Chapter 26 — A Threat in Broad Daylight
"Stop—! Or I'll kill the Queen!"
The voice was loud, hoarse, and cracked with fury, echoing from atop the statue of Baelor the Blessed. Everyone in the square looked up, but all they could see were the man's black trousers and worn brown boots. His face was hidden from view.
"Kill the Queen?"
"Who's that lunatic?"
"Get down from there!"
The crowd jeered, brushing off the words as madness. The executioner glanced up briefly, unimpressed, and prepared to resume his duty.
At the same time, a unit of Gold Cloaks pushed through the panicked masses, spears raised, their commander barking orders.
Then the man atop the statue gritted his teeth, clutched the twisted rag doll in his hand—
and pinched.
"Aahhh—!"
A scream split the air.
Heads turned. And then they froze.
It was the Queen herself.
Cersei's hands clutched her flawless face as she shrieked in agony — raw, human, and utterly terrified.
"The Queen!"
"Your Grace, what's happening?"
The executioner stopped cold. Even the young king and council stared in shock.
The hoarse voice rang out again from above:
"See that? That was just her face. Keep testing me, and next time it'll be her head."
A wave of silence rippled through the crowd—
then someone shouted:
"Witchcraft!"
"Run! He's a sorcerer!"
"A black magician!"
"Mother, I'm scared!"
"Get away from him—death is in the air!"
Panic exploded. The square descended into chaos, people trampling one another in blind terror. Charles stood high above, unmoved, his sharp eyes sweeping the scene below. He had no interest in the frightened mob—his focus was fixed entirely on the platform.
There, nobles and knights alike were staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and dread.
After a long pause, Grand Maester Pycelle lifted his trembling gaze and croaked, "Threatening the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is… most unwise, stranger."
Charles didn't bother replying.
He simply pinched the doll's leg.
A scream tore from Cersei's throat—sharper, more hysterical than before.
That was his answer.
The pain was invisible, but real enough to make even a lioness whimper. Whatever magic this was, it terrified everyone who witnessed it.
"What do you want?" Cersei gasped through clenched teeth, her voice quivering between rage and fear.
Finally, Charles exhaled softly, feigning calm.
"Too many people here," he said lightly. "Crowds make me nervous. Who knows if one of them's a would-be assassin? You might want to clear them out before we continue."
In truth, his nerves were taut. He hadn't known the exact timing of Ned Stark's sentencing. The moment the bells rang, he had sprinted for the square.
He had expected to arrive early, to position himself for a clean rescue. But by the time he reached the site, the plaza was packed, the crowd swelling by the minute. Pushed and jostled from all sides, Charles had barely managed to squeeze his way forward — until he found himself at the base of the great statue.
There was no room for hesitation.
While the crowd held its breath under the watchful eye of the High Septon, he climbed the statue, doll in hand.
The timing had been razor-thin.
Had he waited any longer, Ned's head might have rolled.
Now, though, the plan was in motion — and he couldn't afford to falter.
The Gold Cloaks, unnerved by what they'd just witnessed, obeyed without question. Under their captain's barked commands, they began driving the citizens away from the statue.
The terrified townsfolk fled at once, forming a wide ring of empty space around the monument. No one dared come closer. Still, none could look away — not from the stranger who dared defy the throne itself.
"We've done as you asked," Pycelle stammered. "Now… may we know what you demand?"
Charles' tone turned cool, steady.
"Release Eddard Stark. Prepare a ship in Blackwater Bay — crew shackled, a chest of gold on board, and my notebook. Do that, and no one dies."
"Forgive us, sorcerer," the Maester quavered. "We're… not sure what notebook—"
"Enough."
The interruption didn't come from Charles this time, but from the young, golden-haired king himself.
"A king does not yield to threats!"
Joffrey's voice cracked with fury. "Put away your filthy tricks, or I'll see your head on a spike!"
Charles rolled his eyes.
"I already look good. I don't need your approval."
He squeezed the doll again.
Cersei's agonized scream cut through the air.
Joffrey's face flushed scarlet.
"You bastard! I'll kill you! I'll flay your family alive—send the men to the brothels, I'll make the whores of King's Landing take turns with—"
His words turned to incoherent howling.
For all his golden hair and royal title, he looked less like a king and more like a spoiled, sputtering street brat.
Charles smirked faintly.
"Careful, little lion. Next time, I might use you as the doll—and make the crowd watch while I crush your precious jewels."
"Y-you—!"
Joffrey's voice rose to a shriek. "Kill him! Kill that cur! I want his head on the walls—now!"
But before the Gold Cloaks could move, a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from behind him.
"Hold."
The Hound—tall, broad, helmet shaped like a snarling dog—stepped forward.
He looked up at Charles, then turned his glare toward the knights beside him.
"Stand down."
Silence fell again.
No one argued.
Even Joffrey, pale with fury, could only clutch his throbbing hand after punching the Hound's armor — and howl in pain.
Joffrey's face twitched with fury, his voice trembling with rage.
"Good dog!? Go—cut off his head right now! I want it hanging on the city walls!"
"..."
"Good dog!?"
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty."
"You damned mutt!" Joffrey spun around and again threw a punch at the tall knight beside him—only to yelp in pain when his fist met solid steel armor.
The humiliation only made him angrier. Ignoring the towering knight, he drew the sword from his waist with a hiss, his teeth clenched in a snarl, and stormed down the platform toward the Great Sept of Baelor.
"Ser Ilyn! Bring the men! Come with me!"
"Joff! No—stop!"
Cersei's desperate cry echoed across the plaza, but her son ignored her completely. He charged down the steps like a maddened beast—only for his world to abruptly go dark.
Pain lanced through his neck, and everything faded to black as he collapsed.
"Do as he ordered," came a low, muffled voice—rough and cold.
It was the Hound. The tall knight in the dog-faced helm turned, glaring sharply at Ser Ilyn Payne, who had just pulled off his executioner's hood. The look was part warning, part command.
The platform fell silent. The great and powerful of King's Landing exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak.
At last, under Queen Cersei's trembling command, they moved.
Grand Maester Pycelle, shaking like a leaf, ordered his attendants to fetch his notes from the Red Keep. Tyrion stood frozen, expression unreadable, while servants released their grip on the kneeling, bald-headed Eddard Stark.
Sansa, tears glistening in her eyes, suddenly broke free. Her red hair flashed in the sunlight as she lifted her skirts and ran toward her father. Some knights moved to stop her—but the Hound stepped in front of them.
"Do you want the Queen Mother hurt again?" he growled.
That one line froze everyone. No one dared to move further.
Charles watched the unfolding chaos in silence. He didn't say a word—but the puppet in his hand drew every eye.
No one knew who this man truly was, nor why the doll in his grasp carried such strange, terrifying power. But the fact that Queen Cersei had inexplicably "collapsed" moments ago was undeniable proof enough.
No one wanted to provoke him.
No one dared to get close.
And so, amidst that dreadful tension, a scene destined to echo through the ages quietly etched itself into memory.
Gold, ledgers, a ship, and crew—everything was prepared in record time. Under heavy escort, Charles and his companions were ushered through the square, along the bustling streets, and down to the docks.
There, waiting for them, Arya's eyes lit up with disbelief and relief as she saw them arrive.
In the end, the bewildered Stark family stood aboard a ship with black sails, staring at the confused, fearful Gold Cloaks shrinking below. The ship drifted steadily away, and the harbor of King's Landing became nothing more than a fading black speck on the horizon.
That day, a mysterious sorcerer, before the eyes of nobles and commoners alike, threatened the monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, rescued Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell—and extorted a chest of gold from the Crown.
Though the royal court would later do everything in its power to suppress the story, no decree could silence the thousands of mouths that had witnessed it.
Ravens took flight across Westeros.
And the Seven Kingdoms trembled.
(End of Chapter)