Chapter 104 – Healing and the Long Night
News of the Dreadfort's bastard collapsing unconscious outside Winterfell after falling from his horse spread through the castle at remarkable speed. With the selfless assistance of House Stark, he was promptly given medical treatment.
Yet even the seasoned Maester Luwin found himself at a loss as he examined the abnormally swollen, flushed part of the young man's body.
No matter what he tried, that particular limb exhibited no sensation whatsoever—its owner appeared to have completely lost control over it.
And yet, the secondary consequences of this condition were agony incarnate.
Unable to feel the organ, urine accumulated painfully in his bladder, unable to be released. Unless he never drank water again, the suffering was unavoidable.
"Will he… actually die from holding it in?" the boy assisting Luwin asked quietly as he looked at the unconscious youth, now asleep under the effects of milk of the poppy.
"Mind your work," Maester Luwin snapped.
But as he gazed at the sleeping bastard on the long table, pity filled his eyes.
To be clear—death by retention was unlikely. Even without sensation, the organ itself was not destroyed. Its function remained intact.
It simply could not be consciously used.
In other words, relief would only come unconsciously during deep sleep—or when the pressure reached its breaking point.
What that implied required little imagination.
The best solution would be to "find another path."
Certain Free Cities practiced castration techniques to deal with similar issues. Luwin had seen such procedures while studying at the Citadel. The technique itself was not particularly complex.
But he had never performed it, nor could he guarantee success.
More importantly—even if he could, would House Bolton allow it?
A bastard elevated to sole heir was tragic enough. But a eunuch heir?
Though, truth be told, his current condition was scarcely any different. He was incapable of reproduction—and even basic bodily autonomy was compromised.
"Perhaps he offended someone powerful within the castle," Luwin muttered with a sigh. "And if that is the case… there is little I can do against such forces."
Faced with this affliction, people naturally suspected that someone was responsible.
This incident alone might have been dismissed—but the bastard had previously sworn that he'd been chased by a skeleton.
The Manderlys, too, had testified that they shot arrows into a walking corpse.
It was difficult not to suspect the one being capable of such things—the same presence rumored to have done them before.
Yet at the time, Charles had been in King's Landing. How could he have suddenly appeared in the North?
Everything was shrouded in mist, impossible to unravel.
And even if the truth were known, no one dared speak it aloud.
---
"I have only ever healed fresh wounds," Charles said carefully outside the bedroom, facing Catelyn Stark's hopeful gaze. "For injuries that have lingered this long, I cannot guarantee success."
"So please, my lady, do not place too much hope in this."
"If even you cannot save him," Catelyn replied steadily, resolve burning beneath her calm, "then perhaps it is simply Bran's fate."
"But I do not believe that. Bran's future belongs on horseback—not confined to a bed."
She was right.
Charles thought so too—but such things could not be spoken aloud. He merely nodded and stepped inside.
At the foot of the bed lay a bound man, tied tightly from head to toe—a prisoner Charles did not recognize, selected with great care by Lady Stark.
As for the patient, Bran lay face-down on his soft bed draped in bearskin, his back exposed, the twisted curve of his spine painfully visible.
"Messenger… are you here to save me?" the boy asked softly, turning his head with hopeful eyes.
Thanks to days of his mother's reassurance, Bran believed in Charles even more than the adults did.
"Just call me Charles," Charles said with a gentle smile, lowering his gaze to examine the injury on the boy's back.
The injury was obvious—a shattered spine. Under the crude conditions of a medieval world, it was a miracle that the boy had survived at all.
Because of the Three-Eyed Raven?
"My mother says you must be addressed properly," the boy replied stiffly, reciting the lesson word for word.
"Then I suppose I'll forgive your rudeness," Charles said, stepping toward the prisoner.
This man differed from the previous ones. He had been rendered unconscious in a very human way. But such mercy was meaningless—it was merely the difference between suffering blindfolded and suffering with eyes open.
With that thought, Charles crouched down and placed both hands on the prisoner's head.
One hand was enough to cast a spell. Two made it faster.
Runes etched themselves across both palms.
Bran watched intently as Charles's hands met the prisoner's skull. Amid low, fragmented incantations, the man's body visibly withered—his flesh sagged, his frame thinned, his complexion paling as though struck by a wasting illness. Even unconscious, he gasped weakly for air.
Yet to Bran's surprise, the man did not turn into a dried husk, nor did he age into a withered elder. He was still alive—just frighteningly weak.
"They say your magic requires a living sacrifice," Bran said hesitantly.
"Rumors," Charles replied without blinking.
He stood, and under the boy's nervous, hopeful gaze, placed his hands—now swirling with green currents of energy—against the bulge in Bran's back.
The green light seeped in.
Bran let out a soft, involuntary sigh of comfort.
But Charles frowned.
If the injury could be healed, the deformity would have smoothed away. Instead, it remained unchanged.
The life energy restored the boy's vitality—his pallid, bedridden complexion visibly improved—but the most critical injury showed no sign of recovery.
So my guess was correct.
Charles sighed inwardly.
This power could heal, but it could not correct. Long-standing injuries—misaligned bones, tangled damage accumulated over time—were beyond its reach.
"Well?" Bran asked quietly.
"I'm sorry," Charles said, shaking his head.
Disappointment flickered across the boy's face, but he forced a smile.
"It's okay. Mother already warned me. Maybe this really is my fate—to be crippled."
"Your end is not on a bed," Charles said before he could stop himself.
Bran looked at him curiously, but Charles offered no further explanation.
"Good luck."
He nodded once and turned to leave.
Outside the room, Catelyn rushed forward.
"How did it go?"
She received the same answer as her son.
Her face drained of color.
Unlike the Starks, she followed the Faith of the Seven. Though she did not truly see Charles as a god, the difference was negligible—this was someone who had saved her husband from certain death and restored youth to her aging father.
And yet… even he could not save her son?
Did that mean Bran would truly spend his entire life confined to a bed?
At that realization, her composure finally collapsed.
Though she had claimed she was prepared, the truth proved unbearable when it stood before her.
Charles did not offer comfort. Some pain required no words.
He stepped outside.
Gazing north toward the faint, hazy outline of distant mountains, he began reviewing his plans.
With Deepwood Motte resolved, the army would likely return soon. When it did, it would be time to speak with the Starks about what lay beyond the Wall.
Saving lives, confronting the Drowned God, dealing with bastards—these were all incidental.
What truly mattered was the truth of this world.
Touch it. Understand it. And open a new gate of passage.
Would that path lead back to Earth?
Charles didn't know—but he believed the odds were not insignificant.
As he pondered, a faint sound reached his ears.
A prayer.
Normally, he would have ignored it—especially in broad daylight.
But once he understood its content, he changed his mind.
He returned swiftly to his chamber, closed his eyes, and let his spirit drift free.
---
In the dim, colorless world, golden flames burned out—and everything changed.
At his feet crouched a broad-shouldered, heavyset man in black robes, trembling in prayer beneath a rock outcrop. Charles glanced at him once, then looked away.
They were atop a mountain.
A camp sat at the summit, enclosed by ancient, low stone walls. Sharpened wooden stakes jutted outward, while thick snow fell in heavy flakes. Torchlight struggled weakly against the gloom.
The air was bitterly cold.
Though Charles could not feel temperature in this state, the snow-choked surroundings made it unmistakable.
He looked up.
Beneath a sky as dark as night, dense, chaotic snowfall rushed down toward him.
To others, the snow might have appeared pure and white.
To him, it carried a faint trace of black.
A prompt drifted before his eyes.
[You are enveloped by the Everlasting Winter Night.
Your mark of the Seven has been completely suppressed.]