Chapter 72: The Scepter of Authority
Rain drummed against the windowpanes in a steady, whispering rhythm. Beyond the glass, a mass of dark shapes—Renly Baratheon's vast host—encircled King's Landing, their tents and banners spreading across the fields like a slumbering beast, or a rising black tide poised to drown the world.
In the rain-washed haze, King's Landing looked strangely clean. The downpour pressed the filth and noise into silence, rinsing away the grime of the ancient city until only the bare bones of its grandeur remained.
Charles sat at his desk near the window, alternately sketching strange glyphs onto paper and glancing at the small white booklet beside him. Unfamiliar black sigils flowed from the tip of his quill—sharp, angular, almost alive.
The overcast sky made time difficult to sense. Eventually, he set the pen aside, lifted the freshly written pages, skimmed them, and exhaled softly.
"Calling this a magic circle feels wrong… It's more like a spell."
Muttering to himself, he wrapped each sheet around a black, diamond-shaped crystal. Then he began to chant.
The incantation was unlike the holy or necromantic spells he usually used—neither solemn nor eerie. Instead, it sounded exuberant, almost excited, like someone babbling breathlessly. But since he was alone in the room, no one else could hear its strangeness.
As he chanted, the sheets ignited on their own. Pale smoke curled upward while the sigils on the paper seared themselves onto the black crystals, burning deep into their surface.
When the inscription was complete, the room returned to stillness.
He arranged the three crystals into a triangle. Then he picked up a white wax candle, lit it with a fire-striker, watched the flame flicker… and set it in the center.
Fwoom.
The flame extinguished instantly.
A fire-ward barrier.
One of the special spells he had purchased for ten dragon-crystals.
When the fat merchant had offered him a choice—lightning, storm, or flame—Charles found lightning and wind far too impractical. At least fire protection might be useful. Probably. Maybe.
Now that he had mastered it… what next?
His gaze drifted back to the window.
Renly's army supposedly numbered a hundred thousand. King's Landing barely had thirty thousand defenders—and that number only counted if the unreliable Gold Cloaks were generously included.
The disparity was enormous. A brutal siege seemed inevitable.
Yet to everyone's confusion, Renly had made no move. His army simply camped outside the walls, waiting. Watching. For days.
Stannis had even ridden out to negotiate with his younger brother. It went poorly. No one knew what the flamboyant "Rainbow Prince" had said, but when Stannis returned, his expression was so dark it seemed ready to leak rainwater.
Inside the city, preparations intensified. Troops marched tirelessly across ports, walls, and training yards. Knights barked orders. Noblemen scurried. Even Eddard Stark scarcely slept, locked in war council after war council.
"What in the world is Renly waiting for?"
Everyone wondered.
Charles wondered too. He had no direct role in the war, but his fate was undeniably tied to its outcome. If they won, all was well. If they lost… well, he'd have to start planning how to flee for his life.
So he wanted the fighting to begin soon—both to end the suspense and for… other reasons. After all, experience points from chaos weren't something he could ignore.
But instead of war, an unexpected visitor came knocking.
---
"Ser Seaworth?"
Charles opened the door to find a plainly dressed, bearded knight—modest in bearing, gloves worn from years of labor, brown eyes steady and clear. Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight.
A man who rarely approached him voluntarily. Aside from delivering the dragon-crystals previously, Davos had kept his distance.
But now…
Before Davos could speak, another voice answered for him.
"I asked Ser Davos to come find you, child."
A calm but slightly aged voice drifted into the room. Charles turned and saw a tall, gaunt old priest in a grey woolen robe.
Grey hair, bare feet, a face lined with wrinkles—his entire presence was simple, austere, and unmistakably out of place inside the luxurious Red Keep. Charles couldn't help glancing toward Davos Seaworth.
"I grew up in Flea Bottom," Davos said with a helpless shrug.
"That explains it."
Charles nodded, then looked back at the old priest. "And what business do you have with me?"
It was the same old priest he had met near the Dragonpit—the one the scepter's mysterious pull had led him to. Charles had left abruptly back then to avoid getting dragged into anything troublesome. He did not expect the old priest to chase him into the Red Keep.
"The corridors of the Hand's Tower are always drafty, my lord," Davos cut in before the old priest could answer. His tone was dryly humorous as he tapped his knee. "Forgive me—I have a bit of rheumatism. May we speak inside?"
Since he already asked so politely, Charles couldn't refuse. He stepped aside, letting both men enter.
The old priest scanned the room briefly before speaking, his voice concise and direct:
"I've made inquiries about you, child. Two months ago, you fell from the sky."
"That's right," Charles replied with complete composure. "And I had the misfortune of landing on some golden-haired idiot."
He motioned for the two men to sit, then poured tea for them himself.
"You have no servants?" Davos looked startled at the silver cup being filled by the infamous black sorcerer himself.
"Servants? Those trembling fools just get in the way. Watching them move makes my eyelids twitch."
Charles waved dismissively.
The real reason, of course, was that he practiced dangerous magic constantly. Having servants around would be… inconvenient. But his stated reason wasn't entirely false.
The old priest, however, simply watched him silently.
Once Charles finally sat, the old priest spoke:
"No true god bears the desires of mortal flesh. Therefore, you cannot be a divine incarnation."
"I figured as much." Charles shrugged. "So why have you come?"
"Perhaps you have forgotten your purpose."
"Purpose?"
"You may not be a god born into flesh, but you carry Their mark. The Seven have chosen you. There must be meaning behind it. Yet you act as if you know nothing." The old priest leaned forward, earnest and unwavering.
"You should come with me, child—to do what you were meant to do."
"You're not the first person to speak to me like this."
Charles let out a soft laugh and shook his head. "But I'm sorry—I'm not interested in your gods or your rules."
"Believe me, child. If you follow this path, you will ascend."
"Thanks, but I'm perfectly content as I am."
"No. This is not about the spirit."
Before Charles could retort, the old priest sighed—then abruptly reached into his sleeve and pulled out a dagger.
Charles' eyes narrowed. Davos stiffened.
And then, without hesitation, the old priest flipped the blade and drove it deep into his own shoulder.
"What are you doing?!"
Charles stared, stunned. Had this old priest prayed himself into madness?
Davos was equally alarmed, glancing between the spreading bloodstain and the old priest's disturbingly calm expression. He clearly debated whether to intervene.
But the old priest did not respond to either of them.
He simply dropped to his knees and began praying.
"Merciful Mother, cast Your gentle gaze upon Your humble servant...
Grant me endurance against the pain of steel and blade…"
As his murmured prayer filled the quiet room, Charles suddenly felt a warm pulse in his left palm. He looked down.
The faint outline of a seven-pointed star was glowing beneath his skin.
At the same time, the scepter lying in the corner began to tremble.
Charles caught the movement with the corner of his eye. He stooped, picked up the scepter, and stared between it and the praying old priest.
The pieces began to connect.
After a brief moment of consideration, he began to chant.
A soft milky glow shimmered across the scepter's crystal orb—different from the radiant light that had burst forth in the Dragonpit. This light was heavier, more real, and as it appeared, tiny particles of white drifted loose like dust motes, falling to the floor and sinking into the wooden boards.
Charles watched, then raised the scepter and let the light fall upon the old priest's wound.
The effect was immediate.
The glowing motes clung to the torn flesh and the embedded dagger—pushing the blade outward inch by inch until it finally clattered onto the floor.
The wound beneath it did not bleed.
Instead, the skin knit itself together, closing seamlessly until only a bloodstain and the torn robe remained.
Even Davos Seaworth—normally composed, steady, unshakeable—could only gape.
The old priest, meanwhile, was radiant with joy.
"Prayer answered…" he whispered. "Just as the ancient texts said!"
So even he wasn't certain it would work.
Charles lowered the scepter and looked at it again… then at the faint new line appearing within the seven-pointed star on his palm.
Another change. Another unanswered question.
"'Prayer answered,' huh?"
Charles murmured. "What is this thing?"
The old priest lifted his head, reverent and breathless.
"This, child… is the Scepter of Authority. Yes. This is the one—the most sacred artifact ever held by the Faith of the Seven."