Chapter 62: Idle Talk
After entering King's Landing, most of the army was assigned to guard the city walls, while a portion was stationed within the Red Keep itself. Charles followed this group inside the castle and eventually met, in the Hand's Tower, someone he hadn't seen for a long time—Eddard Stark.
The Hand's Tower stood quietly not far from Maegor's Holdfast. The stone tower was tall and solid, and from its gold-trimmed circular windows, one could look out over the entirety of King's Landing.
Low rooftops stretched endlessly across the uneven cityscape, broken only by colorful palaces and sharp spires here and there. Wide and narrow streets crisscrossed like tangled veins, and the people below—seen from this height—resembled tiny black ants, crawling slowly through a city that was both vast and suffocating.
In the distance, soldiers swarmed along the great city walls. From here they looked hazy and indistinct, but even so, their constant motion was visible. Three enormous trebuchets stood in a nearby training yard, their dark colors oddly out of place.
"Before the Lannisters withdrew, they took everything they could carry with them," Ned said quietly.
"Gold, weapons, pyromancers, books… and King's Landing's Three Whores."
"The Three Whores?" Charles turned in surprise to the man seated at the Hand's desk.
Ned now had short dark hair growing back over his scalp, and a rough ring of beard and stubble framed his jaw.
"The three trebuchets," he replied evenly.
Setting down his quill, he looked up at the young man by the window.
"Renly's army could arrive at any time, and the Red Keep has hardly known peace lately. You'll stay here in the Hand's Tower for now. If you wish, you may also attend the daily trials in the throne room. I could use someone I trust to offer advice."
"And your councillors?" Charles asked.
"Stannis's councillors," Ned corrected coldly. Then he snorted.
"One moment they were licking the Lannisters' boots, and the next they were groveling before His Grace. How do you expect me to trust men like that?"
"Frankly, I wish the Lannisters had taken them with them, and the Small Council too. I remember everything those men have done."
"Well," Charles said dryly, "it's hard to forget being stabbed in the back."
"You mean Littlefinger?" Ned shook his head.
"He's too clever for that. He ran long ago."
He spoke in a calm voice, but Charles could still hear the trace of bitterness beneath it. Still, Charles had no interest in digging into the tangled mess between Ned and his former "romantic rival." There was something else that concerned him far more.
"I don't think you sitting here is a good thing," Charles said pointedly.
Ned fell silent for a moment, then replied,
"Because I once served as the Hand of the King, His Grace has entrusted me with this responsibility."
"So you just handed over military command like that?" Charles asked.
"An army does not need two mouths giving orders. And King Stannis's record on the battlefield is enough to put my mind at ease in entrusting the army to him."
Then Ned shifted the topic.
"You did a great service at Riverrun. His Grace intends to grant you Harrenhal."
"Harrenhal?" Charles blinked in surprise, then let out a dry laugh.
Harrenhal was ancient—older even than Aegon's Conquest. It had been built by Harren the Black, one of the seven kings of Westeros at the time. Trusting in its colossal walls, Harren had refused to yield to the Conqueror… and was reduced to ashes beneath dragonfire from the sky.
As Charles knew it, Harrenhal was the largest and most heavily fortified castle in Westeros. Its walls were sheer and massive, its defenses formidable, and its grounds vast—its gatehouse alone was bigger than the main keeps of many fortresses.
That was its strength.
And also its curse.
The castle was so enormous that merely maintaining it could bankrupt an ordinary lord. Worse, it seemed haunted by ill fortune. Every family that held Harrenhal had met a grim end.
Harren the Black's entire line perished in dragonfire.
House Strong was consumed in a mysterious fire.
House Lothston faded into obscurity.
And the most recent lordly family, House Whent, fell into ruin—leaving only a lonely widow behind, who was eventually driven off when Tywin Lannister seized the castle for its military value.
By now, the poor woman was probably dead in some nameless corner of the realm.
All of this had been told to Charles back when Roose Bolton planned his assault on Harrenhal. At the time, Charles had thought the place reeked of cursed ground.
And now…
"That's… quite a philosophical gift," he said with a shrug.
"But I'm not his vassal. He doesn't really need to do this."
"Merit must be rewarded," Ned said. "His Grace insists.
That said—it'll have to wait until the war is over."
"Of course." Charles sounded indifferent.
Even if Harrenhal were given to him, he had no intention of living there. No money, no troops, and one cursed fortress in the middle of nowhere? He'd have to be an idiot to settle in a haunted castle just to be buried under bird droppings and bad karma.
If he truly believed he could survive alone, he would've ditched the army long ago and wandered free. Instead, sticking close to House Stark was the smartest choice he could make.
After glancing at the pile of letters on Ned's desk, Charles added casually,
"This city isn't stable. You might want to prepare for trouble as soon as possible."
He hadn't intended to interfere in politics—but since Ned was now acting as the realm's chancellor, a warning seemed appropriate.
Ned sighed softly.
"I noticed something was wrong the moment I entered the city. The only reason there's no riot yet is that King's Landing has just gained a new ruler—and his reputation is decent. But if His Grace performs worse than the Lannisters…"
"Will your king make mistakes?" Charles asked.
"No," Ned said firmly.
"But his enemies certainly will."
"So…"
"Since the Lannisters abandoned the city so smoothly," Ned continued, "they won't let us take it just as smoothly. I've made preparations—I hope they're enough."
Then he shook his head.
"Robert is dead. He left no legitimate heirs. His brother Stannis is the rightful successor. I wrote to Robert's other brother… but Renly refused to listen. He chose rebellion."
"Worse, he even used Robert's own rebellion against House Targaryen to justify his claim—spouting nonsense about power being taken by conquest."
Charles mentally snorted.
Power does come from the sword. That had never been wrong.
Robert had seized the throne by force, and suddenly when someone else tried the same, it was "treason"? Ridiculous.
But Charles kept the thought to himself. He had better things to consider—like magic. He had no intention of drowning in the swamp of political nonsense.
Ned continued.
"My wife, Catelyn, wished to thank you in person… but she couldn't leave our children and has already returned to Winterfell."
"Please. Spare me the thanks—I'm already sick of hearing it."
"It still ought to be said," Ned replied gently.
After a pause, he hesitated.
"When we were at Riverrun, Catelyn's father fell gravely ill… ah… she asked me to mention it to you."
His expression was awkward—but the implication was clear.
"I can heal wounds," Charles said flatly.
"I can't grant extra years of life."
"I thought as much," Ned nodded.
He didn't seem disappointed—more like resigned.
The conversation drifted to strategies and coming storms. Compared to their earlier callous meetings, Ned seemed… lighter than before.
Charles wondered if he had finally come to terms with something.
Or perhaps time apart from Catelyn had sharpened appreciation.
After chatting for a while, Charles took his leave.
---
As he stepped out of the Hand's Tower, Charles intended to head toward the underground districts and search for dragon bones.
Instead, someone intercepted him.
"This is the obsidian you requested. The situation was unstable, so it took longer than expected. My apologies."
At the tower's entrance stood a plainly dressed middle-aged man, setting down a linen sack at his feet.
"Thank you, Ser Davos," Charles said politely.
"No, I should be thanking you—Ser Cranston."
"For what?"
"I'm not entirely sure… but when Lady Melisandre was still on Dragonstone, His Grace—well, he was… troubled."
Davos subconsciously touched the leather pouch on his chest. His weathered face flickered with unease before he gave a helpless shrug.
"All I know is… we owe you our thanks."