Chapter 38 – A Lesson at the Docks
As the ship neared the port, the torchlight from the pier grew brighter, illuminating a crowd of waiting figures. Faces once hazy in the distance gradually became clear under the flickering glow—stern, curious, or barely restrained with emotion.
"Look! That's my brother, Robb! See him? The red-haired one in front!"
"And that's Greatjon Umber of House Umber—he's fierce, but Father likes him."
"Over there, Lady Maege Mormont! The only female lord under Father's banner!"
"Where's Theon?"
"And Uncle Howland Reed? I don't see him anywhere…"
Aria's voice rose higher and higher, her excitement impossible to contain. Her joy was pure—an unguarded happiness at seeing familiar faces again.
Her cheerful shouting drew attention from below deck. The other passengers, who had barely slept, began to emerge one by one to glimpse the port drawing near. Even Eddard Stark himself, so often solemn, allowed a faint smile to cross his face.
The dock was alive with movement—northern lords standing in a line, led by Robb Stark, the young Lord of Winterfell, here to welcome his father home.
It was almost like the scene Charles had witnessed at Dragonstone: nobles, family, loyalty, reunion—all the trappings of the highborn.
Watching from the rail, Charles couldn't help thinking drily, "Must be nice being a great lord. Everywhere you go, there's always someone waiting to greet you."
While those aboard shouted and waved, the people on the dock noticed the incoming ship as well. Their faces were lit by firelight, flickering with excitement, restraint, and expectation.
Especially the tall young man at the front—his red-brown curls gleamed in the light, his blue eyes wide with anticipation. Even from afar, Charles could see the struggle on his face: the effort to appear composed despite his joy.
The ship slowed, the ropes were cast, and the gangway was lowered.
Eddard Stark descended first, limping slightly. The moment his boots touched the pier, a cheer rose from the crowd.
"Lord Stark!"
"Your Grace!"
"Father!"
They surged forward, surrounding him in warmth and relief. Aria and Sansa ran ahead, throwing themselves into Robb's arms, their laughter and tears mingling in the cold sea air.
It was the perfect family picture—pure, heartfelt, and whole.
Charles, standing off to the side, was watching with mild amusement when a voice greeted him unexpectedly.
"Ah, a stranger among the wolves, are you? Welcome to the North."
Charles turned. A middle-aged nobleman stood beside him—well-groomed, dressed neatly, his beard trimmed and his smile broad.
[A northern lord come to greet Eddard Stark. His clothes are tidy. He looks like a clean man—a rarity among medieval nobles.]
Charles didn't know him, but out of courtesy, he reached out and shook the man's extended hand.
And immediately regretted it.
The grip that met his palm was too strong, crushing almost to the point of pain. The smile on the man's face didn't match the hostility in his fingers.
Charles's brow furrowed. He glanced toward Eddard—still busy being smothered by his retainers—and narrowed his eyes. His lips parted slightly, and a faint whisper escaped.
It wasn't speech. It was chanting.
The words slithered like smoke. A chill crept through the air, subtle but wrong.
At first, the lord—Rodrik Cassel of the Winterfell—didn't react. He kept smiling, though his eyes flickered uncertainly. But soon, his expression shifted.
The hand gripping Charles's suddenly went cold.
The frost seeped beneath his glove, crawling up his wrist like icewater. His breath hitched. Then came the fatigue—sudden, bone-deep, as though his strength was being quietly drained away.
The spell was gentle, almost delicate, but relentless.
Rodrik's posture sagged. His breathing grew ragged. His knees trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his chest heaved with effort.
It was only when the nobleman let out a strangled gasp and stumbled back that the others noticed.
All eyes turned toward the sound.
And there they saw him—the once proud and loud Lord of House Cassel—now bent over, gasping for air on his knees, pale as ash.
The northern lords bristled instantly.
"Gods, he's a witch!"
"What have you done to him, sorcerer?"
"Boy! Let go of him at once!"
As several men stormed forward, Charles stopped the incantation and casually released his grip.
Without support, the exhausted lord collapsed onto the dock, coughing violently, clutching his chest as though just escaping death's jaws.
Eddard pushed through the angry crowd, raising a hand for silence. His voice was low but sharp.
"Enough! Everyone stand down."
He turned to Charles, his expression a mix of disappointment and bewilderment.
He had warned the boy—explicitly—not to flaunt his sorcery in public. And now, the very moment they arrived, Charles had chosen to hex one of his own allies.
Was he mad?
Charles only shrugged. Then, under the torchlight, he raised his hand.
Across his pale skin, bright red finger marks stood out clearly—evidence of the noble's earlier aggression.
The gathered lords exchanged uncertain looks. Their fury faltered, shame flickering behind their eyes.
Eddard's jaw tightened. Robb's lips pressed thin. Both men understood immediately.
Not all who kneel to the wolf are true to the pack.
Charles smirked faintly. "Seems not everyone in the North marches to the same tune as House Stark."
———
The incident at the docks was over almost as soon as it began—no more than a brief wave before the sea returned to calm.
But it left ripples.
From that day forward, Lord Rodrik Cassel avoided Charles like the plague, refusing even to meet his eyes.
Everyone else, meanwhile, treated the quiet sorcerer from the South with a great deal more… caution.
Where before there had been suspicion, now there was courtesy.
During introductions, even those who had cursed at him earlier apologized with stiff smiles.
From the outside, there was no sign of resentment or hostility—only uneasy respect.
It baffled Charles.
He'd half expected some arrogant noble to provoke him again just so he could slap them down—figuratively or otherwise—but nothing of the sort happened.
Then again, it made sense.
No sane man would provoke a mysterious black sorcerer who had just humiliated a northern lord and who, apparently, had saved Lord Stark's life.
No one wanted to test how deep that darkness went.
"Was that earlier… aimed at the Starks?" Charles asked at last, glancing at the riders surrounding them as the group made its way through the torchlit road leading away from the harbor.
Everyone around them seemed genuinely happy about Eddard's return—cheerful, loyal, even proud. There was no trace of deceit or ill will.
That only deepened his confusion.
If the handshake incident had been a test, surely it implied hostility, didn't it?
So why did it now feel like it had all been some harmless formality?
Before he could puzzle it out, someone answered him.
"They are my father's bannermen," said a calm, measured voice beside him.
A young man with chestnut-red hair had quietly drawn his horse up alongside Charles's. His eyes were steady, his tone thoughtful.
"They serve the Starks, yes, but they are also proud lords of their own lands. Don't take offense to what happened earlier—it was a test, but without malice."
He continued evenly, "With a sorcerer of your caliber aiding House Stark, our strength grows considerably. It's only natural for our vassals to wonder what that means for them… and how they should deal with such a man in the future."
"So, they were testing my strength," Charles said with a faint smirk.
"Exactly. Northern men are straightforward. Subtlety isn't in our nature."
The young man inclined his head politely.
"I'm Robb. Robb Stark. My sisters told me what happened in King's Landing. Thank you—for saving my father."
Charles followed Robb's gaze to where Arya and Sansa were riding a short distance away, whispering to each other but clearly keeping an eye on him.
He gave a small shrug. "I thought I just had one of those faces that people naturally hate."
"'Faces that people hate'?" Robb repeated, puzzled by the odd phrase. Still, seeing the humor in Charles's eyes, he relaxed and smiled.
Up close, the two looked to be around the same age, yet everything about them felt different.
Robb carried himself with the measured discipline of a young lord—calm, self-assured, burdened by duty.
Charles, by contrast, moved with a casual, almost modern irreverence—his words light, his posture careless.
They weren't just from different worlds.
They were from different eras.
Even so, conversation came easily.
Robb was eager to hear every detail of how Charles had rescued his father in King's Landing, while Charles found himself curious about this "Young Wolf" — the boy who, in another tale, would one day be both a general and a martyr.
They talked idly as their horses clopped along the cobbled streets of Coldwater City, laughter and banter weaving through the night.
And yet, beneath Robb's calm tone, Charles caught something else — a faint, hidden note of melancholy.
He couldn't help but wonder:
Was it the loss of command now that his father had returned?
Or something deeper, something unspoken?
He didn't press the issue. But he noticed how the lords ahead crowded around Eddard, hanging on his every word, leaving Robb quietly trailing behind them — his smile fading, his eyes thoughtful.
The contrast was telling.
———
Their small procession continued through the narrow, stone-paved streets of Coldwater. The town's flickering lanterns cast long shadows over the riders as laughter echoed from the men up front.
The northern lords exchanged booming jokes and slaps on the back, the sound of camaraderie filling the chilly air.
Charles, riding with the younger Starks, let the rhythm of the conversation drift over him — idle talk of hunting, weather, and home.
But their lighthearted chatter was abruptly cut short.
From ahead came the rapid thunder of hooves.
The seasoned lords stiffened at once, turning toward the sound. Torches flared. Shadows leapt along the walls.
Moments later, a lone rider burst out of the darkness, his horse lathered with sweat. He wore leather armor, streaked with mud and blood.
He barely noticed who he was addressing as he dismounted and half-fell to one knee before one of the leading lords.
"Urgent news!" he gasped, voice hoarse. "The Lannister army launched a surprise attack in the night—our forces couldn't hold them. Riverrun has fallen!"
A stunned silence followed.
"What!?"
"Riverrun? Fallen?"
"That's impossible! The Freys are entrenched there—"
"You must be joking!"
"Seven hells, it can't be true!"
The crowd erupted in disbelief. Faces turned pale, voices overlapped.
But reason whispered a truth they didn't want to hear—messengers didn't lie about things like this.
If Riverrun had indeed fallen, then the situation was catastrophic.
That fortress guarded the Trident, the great river that split Westeros north to south. It was the only secure passage between the North and the southern kingdoms.
If the city had fallen, the Stark armies would be trapped—cut off from the south entirely.
Eddard's voice broke through the rising panic, calm but grim.
"Who led the attack?"
The messenger lifted his head, eyes wide as he recognized the man before him. He swallowed hard and bowed deeply.
"It was the Lannisters' dwarf, my lord—Tyrion Lannister himself… Lord Stark."
The words hit like a hammer.
Even the night wind seemed to freeze.