Chapter 65 – Judgment and Omens
"Remember—no matter what, extinguish the candle before the twelve days are up!"
---
Eddie's warning echoed insistently in Charles's mind.
He stood before an altar drawn across a table made of locust wood, staring at the strange symbols etched and painted across its surface. The entire tabletop looked as though it had been overlaid with a spell formation.
A crimson ring of refined crystal powder formed an oval around the altar, inscribed with dense clusters of runes and glyphs. Inside the circle, a triangular structure had been arranged. At its center stood a specially crafted red candle, embedded within a silver chalice filled with clear water mixed with the girl's blood and strands of her hair.
The flame burned an eerie scarlet.
All windows in the storage room had been sealed shut. Not a single breath of wind entered. Only the slow rhythm of Charles's breathing caused the flame to sway ever so gently.
"It looks… almost ordinary."
Despite the simplicity of its appearance, Charles did not dare underestimate it.
Exhaling slowly, he closed the door behind him and sat cross-legged before the altar.
The candle had to be watched around the clock. If it went out—even once—everything would be lost.
Because he could use the warp gate to offset rest through time difference, he had no intention of entrusting this task to anyone else.
---
He glanced down at the small silver cross in his palm, brows knitting.
"What does this mean, exactly…?"
Since follow-up intervention would be required, he couldn't hide this matter from the Church. Before the ritual, he had gone to the Church of Saint Sai to report the situation.
Father Wuxi hadn't questioned him—but before he left, the priest pressed a delicate silver pendant into his hand.
It resembled the one Charles used in spellcasting, though smaller and more finely crafted.
"If you're ever in danger," the priest had said quietly, "show this."
That was all.
Before Charles could ask anything else, the beginning of prayers forced him unceremoniously out of the cathedral.
"Some kind of identification badge? Or something stranger?"
He studied the pendant for a long while… then shook his head with a helpless smile.
"So much for 'no special treatment.'"
With a quiet chuckle, he set the pendant on the floor beside him, retrieved a small booklet, took several steps back, gave one last glance to the altar—
And summoned the gate.
In the next instant, he vanished.
Whatever happened next, at least—for now—things were stabilizing.
And he could focus on strengthening himself.
---
King's Landing — The Red Keep — Throne Hall
"By the authority of Stannis II of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—
I, Eddard Stark, Duke of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Hand of the King, hereby sentence you to castration.
This punishment shall be carried out immediately."
The Great Hall stood silent beneath Ned Stark's cold, unwavering voice.
He sat upon a cruel-looking iron chair, one hand gripping the dragon-shaped armrest, grey eyes fixed steadily upon the figure below.
The condemned man collapsed to his knees in terror.
"L–Lord Hand! I was framed! I paid her—she took the money! I swear! Please! Don't do this to me—I beg you!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears.
Ned turned his head slightly.
A knight at his side nodded.
Two guards seized the man and dragged him toward a side chamber.
But just as they reached the doorway, panic broke what little composure he had left.
"Wait—WAIT! I repent! I'll take the black! I'll join the Night's Watch! I swear it! Just don't—don't—!"
The knight turned to Ned.
Ned gave a slight nod.
With a sharp gesture, the guards changed direction… hauling the sobbing man toward the dungeons instead.
"Disgusting crows… always ruining the fun," someone muttered among the courtiers.
"What's the point of preserving that dump at the Wall anyway? White Walkers? Bah—just fairy tales."
"It's a trash heap for trash," another scoffed. "What else would it be for?"
"Don't forget the wildlings…" someone murmured.
---
These whispers did nothing to slow the proceedings.
The next criminal—a thief—was dragged in.
This one refused the black.
So the executioner amputated the man's hand in a single clean chop.
Charles stood among the crowd, watching silently.
He found the Seven Kingdoms' justice system refreshingly direct.
"Cut it where they sinned. Simple," he muttered.
"…A bit unhygienic though. Infections will kill half of them."
Then another group entered the hall.
This time—not criminals.
But petitioners.
"I served His Grace faithfully! How can this be my reward?! Lord Hand—my lord—you must give me justice!"
A pot-bellied middle-aged man in clean, expensive clothes collapsed to his knees in the middle of the throne hall, his face twisted in grief as he wept openly.
"My lord! My lord, something terrible has happened—!"
Ned Stark looked down at him. "What happened?"
"My son… my son is dead!" the man sobbed. "Those animals in the city deserve death—death to them all!"
Between broken sobs, he poured out his story—much of it rambling and incoherent with anguish—but before long the truth emerged.
The merchant's son had gone out one evening and never returned.
After days of frantic searching, the household finally found his body in a filthy alley.
His clothes had been stripped away completely. His corpse bore countless injuries. His eyes were open in death.
In today's King's Landing, with war refugees flooding in alongside cutthroats, broken soldiers, and criminals driven mad by hunger, such atrocities were no longer rare.
What was unusual… was the man demanding justice.
"The Staglanders were loyal to His Grace long before King's Landing fell!" someone murmured among the courtiers. "They played a critical role in Stannis taking the capital so quickly."
"This makes the matter… delicate."
"Delicate or not, the city's overflowing with people. Where are we supposed to find the killer? In a gutter? In a thousand gutters?"
Low discussion rippled through the hall.
Ned attempted to soothe the merchant, promising an investigation. But the man refused to let go—crawling across the cold marble like a madman, wailing and beating the floor.
Just as Ned's patience finally snapped—
The man suddenly shouted:
"The wizard! The wizard, my lord! Let him divine the murderer! Yes—that's it! He can find who killed my son!"
The hall erupted.
Every head turned.
Witches, warlocks, necromancers—
People avoided black wizards as they would a plague. And yet this man intended to ask one for help?
Had he been drinking Arbor wine?
Or had grief destroyed what little sense he had left?
Whispers spread like insects.
And among the crowd, Charles had the uncomfortable sensation of being struck by lightning for no good reason.
He considered slipping away quietly.
But then, as his eyes flicked toward the merchant—
He frowned.
Without a word, Charles turned and left the hall.
---
Not long after, the merchant and the Hand of the King were escorted into a side chamber.
The merchant turned pale at once when he saw Charles standing there.
"Y–You're…?"
Charles didn't answer.
Instead, he asked calmly, "How long has he been dead?"
"T–This morning," the merchant stammered. "They found him just before dawn."
"Where is the body?"
"At… at the church…"
"Bring him here."
"Well, the priest is still—"
"That's your problem," Charles said flatly.
He shot Ned a glance, then turned away.
---
Once they were alone, Ned spoke quietly.
"You came here to observe court proceedings?"
"No," Charles replied. "I was planning to borrow some men and search the lower districts. Then this happened."
"This man's thinking is irrational," Ned frowned. "The Staglanders' loyalty does not exempt them from the law, yes—but neither does grief give one the right to cause unrest."
"I wanted to ignore him too," Charles said. "But don't you find the timing… odd?"
"Odd?"
"That he suddenly remembered necromancers exist," Charles said coldly.
"Almost like he rehearsed it."
Ned went silent.
"Someone might have told him to do this," Charles continued.
Melisandre's words crossed his mind:
Flames. Sorcery. Blood.
Burned flesh.
Ned finally said, "It's possible. But even so, he won't confess just because we suspect him."
Then, suddenly more alert—
"And you don't intend to force a confession, do you?"
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. I just want to frighten him."
Ned's expression hardened.
"By turning his son into a corpse? Or dragging up a bloody imitation of life?"
"You forget what reputation you already carry. Right now, people fear you. If you do such things—you will become something else entirely."
Charles tilted his head and shrugged.
"Relax."
"This time…"
"…there will be no blood."