Chapter 82: The False God
The Hound's plan to ransom the dwarf was doomed from the start. A living, breathing extra person appearing in the camp might go unnoticed for a short while—but over time, discovery was inevitable.
In fact, less than an hour later, a groggy Tyrion was "invited" away by Eddard Stark himself.
What they discussed went without saying. Charles did not take part. After watching the soldiers shackle the Hound back to a wooden post, he returned to his tent and began to think.
If what the dwarf said was true—if wildfire could burn even on water—then what in all of King's Landing could possibly resist it?
His thoughts spiraled.
King's Landing.
Familiar faces and unfamiliar ones.
The filthy, desperate expressions he had seen when he left—faces filled with reluctance, even despair.
A city of no fewer than half a million souls.
Unconsciously, the staff in his hand began to tremble.
A powerful sense of responsibility surged up within him.
I have an obligation to save them.
Yes. I have an obligation.
I must save them.
...
Driven by that feeling, impulsive thoughts rose one after another. Charles lowered his gaze to the wooden staff in his hand, then casually tossed it aside. The sensation vanished at once.
Yet the memory of it lingered, vivid and unsettling.
"Stark will send someone," he muttered. "But it may already be too late."
"I was inexplicably drawn to the North the other day. If I enter that state again… could I reach King's Landing instantly?"
"But how do I enter it?"
"And even if I can—what do I do?"
"How do I save them?"
These were not problems that could be solved by reckless action.
"But idle speculation won't get me anywhere."
Having made up his mind, he sat on the bed, picked up the staff once more, and forced himself to fall asleep.
Perhaps because of his urgency, though he had experimented the night before with no success, this time—before he had truly fallen asleep—the hazy darkness around him suddenly snapped into sharp focus.
When he opened his eyes, the world had already changed into the same strange realm he had encountered before.
"So you really are conscious," Charles murmured, lowering his gaze to the seemingly ordinary wooden staff. "Though you're about as smart as an idiot."
The staff trembled in response.
"A great idiot."
The trembling stopped.
Charles was deeply curious about what truly resided within it.
A genuine soul?
A so-called spirit bound to an artifact?
Or merely a mass of spiritual power born naturally from countless prayers?
Like all other mysteries surrounding the staff, this question would require time to unravel. Now was not the moment.
He lifted his gaze toward the direction of King's Landing.
The faint green glow hanging above the city—something that had once puzzled him—now clearly resembled flames.
Green flames.
Wildfire was not an ordinary mortal fire.
He fixed his eyes on King's Landing, pondering how this crisis might be resolved, when faint, pleading voices slowly rose within his mind.
"I beg the gods above—please save my wife, she…"
Prayers?
Prayers from King's Landing?
Just like last time?
Now.
Golden flames burst into existence out of nothing, and in the blink of an eye, Charles arrived on a filthy street.
Under a dim sky, a mud-caked road strewn with garbage lay pale beneath the moonlight. The "dead" seated along both sides of the street paid no attention to his arrival, murmuring endlessly among themselves, as if locked in eternal repetition.
Not far away stood a trembling old man, leaning against a doorframe. His hands were clasped together as he looked up at the sky, lips moving in whispered prayer.
Charles stepped closer.
Through the gap in the doorway, he saw the old man's wife lying unconscious on a hard wooden bed. There were no children nearby.
A fever?
Charles entered the house, glanced at the elderly woman, then at the bent figure at the door. He raised the staff, and a soft milky-white light spilled down over her body. Visibly, the tension in her face eased.
"Good luck," he whispered.
Then he stepped forward and walked straight into the wall. Like a ripple on water, he passed through it and emerged in a narrow alley.
The surroundings looked familiar. After a brief glance, he realized this was part of Flea Bottom—streets he had often passed through not long ago.
Winding his way through the alleys, Charles eventually stopped before a courtyard he knew all too well.
He passed through the walls, crossed the yard, and entered the sleeping quarters.
Gray-robed figures lay asleep, still clothed—young and old, familiar and unfamiliar.
In one room, he saw their leader. The old man lay hunched on a hard bed, fast asleep, occasionally coughing as though he had caught a chill.
Charles had no intention of greeting him. In this state, he doubted he even could. After a few moments, he left the room and returned to the courtyard.
"What should I do?"
He looked down at the staff in his hand.
He hadn't returned to this city to reminisce. The existence of wildfire filled him with constant vigilance, an unrelenting sense of urgency.
What do I need to do?
As he pondered, seven-colored light shimmered into existence. Remembering what had happened last time, Charles slowly spoke:
"Protect this city from fire."
The light flickered—then nothing happened.
"Protect Flour Street?"
"Protect Flea Bottom?"
"Protect this courtyard?"
…
"Summon large numbers of fire extinguishers?"
…
"Transfer all the wildfire elsewhere!"
…
"Kill those who would ignite it?"
…
"Locate the wildfire caches!"
…
"Turn this place into an ocean?"
…
…
The light flickered again and again, but there was no response. He kept narrowing the scope of his commands, yet it became clear that the staff's abilities were far more limited than he had imagined.
"Dragonglass."
No response.
"Flame-warding runes."
Still nothing.
His brow furrowed deeper.
After a moment's thought, he tried again.
"Paper."
Seven-colored light flashed, and at last a thin sheet of paper drifted down from above. Charles caught it.
"Steel pen."
Nothing happened.
"Quill!"
A soft, feathery sensation appeared in his palm. Looking down, he saw a pristine white goose-feather quill—though there was no ink.
He conjured a bottle of ink, then focused again.
"Write runes!"
Still ineffective.
With a helpless sigh, Charles spread the paper on the ground, crouched down, and began writing by hand.
About ten minutes later, he finished inscribing a complete set of flame-warding runes with practiced ease. He raised the staff and pointed it at the filled page.
"Copy."
Seven-colored light flashed, and an identical page appeared beside the original.
Charles finally breathed a small sigh of relief—but it quickly turned into worry.
For the runes to function, dragonglass was required. Even if he went back to retrieve what he had, the amount he possessed was a drop in the ocean compared to the size of the city.
Three pieces of dragonglass formed a set. One set could protect roughly a single square meter.
How many would be needed to protect all of King's Landing?
Reality had already proven that he could not conjure dragonglass from nothing, nor could he instantly transport vast quantities of ore from Dragonstone.
"Forget it. I've done what I can. I'll find a way to notify the red priestess—have them evacuate the city or uncover the wildfire as quickly as possible."
With a sigh, Charles set off toward the Red Keep.
But as he hurried along, rounding a corner and entering the street leading to the castle, the sight before him made his heart sink.
The Red Keep had already fallen into new hands.