Chapter 39 – A Shift in the Balance
"The Freys of the Twins may have sent men to aid us against the Lannisters, but that cautious old Walder Frey never commits his full strength. Their defenses inside the city were still formidable—how could Riverrun fall so easily?"
"The time frame doesn't make sense—too short!"
"Lord Bolton was stationed at the Crossroads, not far from the Trident. The terrain between is flat—he should have been able to send reinforcements if the city was under siege!"
"Exactly! What was Bolton doing?"
"You can't blame Lord Bolton entirely. What if the Lannisters had used Riverrun as bait to strike our main camp instead?"
"Still, preserving the Lord's safety is our top priority."
"I'd very much like to know whose brilliant idea it was to abandon the army and come all the way here to welcome me," Eddard said coldly.
The edge in his tone was unmistakable. The gathered lords exchanged awkward looks, no one daring to speak first.
After a moment, Robb finally stepped forward, voice low but steady.
"Father… we had just lifted the siege of Riverrun and captured Jaime Lannister himself. None of us expected Tywin would respond so boldly—or that he could act so quickly. As for why so many came here…"
He trailed off, clearly embarrassed. The reason was obvious but unsaid.
Eddard's eyes narrowed slightly. Of course he understood.
Every lord wanted to be the first to pay homage to the returning Warden of the North—politics disguised as loyalty.
And now, because of that foolish display, their military advantage had vanished overnight.
The old wolf said nothing further, but his clenched jaw and furrowed brow said enough.
The mood soured instantly.
Within minutes, they abandoned the plan to rest overnight in Coldwater. Eddard curtly thanked the local lord, ordered the horses saddled, and gave the command to march.
———
Outside the city stretched a rugged coastal road, winding between jagged hills and cliffs that overlooked the misty sea. The moonlight made the path treacherous, slick with salt and gravel, but the northern lords were skilled riders; they pressed on without hesitation.
For the women and attendants—Charles among them—it was rougher going. Fortunately, there were enough mounted soldiers to help them along.
By dawn, the tired column finally reached the Crossroads encampment—a massive sprawl of tents spread across a flat plain where several trade routes converged.
Fog drifted across the field, shrouding the camp in a pale haze, but even through it Charles could see movement everywhere: soldiers bustling, banners flapping, the restless cries of horses splitting the morning air.
The atmosphere was heavy—urgent, chaotic.
Once inside the camp, Charles could feel the tension pressing down like a physical weight. Everyone was too busy to spare a glance for him. He, Melisandre in her red robes, and the rest of House Stark's household were hastily shown to a row of tents at the rear.
Whatever the details of the battle, even an outsider could tell—the Northern army was in trouble.
Charles decided not to interfere. He settled quietly into his tent, expecting to be ignored for the rest of the day.
But it wasn't long before a soldier arrived, breathless and deferential, inviting him to the main command tent.
The man didn't know why the nobles had summoned the young sorcerer—but Charles did.
And sure enough, the moment he stepped through the tent flaps, the question came at once:
"Sir Cranston," said one of the lords sharply, "do you have any means—any magic—that could threaten the Lannisters holding Riverrun?"
Charles let his gaze sweep across the war table. Every face he'd seen at the harbor was there—plus several new ones.
They were all staring at him: expectant, curious, doubtful, calculating.
He could feel their conflicting thoughts—hope and suspicion mingled in equal measure.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the head of the table, where Eddard Stark sat in silence, long face grave.
Then, in a voice calm and confident, Charles answered,
"If you can bring me a strand of the city commander's hair, I can make him open the gates for you."
The room fell still.
He didn't sound boastful, merely matter-of-fact. Certain.
But behind that certainty lay another truth—he didn't believe for a second they could manage it.
This wasn't the complacent, soft-hearted King's Landing. This was war. The enemy's fortress was locked down under siege protocols, communication cut off. Even if they had an insider, it wouldn't matter.
And as for sneaking someone inside?
Charles's gaze drifted toward the distant silhouette of Riverrun barely visible beyond the fog—a city of stone and water, its towers gleaming faintly in the morning light.
"Anyone who tries to get close," he thought, "will be turned into a pincushion before they reach the gates."
Just as Charles expected, his blunt answer deflated the entire tent.
When he admitted that he needed something as specific as a lock of the enemy commander's hair, disappointment rippled through the war council. Whatever excitement had filled their eyes moments earlier quickly died out.
Reluctantly, they shelved the idea of "winning the siege through sorcery," and the meeting resumed its more mundane pace.
———
"Lord Bolton's probing attack last night didn't breach their defenses," one lord began, "but it did reveal much about Riverrun's fortifications. If we strike with the full host, they can't possibly hold."
Another chimed in, "Indeed. The old lion's main army is still in the Riverlands. He wouldn't have left his whelp much to defend with."
"But Riverrun's position is naturally strong," came a deeper voice. "To take it would require time—and that's the one thing we don't have."
"The Trident to the north, Harrenhal to the east, King's Landing in the south, and the Westerlands to the west… the Riverlands are completely encircled. Tywin's strategy is ruthless but brilliant. The Tullys can't hold out for long."
"We can't let that happen!" someone shouted. "We must retake Riverrun at once!"
"And how do you propose we do that?" another snapped. "Do you know how many lives that will cost? Even if we win, will there still be a Riverlands left to save?"
"Lady Catelyn and the entire Tully family are trapped inside! We can't just abandon them!"
"Of course not—but how do you expect us to reach them?"
The tent filled with heated voices, overlapping arguments, and weary sighs.
Then someone raised the question everyone had been thinking:
"How in the Seven Hells did the Imp take Riverrun in the first place?"
"According to the few Freys who survived," a commander said grimly, "the Imp conspired with one of old Walder Frey's sons. During a feast, the son poisoned his kin, then opened the gates for the Lannisters. Clearly, it was a plan long in the making—but I'd wager Tywin's hand was behind it."
"What—you mean Lord Walder Frey was poisoned by his own son?"
A chorus of disbelief erupted.
"Which idiot thought killing his father would make him lord of the Twins?"
"Fools, all of them. But even the stupidest Frey knows one thing—the Lannisters always repay their debts."
That last sentence silenced the room.
Several lords exchanged uneasy glances before one pale, clean-shaven man muttered coldly,
"Walder Frey lived too long anyway."
———
The lords of the North found themselves powerless—forced to watch their ally swallowed by the Lannisters' trap while they stood helplessly outside the noose.
The camp turned feverishly busy overnight: messengers galloping between tents, soldiers drilling nonstop, and scouts departing before dawn. Yet, in the midst of this chaos, Charles was oddly… idle.
He had saved Eddard's life and held a reputation of strange power, but this was war—brute, bloody war—and there was little room for a solitary sorcerer in the machinery of strategy and supply.
Since that first council meeting, he hadn't seen Eddard again. The lord's command tent burned with candlelight late into every night, filled with grim-faced nobles and maps covered in tokens of battle.
Charles watched from a distance, noting the constant flow of men coming and going—soldiers leaving fully armed, knights returning exhausted and bloodstained.
The rhythm of it all felt strangely familiar.
Half a month ago, he'd been in the same position: stuck on the sidelines, forgotten while the powerful decided the fate of nations.
The only difference now was freedom.
At least here, he could move as he pleased.
There were attendants to guide him through the sprawling camp—unlike Dragonstone, where he'd wandered blind and unwelcome.
And there was Arya.
Unlike her prim and proper sister, Arya Stark couldn't sit still for more than five minutes. Every day, she would sneak into Charles's tent, full of restless energy and unending questions.
Sometimes she asked about his magic.
Sometimes about his mysterious past.
And sometimes she just waved her wooden sword, practicing her so-called "Water Dance" moves in front of him with mock seriousness—though her pride was impossible to miss.
Charles didn't bother hiding his spellwork from her. In turn, to kill time, he'd share bits and pieces of stories from his previous life—legends, fables, even mundane tales.
Unfortunately, it only fueled the girl's curiosity.
Soon she was following him everywhere like an overeager shadow.
By the third day, Charles was beginning to regret ever opening his mouth.
———
The red priestess, on the other hand, was the exact opposite.
Melisandre kept entirely to her tent, emerging neither for food nor sunlight. No one knew what she was doing, and that secrecy only made Charles more suspicious.
Something about her unnerved him—a quiet, calculated purpose that had nothing to do with the war outside. But for now, he had neither time nor patience to deal with her.
Eddard, owing to his friendship with Stannis, treated her politely enough.
Outside, the world moved fast.
The Lannisters, the Starks, the battles at the Crossroads and Riverrun—everything in this bloody continent called Westeros seemed to accelerate toward chaos.
All because one man—Eddard Stark—had uncovered the truth that King Robert's children were not his own… and hesitated.
That single moment of mercy had cost the realm its balance.
Now, with Robert dead, his brothers Stannis and Renly raised banners of their own, each claiming the throne.
The North marched to avenge their lord.
And the world burned for it.
Charles, the outsider, had nudged the timeline in small but irreversible ways.
But for him?
It didn't matter much.
He barely remembered how the "original story" even went.
So he filled his days with spell practice, idle talk, and the occasional attempt to spy on the red woman's tent—never successfully.
Three uneventful days passed this way. At first, he was content to relax.
By the fourth day, boredom began gnawing at him.
He hadn't crossed worlds just to sit around on vacation.
That night, after yet another war council broke up, Charles decided enough was enough.
He slipped out under the cover of darkness, making his way toward the command tent to find Eddard Stark himself.
———
"Some crowns are as light as feathers, others as heavy as mountains."
And King Robert's green crown of horns and betrayal weighed heavy enough to tip the fate of all Westeros.