against the railing, the sea wind tossing his dark hair.
Eddard's expression was grave as he approached.
"We can't afford to let our guard down," he said. "You may hold her life in your hand, and that keeps the Queen at bay—for now. But she has many enemies, Charles. You're one of them."
Charles glanced at him sideways, a faint smile curling on his lips. "Oh? And you're not?"
"I…" Eddard hesitated, the truth flickering briefly in his eyes before he looked away. "Let's change the subject. Tell me—can your doll really kill a man?"
Charles chuckled, his tone unreadable. "Would you believe me if I said it couldn't?"
"Perhaps," Eddard replied stiffly, "but I would never take that risk."
"Neither would the Lannisters," Charles murmured, his gaze drifting back to the dark waves below.
The spell he'd used wasn't truly lethal—it was called the Curse of Agony, not Curse of Death. All it did was inflict unbearable pain for a brief time, its power limited by both distance and duration. Had his enemies shown more courage—or had that reckless boy-king not panicked—the "rescue mission" might have ended in disaster instead of triumph.
In truth, the entire realm had been deceived.
But that secret would die with him.
Terror came not from strength, but from mystery—and Charles understood that better than anyone.
After a long silence, Eddard spoke again, voice heavy with sincerity.
"Thank you. You saved my life… again."
Charles tilted his head slightly, distracted, eyes following the churning water below. "And how do you plan to repay me for that?"
"What is it you want?"
He shrugged lazily. "Hard to say. I'm not much interested in titles—lordships mean little to me. You don't strike me as particularly wealthy either, and I've already got a chest full of gold. As for your daughters—one's too plain, the other's too naïve. I'll pass."
Eddard frowned. He'd never considered his daughters as bargaining chips, but still couldn't help defending them. "Arya may lack grace, but Sansa is not a fool."
Charles smirked. "We have a saying for that kind of girl. We call her 'the third fool'—because she's not just a fool, she's one worse than the second."
The foreign jest went over Eddard's head; in Westeros, Sansa's name bore no such meaning. Yet recalling his eldest daughter's behavior in King's Landing, he found no argument strong enough to deny it.
Then Charles spoke again—softly, almost carelessly—but his words struck the Lord of Winterfell like a hammer.
"How about this," he said. "What if I helped you fight your war?"
Eddard blinked, stunned. For a long moment, he could only stare, unable to tell whether the young man was joking—or offering to change the fate of the North itself.
(End of Chapter)