Chapter 70 — An Uninvited Visitor
"You really stirred up quite a storm."
Eddard Stark had just led his men off the drawbridge of the Red Keep when he ran into Charles returning with his escort. He let out a breath of relief when he saw him alive, then frowned and glanced behind him.
"What happened?"
"A small discovery… but nothing too important," Charles replied, turning to glance at Ser Plummer.
"What about that man who confessed earlier?"
"He was beaten to death," Plummer answered. "Before he died, he kept muttering the name 'Kanso.' Looks like he was acting on orders."
Again, that name.
The two men exchanged glances.
"Looks like your old nemesis again," Charles said dryly. "His ears really do reach far."
Eddard sighed faintly. "Littlefinger has spent decades in King's Landing. It's no surprise he has eyes everywhere. But you're right."
"Perhaps it is time I cleaned house in the Red Keep."
As he spoke, Eddard's gaze flicked to the staff now in Charles's hand. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes—but he didn't ask.
He only nodded once, then turned and led his men away.
With war looming, the city was drowning in chaos. Trials, uprisings, shortages, unrest—Eddard scarcely rested. The fact he had personally come running at all spoke to the seriousness of what had nearly happened. There was no time for more.
Charles didn't linger either.
He returned to his room in the Hand's Tower.
Nothing unusual occurred along the way.
Either the enemy hadn't figured out how to respond—
Or hadn't realized yet what had gone wrong.
Or perhaps they simply didn't know what to do anymore.
In any case, though his unseen enemy had caused trouble, they had also revealed themselves.
A hidden assassin was dangerous.
But an exposed one?
Only a matter of time.
With Stark alerted, matters in the Red Keep would no longer be as simple for whoever was pulling strings behind the scenes.
Ironically, after "almost dying," Charles felt safer than before.
But not relaxed.
Enemy in the dark, self in the light—
Who knew what other moves might follow?
So he decided:
Until matters were clearer, he would remain inside the Red Keep.
Though he possessed this so-called "holy artifact," he couldn't carry it everywhere. And judging by what he'd seen so far, it was at best effective on common folk. Against professional assassins?
Probably useless.
Besides—
If nothing particularly interested him—
What reason did he have to wander outside?
"Better to lie low and improve my magic until the war ends," he muttered.
Decision made, he closed the door tightly.
Then lifted the staff from the table.
Now—
He would properly test it.
Was it merely a device for communicating with the faithful?
Or did it hide something more?
Was it a tool?
A relic?
Or—
Was it alive?
Sacred words left his lips.
And as the incantation deepened—
The staff in his hands began to glow.
Then tremble.
Then quiver.
Then shake.
Until finally—
The seemingly ordinary rosewood staff tore free from his palm and floated into the air.
His fingers hadn't even been gripping it tightly.
Yet it rose all the same.
Slowly.
Steadily.
Past his chest.
Past his chin.
Past his eyes.
Past his brow.
Until Charles was left staring upward at it—
Eyes filled with awe and naked curiosity.
The moment the staff reached its highest point, it suddenly dropped—like a punctured balloon losing all its air.
The fall was so abrupt that even Charles was briefly caught off guard. Thankfully, he reacted quickly and snatched it out of midair before it hit the floor.
The crystal at the top did not look even remotely impact-resistant.
But the instant the staff was back in his grasp, something changed.
A sharp pain shot through his palm.
Startled, Charles hurriedly placed the staff on the nearby desk and looked down.
An empty seven-pointed star had somehow been carved into the center of his hand.
As he stared at it, the symbol glowed faintly with a pale silver light… then gradually dimmed, blurred, and disappeared altogether.
Moments later, his palm returned to its normal color.
The star was gone.
As if it had never existed at all.
Yet a translucent notification drifting across his vision left no room for doubt:
[You have received empowerment from an unknown force.]
[Your connection to this medieval world has deepened.]
Charles frowned.
"Unknown force?"
He felt… nothing.
No surge of power.
No altered senses.
No change at all—aside from the fleeting spike of pain in his hand.
It was as though nothing had happened.
And yet something undeniably had.
At least… it didn't seem harmful.
He sat on the edge of the bed, lowering his gaze to the staff in his hand.
It looked no different than before.
Only—
It felt… lighter.
Barely so.
But enough for him to notice.
"Has it… bound itself to me?"
The staff hadn't been especially heavy to begin with, so he couldn't tell whether this was imagination or reality. Even the Eye of Truth offered no clarification.
"Is it an object?"
"A living thing?"
"And what about that voice…?"
"Does it think?"
"Does it have… something like a spirit?"
His gaze drifted back to the crystal orb at the top of the staff.
Seven faces rotated faintly within it.
The Father.
The Mother.
The Warrior.
The Maiden.
The Crone.
The Smith.
The Stranger.
All encircling the seven-pointed star.
And in that instant—
A thought struck him.
When he had spoken the sacred incantation…
That same seven-pointed star had been branded into his palm.
So then—
"Will the seven faces appear next?"
"How would they emerge?"
"I've only used purification spells so far…"
"But the Stranger represents death."
"If I use necromancy—will something respond?"
"And if it does… what exactly will happen?"
It was a dangerous idea.
And a tempting one.
But just as the thought surfaced—
A knock sounded at the door.
"Who would come looking for me now?" Charles muttered, glancing at the darkening sky outside the window.
A tense silence followed.
Cautious, he crossed the room and opened the door.
The moment he saw who stood outside—
His caution transformed instantly…
…into the desire to curse.
Suppressing the urge with great effort, Charles said coldly:
"Perhaps I should seriously consider the consequences of killing someone in this place."
"Kill someone?"
Before the man at the door could respond, a thin, trembling voice cut in from the side:
"Lord Cranston… forgive my boldness, but King Stannis is not one of your northern soldiers."
The speaker was a bald old man with a long white beard—someone Charles recognized, though not well.
[Grand Maester Pycelle — member of the Small Council.]
[Estimated age: 75–85.]
[Appears highly learned.]
[Displays hostility and vigilance toward you.]
Charles had encountered him several times already—and had long since noticed the old man's thinly veiled distaste.
In truth, most maesters disliked magic.
This one simply attempted to hide it behind manners.
"Stannis may not be from the North," Charles replied quietly,
"but he does believe in evidence."
The implication was unmistakable.
The old fox visibly shuddered and fell silent.
But Charles had already lost interest.
Instead, he turned toward the man who had knocked.
"How did you even get into the Red Keep?"
"By walking in, of course, Wizard," the elderly man replied dryly.
That voice—
Before Charles could respond, yet another voice spoke up—this one deep and booming:
"So the rumors really were nonsense. I'd heard the Black Wizard could frighten grown men to tears with a glance…"
"Yet you look more like the Tyrell rose knight than an executioner of souls."
Charles turned.
A short, thickset man came into view—broad as a bull, with the body of a soldier despite his age.
[A travel-worn archmaester from the Citadel.]
[Approximate age: 60–65.]
[Wears a Valyrian steel scholar's chain with occult sigils.]
[Observes you with curiosity and scrutiny.]
The old man grinned, revealing a mouthful of dark-red, stained teeth.
"I've been chasing after you for quite a while now."
"And you are?" Charles asked.
The man spread his arms slightly.
"Marwyn."
"From the Citadel."
---