Chapter 108 — The Seven Watch Over You
Charles stared at the blood-soaked head wrapped in coarse linen on the table, then looked up at the Lord of the Dreadfort standing before him—calm, sincere, and utterly without remorse.
For a moment, Charles truly didn't know what to say.
"If you still feel unsatisfied," Roose Bolton said softly, his pale eyes fixed on Charles, his tone as gentle as ever, "Ramsay's mother is still alive. Once I return to my lands, I can have her seized and offered to you as well."
"No need…" Charles's eyelid twitched. His worldview felt freshly violated.
After arriving in Winterfell alongside Lord Stark, the Lord of the Dreadfort had shown not the slightest anger over his bastard son's fate. On the contrary—after learning the full details, he had decisively ordered Ramsay's execution, personally severed his head, and delivered it here with his own hands.
And his reason?
"This cruel little thing offended you, my lord. Allowing him to live any longer would have been an even greater insult," Roose Bolton said calmly, as though commenting on the weather.
Seeing the change in Charles's expression, he added an explanation.
"Ramsay was vicious by nature. I have long suspected that he poisoned his elder brother with his own hands. And once my lawful son is born, I am certain Ramsay would not hesitate to strike again."
He paused briefly, then continued in an eerily measured tone.
"But I do not expect to live long enough to see my legitimate heir come of age. And the title of Lord of the Dreadfort cannot be entrusted to a child who understands nothing. That is why I endured Ramsay's excesses for so long."
As he spoke, Roose Bolton looked at Charles with fervent intensity.
"Your arrival has given me new hope."
Charles fell silent.
He very much wanted to say: You are a complete psychopath, and I don't want to talk to you.
Or perhaps: The greater the hope, the greater the disappointment.
Instead, all he managed was, "May your lawful son be born safely."
"Thank you for your blessing, my lord." Roose rose and bowed deeply. "I've heard that you intend to ride north to the Wall. I wish to offer five hundred Bolton household troops to your command. Naturally, all provisions and expenses will be borne by the Dreadfort. You may use them freely."
Charles was momentarily caught off guard—but Roose wasn't finished.
"My lady wife has urged me, in her letters, to convert to the Faith of the Seven. I have given it careful thought and believe she is correct. Under the Old Gods, the Bolton bloodline has dwindled with each generation. I trust that turning to the New Gods will bring improvement."
"That… sounds good," Charles nodded reflexively.
"Then I shall have the heart tree cut down," Roose continued thoughtfully. "Or perhaps burned?"
"You'd best leave it," Charles said quickly, coughing lightly as the Three-Eyed Raven crossed his mind. "The gods won't concern themselves with such trivial matters."
"As you command," Roose Bolton replied without hesitation.
What followed was another round of polite formalities.
Though Charles had little desire to entertain the man further, faced with such an unrelenting barrage of offerings, it was difficult to simply dismiss him.
In truth, no one could have done better.
He had personally delivered his own son's severed head.
Offered five hundred troops for Charles's use, fully supplied.
Converted to the Faith of the Seven without a moment's hesitation.
This unbroken chain of "sweetened blows" left Charles in an awkward position—refusing felt almost ungrateful, yet accepting made his skin crawl.
After a moment's thought, he realized—
Roose Bolton being a lunatic was none of his concern.
So he accepted everything with a clear conscience.
"If you ever wish it, the Dreadfort will always welcome your arrival."
With those words, Roose Bolton took his leave.
Watching his retreating figure, Charles sighed inwardly.
Compared to this man, the Starks were far more hesitant.
Charles had already told Eddard Stark everything he knew, yet Stark still hadn't reached a decision.
Winter was approaching, and the North—exhausted by war—had not yet had time to harvest its crops.
In truth, the Northern armies were made up largely of farmers. When called upon, they donned armor and fought for their lords; in peacetime, they were no different from ordinary peasants. They had only just finished one war—could they really be sent straight into another without rest? If they did, what would they eat once winter arrived?
Of course, troops had to be dispatched—but how many would require careful discussion.
At this very moment, the Northern lords were still debating the matter.
No one doubted Charles's words anymore. By now, no one in the North regarded him as merely a sorcerer.
Bolton understood this perfectly—that was why he had offered troops directly. And unlike a normal levy, these five hundred men were an additional force: the Dreadfort's standing household troops, meant specifically for protection. Thoughtful, meticulous—and unsettling.
If given a choice, Charles still trusted the Starks more. Using Bolton's men would require constant vigilance for hidden schemes.
With the Starks, no such calculation was needed.
Though most of the Northern armies would need time to reorganize, a smaller force could still be spared. After much negotiation, a thousand-man detachment had already assembled outside Winterfell, in the winter town, awaiting final logistical preparations before marching north to the Wall.
With so much left to rebuild, Lord Eddard needed to remain in Winterfell. The expedition would therefore be led by his heir—Robb Stark.
Charles intended to accompany this force northward. Winterfell was comfortable and peaceful, but his strength had reached a bottleneck; staying longer would only waste time.
Judging by the remaining duration of his stay, however, he likely wouldn't even make it to the moment of departure.
That didn't trouble him much. Once he left, time here would freeze—nothing would truly be affected.
Yet just as his allotted time was nearly exhausted, a clear, fervent prayer suddenly rang in his ears.
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Golden flames flashed.
In the blink of an eye, he found himself in a white bedchamber.
The room looked newly arranged—spacious and austere, with white walls on all sides. Its structure was utterly unlike Westerosi architecture, filled with an exotic, foreign elegance.
Charles glanced downward.
Kneeling on the carpet before him was exactly who he had expected—the bald young woman. Several days had passed, and she looked much healthier now.
Her hair's grown back too, he noted inwardly.
She was sensitive enough to notice his arrival immediately and raised her head. Seeing Charles's golden, radiant form, she visibly relaxed—clearly unsure until this moment whether her prayers would be answered again.
Joy filled her voice as she spoke.
"Thank you for answering. Daenerys Targaryen greets you."
"You may stand while you speak," Charles replied, offering a serene, priestly smile.
He had seen this scene countless times before. When prayers were answered and believers realized a "divine presence" had descended, this was the usual reaction.
Daenerys might not truly believe in the Seven—she might not believe in any gods at all—but when a deity appeared before one's eyes, restraint came naturally.
Charles was experienced with such moments.
"If it pleases you," she said, rising from the floor. Seeing his gentle demeanor, she couldn't help asking, "They say this ruined city is haunted by ghosts."
Clearly, the question had been weighing on her for a long time.
"Believe me," Charles replied calmly, "the dead are far less dangerous than the living."
In his spirit form, his voice should have been faint—little more than a whisper, like the mutterings of a wandering soul. Yet due to the mark of the Seven, he was utterly different.
His voice carried—ethereal, solemn, filled with divine authority.
Combined with his holy radiance, no one seeing him would doubt that a god stood before them.
Under the blazing sun of the Red Waste, Daenerys hadn't seen him clearly before. Now she studied him closely and realized—aside from the golden glow and the seven-pointed star on his forehead, he looked remarkably human.
"Are you… the Seven?" she asked carefully.
The Seven were said to be one god with seven aspects, so seeing only one form didn't surprise her.
"I am not the Seven," Charles said calmly.
"But the Seven are me."
Her breath caught.
A living god, standing before her and speaking—it felt like a dream.
Yet under Charles's steady gaze, she quickly regained her composure. She had suspected as much already; this was merely confirmation.
After a moment's thought, she said softly, "I ask for your guidance, for your follower Daenerys, to lead us out of this red wasteland. We have wandered here for so long, unable to find a way out."
She had now openly called herself a follower—though Charles hadn't forgotten her previous prayers.
Still, he paid no mind to such trifles. Instead, he pondered her dilemma.
He had no idea where she was, nor how to guide her physically. But being unable to answer didn't mean being unable to respond.
He raised his staff and gently touched her forehead.
Light flashed.
She nodded in sudden understanding.
"Hold to my own convictions… yes, I should hold firm…"
"And if we escape this place," she asked again, "what awaits us?"
Once more, Charles had no answer. He calmly raised the staff again.
"Hardship and growth?" she murmured, biting her lip, unease flickering across her face.
Then came a third question. A fourth.
Each time she asked, Charles merely touched her forehead with the staff. Her expressions shifted—confusion, excitement, clarity, sorrow.
Finally, she clenched her fist and declared:
"You're right! Comfort only breeds complacency. I, Daenerys Stormborn would rather suffocate in the storm than drown in a dead sea!"
…What did I say, exactly?
Charles was genuinely bewildered. But knowing how the staff worked, he didn't react—only smiled faintly.
Glancing down, he saw that his remaining time was almost gone.
As Daenerys watched with regret in her eyes, he rested a hand on her forehead once more.
"The light of the Seven will always shine upon you, Daenerys Stormborn."
Golden flames erupted across his form.
In an instant, they burned out—and he vanished.
She let out a quiet sigh, then turned to gaze at the pristine white city beyond the chamber. Her heart surged with renewed resolve, and she clenched her fist unconsciously.
A smile curved her lips.
"With my dragons—and the blessing of the Seven—Westeros is destined to be mine!"
"Khaleesi? I thought I heard someone speaking?"
A puzzled voice came from outside the door.
"No, Ser Jorah," she replied quickly. "You must have imagined it."
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