Chapter 106 — Letters and Faith
[A letter from Melisandre of Dragonstone, containing words of warning]
...
If Charles wished, the Eye of Reality could "informationalize" anything—
even a mundane letter with no supernatural power to it.
That said, although it was called a letter, its contents were limited by the size of the parchment. There wasn't much written on it at all.
Seated in his chair, Charles glanced over it once and grasped everything immediately.
"Too late," he thought dryly.
The letter warned of the Drowned God's incursion. The red-robed woman believed that the so-called sea "false god" had set its sights on Charles and urged him to be cautious.
She even mentioned the violent storm Charles encountered after departing Dragonstone last time, using it as proof that her visions were accurate.
Unfortunately for her timing, by the moment the raven arrived, Charles had already driven off the so-called Drowned God. Now, his real headache was the Others.
"If there's a god behind the Others as well," Charles mused, "then that one is far more dangerous than the Drowned God ever was."
He set the letter aside.
Below the warning were several apologetic lines—essentially offering excuses on behalf of her so-called reincarnated hero.
It seemed that after Charles's reputation rose yet again, she had grown uneasy once more.
Back when Charles had been imprisoned a second time by Stannis, the red priestess had kept a constant watch on him, afraid he might do something uncontrollable. Her confidence in Charles's potential had always exceeded even his own.
"So your flames can see everything," Charles thought, "yet they still can't measure another's depth. You were like this before. You're still like this now."
After a moment's consideration, he turned to Maester Luwin, who was busy grinding herbs nearby.
"May I write a letter?" Charles asked. "To Dragonstone."
"Of course," Luwin replied immediately.
He set aside his work at once and fetched writing materials for Charles.
The gaunt old maester had once regarded Charles with a measure of caution, but after witnessing some of Charles's abilities, that instinctive hostility—rooted in conflicting beliefs—had quietly faded.
After all, no matter how much a mortal might oppose something, it was impossible to shake a god—or a god's agent—even in the slightest. His training at the Citadel compelled him to doubt all supernatural phenomena, yet what he had seen with his own eyes refused to be dismissed.
Soon, parchment and quill were placed before Charles. Yet instead of using the parchment, Charles took out a thin sheet of white paper, which filled the maester with amazement.
Still, Luwin dared not ask about it. Extraordinary people possessed extraordinary tools, and compared to Charles's other methods, paper that surpassed parchment was hardly worth remarking upon.
However, when Charles openly wrote certain lines without concealment, the maester could not help but ask:
"Obsidian can kill the Others? The Citadel has no such record."
"But it can," Charles replied without lifting his head.
The Others. Dragons. The Three-Eyed Crow. The frozen Wall. Dragonglass.
Charles didn't remember everything about this world's story—but these things, at least, were etched clearly in his mind.
More importantly, dragonglass was no ordinary substance. That much, he was certain of.
Though the maester still harbored doubts, considering Charles's identity, even those doubts quietly dissolved.
Charles finished writing the letter with a few swift strokes and handed it to the old maester. After a moment's thought, he asked,
"Is there any important news lately?"
"Do you mean the North," Maester Luwin replied, "or all of Westeros?"
"All of Westeros."
After a brief pause, Luwin said slowly, "Wildfire has erupted in King's Landing. A great number of civilians were killed. All the lords of Westeros are furious and have sworn to uncover the true culprit. At present, this is the most significant development."
Charles felt he might have more right than anyone else to comment on that matter, so he had little interest in whether the nobles' outrage was sincere or merely for show.
"And the rest?" he asked.
"King Stannis returned upon hearing of King's Landing's condition, intending to aid the survivors—but he met resistance."
As he spoke, Maester Luwin deliberately glanced at Charles.
"The survivors are led by a group of gray-robed sparrows. They have reorganized an armed religious order among the ruins. Their numbers are small—perhaps one or two thousand—but their morale is extremely high, and they are openly hostile toward King Stannis. Some even believe the wildfire disaster was caused by him."
"So they're fighting already?" Charles asked.
"No. Negotiations are ongoing. The armed faithful are few, but they claim to represent all surviving commoners, so His Grace has many concerns."
Charles nodded thoughtfully.
Seeing that Charles remained silent, Luwin continued on his own.
"The southern lords lost most of their forces in King's Landing. Dorne has begun encroaching upon their lands. They've formed an organization calling itself the Southern Defense Alliance, and for now they're barely holding on."
"The Lannisters are gathering troops in the Westerlands, though their intentions are unclear."
"The Iron Islands remain quiet."
"And the North?" Charles asked suddenly.
Westeros had descended into chaos, its future impossible to predict—but the North remained the most important matter.
"The army has already begun withdrawing, my lord."
Charles nodded.
That was exactly what he wanted to hear.
Before, he hadn't known how to open the passage between worlds. Now that he had some idea, hesitation was pointless.
He couldn't yet be certain whether the Others truly represented the "truth of this world," but waiting idly would never cause the gateway to open on its own.
And if it truly was the Others, he doubted ordinary ones would suffice.
After all, back in King's Landing, the scepter had devoured countless tens of thousands of souls before even a single prompt appeared.
Yesterday's events had already proven one thing: the Others were extremely difficult to deal with. His purification magic was nearly useless beneath the shroud of the so-called Long Night.
As for necromancy…
Charles suspected the Others might be his natural nemesis. Just thinking about it made his head ache.
So the more armies that could be sent north to face them, the better.
That would require coordination with Eddard Stark and the northern lords.
Charles didn't believe they would refuse—not because he trusted in his own status, but because the Others were their enemy above all else.
If Charles failed, he could always leave. The people born and raised in the North had no such luxury.
As he pondered this, a knock sounded at the door.
"My lord, there are petitioners seeking aid."
The voice of a Winterfell servant came through the door, muffled but clear.
Charles took his leave of the maester and stepped outside.
Ever since he had asked Catelyn to spread word, the northern nobility—once cautious and hesitant—had begun arriving in an endless stream. Faced with Charles's terrifying abilities, no one could sit still.
That said, Charles only healed the injured. He never again performed the miracle of restoring youth.
Partly because the Authority of Death was suppressed in the North.
And partly because the mutated form of that authority only worked on believers of the Seven—whether draining or bestowing life. There were almost no such believers among the prisoners of the North.
This kind of "favoring one's own camp" was not something he could openly admit.
Even healing was not available at all times.
Charles declared that only the hour before dinner each afternoon was reserved for "consultation." At all other times, no visitors would be received.
Naturally, no one dared complain.
As a result, Winterfell had been extraordinarily crowded these past few days.
Leaving the maester's chambers, Charles walked along the stone corridors, crossed the courtyard, and finally arrived at the hall Catelyn had specifically prepared for him.
It was already filled with people—nervous petitioners, and criminals trembling with fear.
To save one life, another had to be sacrificed. That was the cost of Charles's power.
Those able to pay such a price were almost always nobles. Those who paid it were almost always commoners.
If things continued this way, Charles suspected he would soon be remembered by the people not as an envoy of the Seven, but as a blood-soaked demon who enabled nobles to crush the lowborn.
Still, before every spell, he asked the same question.
---
"What crime did he commit?"
"Rape, my lord. He violated the daughter of Wes of Karhold!"
Charles looked down at the bound prisoner.
"Do you confess?"
"I… I…"
The man panicked, opening his mouth to argue, then faltering—clearly afraid that a lie would be exposed.
Charles placed a hand on his forehead.
Under the prisoner's horrified expression, and amid the surrounding gazes—some fervent, some terrified—the man's once-strong body visibly withered.
By the time he collapsed, pale as snow, the girl beneath Charles's other hand had already begun to regain the color in her cheeks.
With Charles's quiet blessing, they left in tears of gratitude.
He then turned his gaze to the others.
Because this needed to be seen, Charles made no effort to conceal his methods.
And the results were obvious.
Few who received healing failed to change their faith. Word spread quickly. The worship of the Seven had never been so fervent in the North, and the power of the scepter was gradually recovering.
Slowly—but steadily.
Lost in thought, Charles saw the next petitioner step forward.
"What crime did he commit?" Charles asked, looking at the petitioner from House Manderly.
"He murdered White Harbor's Aiju, my lord!"
"You're lying!" the young prisoner shouted. "I never killed anyone!"
"You dare say you didn't? That poor prostitute—over a price dispute!"
"I dare say it! You couldn't find a proper sacrifice and tried to use me instead, you despicable Manderly! The envoy will see through your lies!"
The two argued fiercely before Charles, both appearing indignant, both seemingly sincere.
But lies held no power before him.
Charles raised his scepter.
As he watched them, a sacred incantation surfaced.
Under the light of judgment, the liar naturally faltered.
The truthful remained calm.
Though the scepter's power was greatly diminished in the North, its judgment could still be invoked through purification. External guidance allowed it to bypass the restriction of faith.
Before Charles's quiet gaze, a scale of white light formed above their heads—then slowly turned gold.
Enveloped by its glow, the petitioner lost his nerve. His face twisted through regret, fear, and guilt, before he collapsed to his knees, wailing loudly.
"I deserve death, Envoy of the Seven! I am guilty! I should never have deceived you!"