Chapter 49 – An Unreliable Proposal
"Miss Roslin, where exactly are we going?"
Two guards in leather armor—each bearing the Twins sigil on their chest—hurried after the young lady, glancing uneasily at the increasingly remote part of the encampment.
One finally mustered the courage to ask.
"To find Sir Cranston," Roslin replied while scanning the area, clearly searching for someone.
"Cranston…?"
Both guards froze for a moment, exchanging hesitant looks.
Back in Lannisport, they hadn't even heard the name.
But after fleeing to the northern army camp, the soldiers told stories—whispers, rumors, half-believed legends—until everyone knew who the "Black Sorcerer" was.
His feats were few, but each one unbelievable.
Publicly threatening the Queen in front of the Great Sept—that alone had become the most shocking tale in the Seven Kingdoms this year.
After all, she was second only to the King himself, yet Sir Cranston had forced her hand…
And that wasn't even the worst.
Every soldier in camp had heard the screams from last night.
Though no one saw the ritual, those who were "close enough" swore the Black Sorcerer used human sacrifice to summon a Hellhound wreathed in infernal flame.
The Red Keep rescue, the necromancy, the Queen incident, the unholy ritual last night…
Some claimed the skeletal hound of the Seven Hells still stalked behind him, ready to devour any who dared stare too long.
The army forbade all talk of the sorcerer—but that only made the stories spread faster.
Everyone feared him.
And everyone was grateful he was on their side.
No one wanted someone like that as an enemy—not if they ever wanted to sleep again.
"Why… why do you wish to see the Black S— ah, Sir Cranston?" one guard asked nervously.
Roslin frowned.
"Call him Sir Cranston. That's how the Northerners address him."
Then her tone softened again.
"He saved me. During the night raid. Before we leave, I want to thank him… and…"
Her cheeks flushed scarlet, the rest of her sentence dissolving into embarrassed silence.
The two guards exchanged a shocked, horrified look.
Our lady… and the Black Sorcerer…? Seven help us.
"I heard he's somewhere near the corpse grounds… I shouldn't be far off," she murmured as she continued forward.
"Corpse grounds?"
The guards shuddered, regretting every life decision that led them here—but they dutifully followed.
They didn't have to walk far. Roslin spotted him first.
She quickened her pace, weaving around tents and stepping over a wooden barrier—
then abruptly stopped.
Because the scene before her was… revolting.
Blood pooled across the dirt.
White, jelly-like brain matter glistened.
Coils of red-green intestine spilled over blackened mud.
Filthy yellow fluids soaked into the earth.
And crouched amid the carnage was the Black Sorcerer himself.
Charles's exposed arms, throat, even a side of his face were wrapped in tiny writhing characters—inky, tadpole-shaped sigils crawling across his skin like living shadows.
With the black robe, the runes, and the gore around him, he looked less like a man and more like a demon who had climbed straight out of the Seven Hells.
He was muttering something over a corpse, indifferent to the nightmare around him.
Roslin recoiled, pale with terror—yet she did not run.
She forced herself to stand there, trembling but resolute.
Because she had seen him flick his hand—a silent gesture telling her to wait.
Her guards, by contrast, bolted several yards away and bent over retching, retching again, hands on their knees, tears in their eyes—an embarrassing sight for men sworn to protect a lady.
Roslin kept her eyes forward, fighting her nausea.
After a long moment, she heard a faint sigh.
The sorcerer rose, turned around—revealing a surprisingly young face—and dusted his blood-stained fingers against his robe.
"What do you need from me?"
His voice wasn't gentle, but it wasn't sharp either—low, steady, with a faint magnetic warmth that eased tension almost automatically.
But then Roslin's gaze dropped to his right hand.
To the… object he was holding.
Her heart, which had just loosened a moment before, seized in terror all over again.
Roslin forced herself to swallow her fear and stammered,
"Th-thank you… thank you for your help the other night, Sir Cranston."
"No need. It cost me nothing," Charles replied absent-mindedly.
He barely spared her a glance; his attention remained fixed on the gray-white organ in his hand.
"Where on earth is the problem…?" he muttered, frowning in genuine confusion.
His plans for bow training had fallen apart since the Blood for Blood ritual. And any hope of joining the army in real combat had disappeared entirely—there simply weren't any major battles happening, and even if there were, the last thing they'd do was send an attention-grabbing sorcerer into the fray.
Charles didn't mind much.
Missing a few chances to "level up" through battle was minor; his real plan—harvesting souls—didn't require him to fight at all.
Just following the army around was enough.
So these days, he had more free time than ever.
Naturally, he began practicing spells he hadn't yet mastered. At the moment, he was working on [Evil Eye of Malice], whose chant he'd already converted once—but to his surprise, nothing happened.
Did this spell also have a 24-hour expiration?
Was it the same kind of rule?
If so, then all the runes covering his body were a complete waste of effort—a painful amount of effort, at that.
With no mentor, there was simply no way for him to intuit all the hidden rules of magic. He only knew [Bone Resurrection] had a 24-hour limit; the rest was a blur.
Lost in thought, Charles grew cold and distant—enough that the pretty young girl before him felt neglected.
But Roslin didn't take it that way.
If anything, his calm response soothed her nerves a little.
Her heartbeat slowed from its panicked pace, and she lowered her head, speaking softly:
"Lord Stark said he will send us to Winterfell. It's safer there. Once Riverrun is retaken, he'll escort us back…"
And what does that have to do with me?
I don't even know you.
Charles gave her an odd sideways glance.
"Is that so? Then I wish you a safe journey."
"Thank you, my lord," she said earnestly—ignoring his lukewarm tone—before continuing:
"Lady Melisandre says you are the chosen messenger of the Lord of Light, born with divine power. Since you've offered your blessing, we will surely reach Winterfell safely. I heard there are bandits on the northern road…"
Messenger my ass.
Instinctively swearing in silence, Charles suddenly froze.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"Wait… you didn't come here to pray to me, did you?"
Roslin turned beet-red.
And fled.
Immediately.
"…"
That red woman's brainwashing is way too effective.
He stared after the girl's retreating figure, then looked down at the slick, cold, nauseating human eyeball in his hand.
He had no words.
---
He practiced for a long time, with absolutely no results.
Eventually Charles gave up in defeat, wiped his hands clean, and headed back to his new tent.
But today simply refused to be peaceful.
As soon as he returned, he spotted a familiar head of red hair waiting outside.
Robb Stark.
And beside him, the ever-expressionless Lord Roose Bolton—whose face was such a blank slate Charles suspected he might be physically incapable of emotion.
"Good day, Sir Cranston."
"Good day, Robb. Lord Bolton."
After exchanging greetings, the three stepped into the tent.
Only then did Charles ask, puzzled:
"So? What's this about?"
Robb glanced at the black runes still fading from Charles's face and, suppressing a shiver, said solemnly:
"There is something we hoped to ask your help with. It isn't urgent, but…"
Charles nodded in understanding and went to wash his hands in the basin.
As he wiped the ink-like runes from his skin, Robb began explaining—recounting Bolton's proposal from the military council.
Charles listened in silence.
When he finished cleaning up, he dried his face and summarized:
"So your situation is basically this: you're all stuck outside the battlefield while your allies and forces inside get chewed apart, and you can't break through?"
Before Robb could answer, Bolton cut in.
"Once we retake the Crossing, we can advance."
Charles stroked his chin.
"And your plan… is to have me scare the defenders so badly they don't dare fight back?"
"Not quite," Bolton said, perfectly deadpan.
"We only need their morale shattered. If they panic, the attack will cost far fewer lives. Of course, if they truly refuse to fight back, that would be ideal."
Charles rolled his eyes.
"That's impossible. Why wouldn't someone fight back when they're attacked? They'd have to be idiots."
"The dwarf is certainly no idiot," Bolton conceded. "But his troops are savages. Real savages. You cannot imagine how unreasonable they can be. I have examined the plan carefully; its chances are… considerable."
He began counting on his fingers.
"Stone Crows, Burned Men, Moon Brothers, Painted Dogs, Milk Snakes… They may have helped the dwarf take the city, but aside from raiding and killing, they are utterly useless."
Robb nodded.
"Please don't overestimate the minds of mountain clansmen, Sir Cranston. If they saw you, they'd soil their breeches."
"Unless I learn some kind of mass 'idiot-making' curse, I refuse to believe that," Charles muttered.
Still, he didn't refuse.
It wasn't a difficult request.
He didn't believe he could scare them into complete paralysis, but he could certainly shake their morale. And if that was all they needed? He didn't mind lending a hand.
Curious, he asked:
"So everyone agrees with this? Your father as well?"
"Father insists on crossing the river by building a bridge," Robb said. "But he didn't reject Lord Bolton's idea. If the effect is strong, he'll approve the assault. He only ruled out using Northmen for the ritual."
Robb hesitated, then added:
"Please trust in your… impact, Sir Cranston. Truly. Ever since that night, most soldiers won't even go near your tent. Even my wolf won't approach you."
Charles glanced outside at the hulking grey direwolf lingering far beyond the tent.
"And what is that supposed to prove?"
"Plenty," Robb said seriously. "That wolf has killed more men than I have. He fears no one. But he fears you."
"So I'm not normal, is that it?" Charles muttered, rolling his eyes again.
But he didn't dwell on it.
Instead, he asked:
"What do I need to prepare?"
Robb exhaled in relief.
"We'll provide whatever you require—including the… candidates. We'll station guards around you. You'll be safe."
The flayed-man lord added helpfully:
"I recommend you be as cruel as possible. If you can shatter them in one go, that would be ideal."
"Cruel?"
"Yes. Something visually horrifying. For example…"
Charles listened to Bolton's detailed, disturbingly enthusiastic explanation.
Slowly, he nodded.
"So basically… you want me to put on a terrifying show in front of the entire city."