Chapter 128 – White Harbor
"My beloved Rhine,
I use roses to express my love for you, yet their colors pale in comparison to even a fraction of the passion burning in my heart. Once, I believed no one in this world could ever stir my feelings—until you appeared, like an angel descending with light into my dull and colorless life…
My dear Rhine, only after meeting you did I truly understand what love is. At this moment, I ask for nothing more than for you to accept this heart of mine, brimming with love and beating fiercely—and my eyes, my hands, my ears, my everything. As long as you ask, all of it will be laid before you without reservation…"
...
The moment he emerged from the illusion, Charles could hardly wait to retrieve the notebook. He recited the incantation, then examined the newly revealed text carefully.
What he saw was nothing like what he had expected.
He read through the final lines once—then again—then several more times, faster each time. In the end, he reached an undeniable conclusion.
There was no hidden secret at all.
It was a love letter.
Just a love letter.
"Bastard…"
Clutching the notebook, Charles resisted the urge to tear it to shreds. He took a deep breath, then wordlessly tossed it back into the chest.
Wrapped in such elaborate seals, he had been certain it concealed something profound—perhaps forbidden knowledge, or even a novice necromancer's path to advancement. After all, the earlier pages were filled with spells; ending with a breakthrough method would have made perfect sense.
But no.
It was a damn love letter.
For a moment, irritation surged—but it quickly subsided. Sitting back in his chair, Charles began to think more calmly.
It wasn't anger so much as disappointment. When expectations built up for so long collapse, the letdown is inevitable.
As for advancing his power, he was no longer overly concerned. The illusionary method had proven effective; he could simply replicate the process and continue exploring those memories. Sooner or later, he would uncover what he needed.
"The real problem is materials."
He frowned slightly.
The entire North had mobilized just to gather enough resources for a single use. To activate the Eye of Fate again and recreate the hallucination, collecting everything a second time would take a while.
Most of the ingredients had to be shipped in from beyond Westeros—otherwise it wouldn't have been such a hassle.
"Good thing that Lannister is helping," he muttered.
"Otherwise, this would have driven me insane."
...
White Harbor, the North
Located south of Winterfell, White Harbor was the largest commercial center in the North—and its most important port.
Shipping dominated the city's economy, while fishing and silverworking were equally prosperous. This peculiar mix gave White Harbor its famous reputation: immense wealth paired with an equally infamous stench.
The harbor along the Bite constantly swallowed and released ships of all sizes. The sea here was calm, rippling gently under the sunlight.
The sky was dotted with scattered white clouds, and flocks of seabirds circled overhead, occasionally diving when they spotted discarded fish tossed from the trawlers.
At first glance, White Harbor was lively—almost beautiful in its own way. But once the smell was added to the picture, that beauty quickly soured.
Walking along the docks, the overpowering stench of fish assaulted the senses nonstop. Combined with the shouting of dockworkers hauling cargo, it made the entire place exhausting to endure. Rafe wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Despite having scraped by in this city for years, he still hadn't grown used to it.
It was simply too foul. So foul that every newcomer instinctively covered their nose, beauty be damned.
He had never been to King's Landing. People said it reeked just as badly—but Rafe doubted it could be worse than White Harbor.
"Doesn't matter now anyway. Stannis blew the whole city to hell."
Muttering something many people firmly believed, Rafe stood on the pier with his hands on his hips, staring at his own gray-sailed ship. He let out another long sigh.
This voyage had gone terribly. A storm had struck, the ship tossed violently, several men had died, and much of the cargo and rigging needed repairs.
All of that meant money. A lot of it.
"…Let's just hope I didn't lose my shirt."
Lost in his calculations, Rafe suddenly caught sight—out of the corner of his eye—of a dockworker dropping a crate onto the deck. His temper flared instantly. He stomped over and began shouting.
"Watch where you're going! Do you even know whose cargo that is? That belongs to Lord Cranston! If you damage it, you'll regret it!"
"That's nonsense," the dockworker muttered under his breath. "That man's never even been to White Harbor. How could this be his stuff?"
Rafe's eyes widened. "It's about to be his. Right now, it belongs to Lord Manderly. What—do you want to argue with the lord himself?"
That shut the dockworker up immediately.
Bickering with a tight-fisted ship captain was one thing; mouthing off to a noble was another entirely.
Seeing the man return to work obediently, Rafe snorted and glanced back at the cargo stacked on deck.
These days, every noble in the North was scrambling to curry favor with Lord Cranston. Once word spread of what he required, they mobilized all their resources to procure rare and unusual items for him.
Among them, none worked harder than Lord Manderly.
The man was so obese he could no longer mount a horse. In his youth that had been merely embarrassing—but now, with age creeping up on him, it was downright dangerous. Old and fat was a lethal combination. Who knew when his body might finally give out?
So naturally, Lord Manderly was desperate to secure himself an escape route.
The dockworkers only half understood these undercurrents, but Rafe knew them inside and out. In fact, everything on his ship was meant as tribute.
And this wasn't the first shipment.
Lord Manderly had already sent several full cargoes northward. Each time, he insisted on bringing the ship captains along—supposedly to let them "share the credit," but in truth, it was all for show. Their visible hardship was meant to impress that mysterious figure even more.
Ironically, they rarely ever saw the legendary man himself. Instead, they dealt far more often with that infamous Lannister imp—the one everyone loved to hate.
"A damn Lannister, thriving in the North of all places," Rafe muttered. "Now that's something you don't see every day."
He barked another order at the workers to handle the cargo more carefully, then turned, planning to find somewhere quiet to rest.
Before he could take more than a few steps, a long-faced young man with black hair approached him.
"My lord," the man said softly, slipping a few silver coins from his sleeve, "I need your help with something."
Clean-shaven, black-haired, blue-eyed. The young man was unremarkable in both height and appearance. Rafe searched his memory but came up empty.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"A nobody," the man replied quietly. "Just an insignificant little person."
A nobody? More like someone who worked in the shadows, Rafe guessed. Still, silver was silver, and he wasn't inclined to pry.
White Harbor was full of strange people. Compared to most, this one barely registered.
The overwhelming stench of fish and the damp sea air made Rafe eager to leave the docks anyway. Seeing the man's earnest expression, he started walking and asked casually,
"So, what does a 'nobody' want with me?"
The man leaned closer and whispered his request.
Rafe frowned. "What do you want those for?"
The young man chuckled softly. "Anything that catches the eye of a wizard must be valuable. I'm curious—that's all. One crate will satisfy me."
As he spoke, a gold coin gleamed between his fingers.
"It's Envoy, not wizard," Rafe corrected with a cough, pretending to defend someone's reputation. His eyes flicked to the gold coin, hesitation flickering across his face. "Still…"
"That envoy is far from White Harbor," the man said calmly. "There's no reason for you to be afraid. Besides—you said it yourself. For now, the goods belong to Lord Manderly."
"Who says I'm afraid?" Rafe snapped.
He thought it over, then said, "We sail tomorrow. Meet me tonight after the evening bell—behind the blacksmith's on Sturgeon Street. And keep your mouth shut."
A single gold dragon wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to enjoy the brothels for quite a while. And the cost? A tiny, insignificant fraction of an entire ship's cargo.
The deal was worth it.
"Of course," the man replied smoothly. "I'll never say a word."
They parted ways.
...
Rafe was punctual.
That afternoon, he quietly hauled a small crate from the harbor warehouse and made his way—somewhat furtively—to the agreed-upon alley.
The buyer was already there, standing at the far end and waving him over.
"Hurry up," Rafe said as he entered the alley, dropping the crate at his feet and extending his hand. "I'm short on time."
"Don't worry. This'll be quick," the man replied, placing a gold coin into Rafe's palm.
Pleased by the man's promptness, Rafe was about to say more—when a sharp pain prickled his hand.
"A bug bite?" he muttered, glancing down.
There was nothing there but the coin.
Confused but unconcerned, he exchanged a few idle words, then turned to leave.
Suddenly, the world lurched.
His legs buckled. He slammed a hand against the cold stone wall to steady himself.
It didn't help.
The dizziness worsened. The alley twisted and blurred. His strength drained away as darkness crept into his vision.
"This is bad—!"
He tried to flee, but stumbled and collapsed face-first onto the ground.
The last thing he saw was the black-haired young man crouching calmly in front of him.
"Y-you… who are you really?" Rafe gasped.
If he still hadn't realized he'd been set up, that would've made him a fool—but the realization came far too late.
"A nobody," the man replied softly.
"Truly."