Chapter 47 – Blood for Blood!
When Charles arrived with the servant guiding him, the air around the tent was strangely still. Under the dimming glow of dusk, only the whisper of wind and the distant shouts of soldiers training drifted through the camp.
As he walked forward, he could feel countless eyes on him—curious, uneasy, and oddly complicated.
He had no idea why everyone looked at him like that.
But since Lady Maege waved him over, Charles chose to ignore the strange attention and simply stepped into the large tent that had been prepared well in advance.
Moments after he entered, several soldiers carried in a thick, polished stone slab.
Behind it came the unconscious female "wildling," limp and bound, followed by bundles of various ritual components wrapped in cloth.
Last of all, they carried in the wounded woman herself.
Her body reeked of blood and rot—pale skin slick with sweat, the heavy scent of damp bandages mixed with herbs clinging to her like a suffocating fog. The soldiers at the entrance involuntarily wrinkled their noses, quietly grimacing at the smell.
Lady Maege stepped inside after her daughter, but Charles immediately shooed her out.
"I need silence."
The fierce woman who had just been fearless enough to challenge her own liege lord now obediently backed out like a scolded child.
Time passed.
From outside, there was no sound—no chanting, no movement, not even a whisper from within the tent. The gathered lords and watching soldiers grew increasingly restless, while Lady Maege's anxiety peaked.
Just when curiosity was about to boil over, the tent flap lifted.
Charles poked his head out, scanning the crowd. His gaze stopped on Lord Eddard Stark, who had quietly returned and was trying not to draw attention.
"You," Charles said, waving a hand. "Come help me with something."
"…What?"
The Old Wolf—who had been hoping no one noticed him—stiffened as a hundred eyes instantly locked onto him.
His long, solemn face twitched with embarrassment. But with so much attention on him, he couldn't refuse. Without asking questions, he followed Charles into the tent.
The words Charles whispered to him inside, however, made Ned Stark's face tighten with indignation.
"You could've done this yourself," Ned muttered.
"I can't bring myself to do it," Charles replied, perfectly calm.
"And you think I can?"
"Oh, come on," Charles scoffed. "I'm saving one of your people here. What more do you want from me?"
"I have already accepted that this goes against my honor," Ned hissed. "And now you want me to personally—"
"You already accepted it," Charles cut him off. "So what's one more step? Is this about your honor… or just your pride as Lord Stark?"
"I—"
"Besides," Charles added coldly, "wouldn't you rather have control over the act yourself? Someone has to do it either way."
That silenced Ned.
In the dim lamplight, his long face shifted between anger, shame, and grim resolve. He stood frozen, torn between duty, honor, and the life hanging in the balance a few feet away.
Finally—
Ned Stark let out a long, complicated sigh.
"At times, I truly suspect you were sent from the seventh hell to drag me into the abyss."
He didn't even look at Charles after saying that. Instead, he stepped toward the stone slab where the unconscious wildling woman lay. He stared at her for several long seconds, knelt beside her, and murmured a brief prayer.
Then—under Charles's impatient stare—Ned opened his eyes, picked up the tool placed at his feet, hesitated just for a heartbeat…
…and brought it down on her wrist with a brutal, decisive strike.
The woman's sealed eyelids snapped open.
A shriek erupted from her throat—raw, ragged, and full of primal agony. The scream ripped through the tent canvas and stabbed into every ear outside.
The sound was so harrowing that even the hardened soldiers standing guard felt their faces tighten.
The scream grew louder.
So loud that distant groups of soldiers lifted their heads, startled, and began drifting toward the commotion. Those who had been ignoring this corner of camp finally noticed the disturbance around the tent.
And then things became worse—far worse.
Amid the woman's shrill wails, another sound slithered into existence:
a whispering chorus—chilling, murky, inhuman.
Like dead souls being dragged down into the abyss.
Like unseen wraiths crowding around a doomed mortal, their laughter soft and venomous.
The wildling woman's agony peaked.
Inside the tent, her cries devolved into bestial roars.
"Daughter of Dogg—Sinwa—will cut off your heads! You cowardly southern pigs! Cut off your heads! CUT OFF YOUR HEADS!"
"…"
"Stop! Sinwa hurts! IT HURTS—!"
"…"
"Kill Sinwa! Kill Sinwa now! Please—PLEASE—Aaaahhh!!"
"…"
By now, dusk had vanished entirely, and night smothered the sky.
Inside the tent, wavering lamplight danced like ghosts along the canvas walls. Paired with the black sorcerer's low murmured incantations and the dying girl's desperate pleas, the place felt less like a medical tent and more like a torture chamber built at the edge of hell.
Outside, soldiers who had not been present originally gathered in droves, drawn by the sound. Their expressions were overwhelmingly curious—while those who had been near the tent from the start were pale with dread.
Even surrounded by so many people, the cold dread crawling up their spines was unmistakable.
The atmosphere was suffocating.
Some men bolted outright, unable to bear it.
Others forced themselves to stand still, though their trembling legs betrayed their fear.
Everything they heard and imagined was dragging them deeper—
downward into a pit of terror.
Fortunately, it didn't last long.
The wildling's screams weakened, fading to thin, shuddering gasps.
Then—after one long, rattling inhale—her voice vanished like a dying insect's final flutter.
At that same moment, the eerie whispers faded into silence.
Now came the waiting.
For those outside, the silence was both a relief and a source of terror.
They stared at the darkened tent as if expecting a demon—something monstrous and hungry—to burst out at any moment.
Among the crowd, the red-robed priestess arrived, blending into the mass of soldiers. She too stared intently at the tent, her expression unreadable. Several soldiers noticed her presence but did not dare speak—her reputation had already spread through the camp.
Not because of her beauty,
but because of her powers…
and because she traveled with the black sorcerer.
She conjured flames with a flick of her fingers, kept her robes pristine no matter the grime of camp life, and could recount the life history of a stranger as if reading from a book.
Some believed she was equal in strength to Charles.
Others whispered she might be stronger—certainly more mysterious.
But tonight, even the most superstitious soldier had eyes only for the tent.
Fear and anticipation filled every gaze.
From above, the crowd looked like a swarm of ants converging on a piece of sweet meat—drawn irresistibly toward something both frightening and fascinating.
And then—
The tent flap lifted.
Charles stepped out.
"How is she?"
Lady Maege rushed forward immediately, ignoring everyone else.
"She needs rest. Let her sleep. She'll be fine by morning."
Charles answered while pinching his nose, then hurried off without further explanation.
He didn't even glance at the crowd of stunned soldiers.
"What happened in there…?"
murmured several voices.
But before they could speculate further, Ned Stark emerged from the tent—and all attention shifted to him.
"My lord!"
"Lord Stark!"
Ned surveyed the gathered crowd with a troubled expression.
"Get someone to clean the inside," he said quietly. "Don't let the men see it."
And with that, he too hurried away.
His behavior shocked his bannermen even more than Charles's hasty retreat.
Charles being rattled was understandable.
But Lord Eddard Stark—calm, steadfast, iron-willed Ned Stark—looking shaken?
That unsettled them deeply.
Unable to resist their curiosity, the nearby lords pushed into the tent.
A wave of stench hit them instantly—a foul reek like a corpse left to rot in a swamp.
Gagging and covering their noses, they scanned the scene.
What they saw made several of them blanch.
At the center of the ritual circle—an intricate design of rings, symbols, and ominous runes—lay the young noblewoman, now fully healed, her skin warm and rosy, breathing evenly in peaceful sleep.
And beside her…
A corpse.
Or what was left of one.
A shriveled, brown-black husk, contorted in a posture of pure agony.
Its face was twisted, its eye sockets sunken and gaping. Its limbs crooked unnaturally, as though the body had died mid-struggle, trapped in unbearable torment.
Pinned into its throat, wrists, ankles, and chest were five corroded iron spikes, driven deep into bone—fixing the corpse flat against the ritual slab like a specimen nailed in place.
Frozen forever in its final moment of horror.
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