Chapter 80 – A God?
The brilliant night sky above him had dimmed into a sunless, murky gray.
Everything around was washed in ashen tones, as though the world had been drained of all color.
Walking across what resembled a battlefield, Charles glanced about warily.
He felt like he was dreaming—yet something told him this was no dream at all.
Nothing here resembled the scene he had seen when falling asleep.
Tattered banners, stabbed into mounds of corpses, fluttered weakly in a breeze that came from nowhere.
Bodies lay in small heaps, eyes wide open, glaring at one another even in death.
In one pile, a man's throat had been slit; viscous black blood still seeped from the wound.
Another corpse had a dull wooden spear lodged in its chest, and a pair of blackened, filthy hands clawed uselessly at the shaft, unable to pull it free.
One body was missing an arm or a leg, clutching its own severed limbs and wailing in agony.
Some had simply lost their heads—headless torsos wandered in confusion while their severed skulls rolled aside, eyes darting frantically.
As Charles passed, the dead muttered in buzzing, insect-like whispers, as though unaware of his presence:
"Damn those Northerners… they crushed my eyes!"
…
"Why is the blood black? Why is it black? The heart… the heart is black too… strange…"
…
"My head? Where's my head?"
A severed head stared toward its headless body sitting nearby, panic twisting its features.
…
"Am I in… the land of the dead?"
Charles finally settled on that conclusion.
He retraced the events: on the first night after leaving King's Landing, he had camped with the army. While examining the mark on his palm, he must have dozed off by accident.
And when he "awoke," the world had changed.
His body glowed faintly with golden light, and the mysterious staff had somehow appeared in his hand.
He looked down at his palm—smooth, pale, unmarked.
But his forehead… something felt off. When he touched it, he found nothing.
There was no mirror in this strange world. He had no way to see what he now looked like.
Back at the camp, tents that should have been sturdy as canvas felt like nothing to him—his glowing form walked through them without resistance. He saw soldiers snoring, scouts nodding off at their posts, and even Lord Stark tossing restlessly in his sleep—whispering anxiously to himself, something Charles had never witnessed before.
They couldn't see him.
But he… he could see everything.
Within the camp, all looked normal. Yet beyond it—the world twisted into a desolate wasteland, a battlefield of the dead.
Souls, he realized.
Or something like them.
But souls shouldn't last longer than a day… and there hadn't been any battles nearby recently.
Perplexed, he reached out and poked a kneeling corpse muttering over another body.
The half-headed man snapped around, face twisted in a snarl—only to freeze when he saw Charles.
Its expression slackened, then twisted in fear.
"M-Mother save me—gh-gh-ghost!"
The corpse bolted—only to dissolve into gray smoke after a few stumbling steps.
Charles stared.
Astonished.
Above him, the sky remained pure gray, stripped of all color.
But faint hues shimmered in the distance.
To the south—King's Landing—an emerald haze twisted beneath the clouds.
To the north—a deep navy darkness, cold and silent.
To the east, coils of turquoise light rolled like a storm, small and tightly wound.
And in the south, the phantom of a jade-green forest flickered like a mirage.
These colors meant something—he could feel it—but he was still too lost to understand.
He simply committed everything to memory.
Just then, the staff in his hand trembled—violently.
And a voice began to echo through him, thin, desperate, pleading:
"Please… gods above… save me…"
"Save me…"
"Save… me…"
A prayer?
Here?
Charles spun around—the sound was everywhere and nowhere. He had heard countless prayers back in Flea Bottom, and this felt eerily similar.
But where was the person?
The camp was asleep.
The wasteland was deserted.
Not a living soul in sight.
Where was the voice coming from?
He frowned.
He didn't need to search long.
The staff erupted—seven colors blooming along its length. Light climbed his arm, engulfing his entire body, merging with the gentle golden glow already clinging to him.
Gold overtook everything.
The brightness swelled—and with a muffled boom, he vanished like a torch ignited into flame.
—
Far in the North, in a tiny village, golden fire flickered into existence—unseen by the living.
The flames twisted, then formed into Charles' glowing figure.
The gray world persisted—but this was no battlefield.
This was a village under attack.
Huts burned.
Blood pooled across the mud.
Men laughed savagely.
Animals screamed in terror.
The pleading voice that had called him here faded rapidly… and then vanished completely.
Charles guessed the truth—he had been summoned by that cry for help.
So he searched.
He didn't need long.
Turning a corner, he found the one who had called to him.
A woman.
Dead.
A young man's breathless voice drifted through the wind:
"Good things go to the master first, you idiot. Make another sound and I'll feed you to the dogs!"
Charles lifted his gaze.
A noble youth was atop an unconscious—or dead—woman, moving with sickening rhythm.
Beside him paced a hunch-backed servant, fretting nervously.
And next to that servant crouched another young woman—identical to the one on the ground—her spirit glaring daggers at the noble youth, filled with venomous hatred.
The youth didn't sense her at all.
On his chest was the flayed-man sigil of House Bolton.
Charles's expression darkened.
He strode forward and swung the scepter—only for it to pass harmlessly through the young man.
Right. He could not touch the living.
Instead, he knelt before the dead woman's spirit. She didn't react, eyes fixed in hatred on her killer.
She wanted vengeance.
She had called for him.
He should grant her wish.
A strange certainty settled into him.
But how?
He studied his surroundings… then his own glowing form.
A thought struck him.
I'm in a spiritual state.
Then… can I cast spells directly?
Magic had always relied on spiritual essence—and he had nothing but spirit now.
But he lacked the required amulet for corpse-raising.
Unless—
The scepter shimmered.
Seven-colored light danced across its surface.
A realization struck him with frightening clarity:
This light can create whatever I will.
He whispered:
"Bone Ressurection..."
The moment the words left him, the light flared—and a familiar amulet materialized in his empty right hand.
Charles froze.
Having a feeling was one thing.
Creating matter from nothing… was something only gods in myths could do.
"…Am I a god?"
"No. The scepter is."
No time to think. He looked at the woman's spirit.
"Do you wish to take vengeance yourself?"
She didn't respond—too fixated on her murderer to notice him.
But he already knew the answer.
He began chanting.
A gray wind swept across her. Her face slackened. Slowly, she crawled back toward her corpse—then merged with it.
The noble paused mid-motion, frowning.
"Wind?"
He shrugged it off.
His servant urged anxiously:
"My lord—quick, quick, quick!"
"Shut up, you rat. Did you just curse me?"
As he turned back, the woman's corpse twitched.
Her face split open.
A slick, bloody skull forced itself out—empty eye sockets glowing with hatred.
The youth shrieked and fled, pants around his ankles.
His servant tried to run faster… but the youth shoved him back, and the skeleton overtook him in seconds.
Charles watched, glancing at other corpses nearby. He raised his hand—ready to summon more skeletons for a proper hunt—
THOOOM!
A horn blast split the sky.
His body jolted violently.
Golden fire engulfed him once more—and he vanished.
---
At that same moment, in a tent a day's march south of King's Landing—
Charles jerked awake.
He stared at the canvas overhead, breath unsteady, the memories rushing back in a torrent.
That banner he'd seen before disappearing…
A merman holding a trident.
House Manderly.
Their troops were only stationed in one place this far north.
Charles swallowed.
Had he truly been in the North just now?
And if so…
What exactly had he become?
---