Chapter 142 – A Shift in Mindset and a Prayer
Under the wavering glow of torchlight, as Jaqen continued speaking inside the cage, Charles gradually pieced together the situation.
Simply put—
After leaving King's Landing, Jaqen had not returned to Braavos. Instead, he traveled south, directly to Oldtown.
He went in search of the so-called truth of the Many-Faced God.
What that truth actually was, he did not say. In truth, he hadn't found it either. The moment he infiltrated the Hightower, he had been influenced by the so-called power of the Long Night.
And then—
He came north to assassinate Charles.
Not just anyone. Not some name Jaqen already intended to kill.
But Charles.
A man who, by all accounts, had barely crossed his path.
The target had been deliberate.
Who would want him dead?
Charles could think of quite a few.
But among those capable of casting such a curse… there seemed to be only one obvious candidate.
The Drowned God.
Or perhaps the Long Night itself.
Recalling everything he had done at the Wall, Charles narrowed his eyes.
The Drowned God.
The ancient alien deity behind the White Walkers.
The two were not unrelated.
The Drowned God is merely a hound of the Outer God.
That was what the Red Woman had written in her letter.
"They want me eliminated," Charles thought,
"yet they did not act directly. Instead, they twisted a Faceless Man who conveniently walked into their grasp."
Which raised a question—
Did they lack the strength to confront him openly?
His thoughts drifted to the pitiful Three-Eyed Raven—who could barely communicate with his own followers without selecting the right vessel, who often struggled even to speak.
Then he thought of the invasion at Deepwood Motte. It had looked terrifying on the surface, but in reality, he had dismantled it with far less effort than expected.
Were the so-called local gods nothing more than hollow spears—impressive to look at, useless in substance?
Or perhaps their "divinity" operated on rules entirely different from what he understood a god to be?
As he sank into contemplation, the guards had already unlocked the heavy iron chain securing the cage door and removed the shackles from Jaqen's wrists and ankles.
Thanks to the life force Charles had just replenished, Jaqen was in relatively stable condition.
Freed of his restraints, he dusted off his clothes, then rubbed at the torn remnants of false skin still clinging to his face. He did not immediately leave. Instead, he remained standing inside the cage, looking at Charles.
"The boy simply lets a man go?" he asked.
Charles did not answer. Instead, he frowned slightly and asked another question:
"Do I really look that much like a child?"
When he had first met this man, he had called him boy. At the time, Charles had just arrived in this world and hadn't paid much attention to it, assuming it was a casual remark.
But now?
He was still using it.
Being mistaken for young was one thing. Being mistaken for a little brat was another entirely.
"In Braavos," Jaqen replied solemnly, "anyone who has not known a woman is called a boy."
Charles choked on his own breath.
For a moment, he was completely speechless.
After a brief silence, he smoothly brushed past the topic.
"You helped me once. And this time you were manipulated. If I didn't let you go, what—keep you here and feed you for free?"
Jaqen raised an eyebrow.
"The boy truly believes what a man says?"
"Of course," Charles replied calmly. "You weren't lying."
In truth, Charles could sense whether someone harbored goodwill or hostility toward him. But that was not something he needed to explain.
Jaqen stared at him for a moment, then nodded and stepped out of the cage.
Once outside, he stretched lazily and rubbed his bruised wrists. Then, without warning, he asked:
"How should a man repay this?"
"Repay?"
"The truth has not been uncovered. The Hightower is an enemy. It tried to kill the boy. A man will form an alliance."
"Is that you speaking," Charles asked, "or the Faceless Men as a whole?"
"A man is the Faceless Men. The Faceless Men have no identity. The nameless may be anyone."
Charles found the phrasing maddeningly cryptic, but he didn't reject the offer outright.
After thinking briefly, he said, "In Qarth, on the continent of Essos, there's a girl named Daenerys. She has three dragons—hard to miss, probably famous by now."
"If you truly want to help, bring her here."
Jaqen nodded. He did not ask how Daenerys related to any of this. He simply turned and walked away.
Halfway out, however, he paused.
"What does the boy intend to do?"
"About what?"
"Oldtown. The Hightower. And the curse that tried to kill the boy."
Charles fell silent for a moment.
Then he answered indirectly.
"They're afraid."
---
After the brief exchange ended and Jaqen departed, Charles left the dungeon.
He had barely stepped onto the stone stairs when a short figure hurried up beside him—Tyrion. The dwarf's expression was tangled with guilt and embarrassment.
"My lord, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"
"It's fine," Charles interrupted casually. "His disguise was flawless. It's normal you couldn't tell."
"But—"
"There's no 'but.'" Charles cut him off again, then abruptly changed the subject. "If I requested a proactive strike, how many would support me?"
"Proactive strike?" Tyrion blinked.
"Yes. March north of the Wall and hunt the White Walkers."
Charles continued walking as he spoke.
"That depends on how determined you are," Tyrion said, scurrying behind him. "Under normal circumstances? No one would agree. No one wants to risk fighting the dead. But if you insist forcefully… then everyone will have to reconsider."
Charles nodded.
He himself wasn't entirely certain what he should do.
The enemy clearly feared him.
Or at least… they were wary.
Otherwise they wouldn't have sent a Faceless Man across the world to assassinate him.
And yet—
They didn't seem particularly powerful.
If they were, they wouldn't have relied on a single infiltrator with no backup.
Given that, eliminating the White Walkers as soon as possible—and determining whether they were the thing he was searching for—seemed like the cleanest solution.
But the unknown nature of that "thing" made him hesitate.
"The White Walkers themselves don't seem like much," he muttered, frowning. "But what exactly stands behind them…"
Even if they felt like hollow idols, attacking blindly before understanding their true nature was unwise.
According to the way local gods operated, everything south of the Wall was his ground.
North of it—
That was theirs.
Naturally, his thoughts drifted to the Three-Eyed Raven.
Or perhaps the so-called Old Gods.
If anyone could explain what was truly happening, it would be that ancient entity.
"I'll ask the Stark boy while I'm at it."
Having made up his mind, Charles quickened his pace. He intended to gather men and head toward the nearest heart tree beyond the Wall to speak with the Three-Eyed Raven.
But before he could take more than a few steps—
A loud voice rang out in his ears.
It was not the type of divine resonance he had only heard from Daenerys before.
This one was male.
Clear. Deep. Cold-edged.
"…That voice…"
Charles rubbed his chin.
After a moment of thought, his expression shifted into stunned disbelief.
Stannis?