Chapter 52: Entering the City
The noon sun baked the earth, making the air above the river shimmer. A cool breeze rose off the water, brushing across the faces of soldiers crossing the drawbridge and drawing soft sighs of relief from their lips.
The shadow of war, so heavy only the night before, had evaporated with their sudden victory. The last few pockets of resistance splashed weakly in the river—and were gone.
The northern host had seized the Twins. The soldiers who arrived first threw open the gates, ushering in wave after wave of support troops. People of all trades and garb filtered cheerfully inside, chatting, laughing, stretching their weary limbs.
Charles was among them.
Despite being pivotal to the victory, he hadn't taken part in the final assault. He'd been ordered to remain far in the rear, so only after the chaos was fully suppressed did he finally step into the stone fortress built upon the river.
"The Twins are actually two castles," a booming voice beside him explained. "One on each bank—the north and the south. Between them runs this great stone bridge across the Green Fork. Hundreds of years ago, everything here was wood—bridge and fortresses both. Only after the Freys grew rich off tolls did they replace everything with stone."
The speaker was a round-faced, bald-headed mountain of a man—Wendel Manderly of White Harbor. His father was too old for war, so the Manderly family answered Robb's summons with only two sons. Wendel's older brother had already been captured in an earlier battle; which left Wendel as the sole Manderly in the host.
Perhaps due to his size, he hadn't participated in last night's fighting, and only lumbered in this morning.
Despite his imposing bulk, he had a gentle nature, soft-spoken and unfailingly polite. He chatted easily with Charles and showed no unusual discomfort around him.
Compared to the common soldiers, the northern lords were far less frightened of Charles. They encountered him often; in everyday moments, the "black sorcerer" behaved like an ordinary—if slightly odd—young man.
And most of these lords were old enough to be his father. Some even had grandsons his age. After repeated contact, the strangeness faded, and so did the instinctive fear. Unlike the rank-and-file soldiers, none of the lords trembled to speak to him.
"The Freys' ancestors had foresight," Charles murmured, peering curiously around the corridors.
After arriving in this medieval world, he'd seen surprisingly few castles up close. The stark stone hallways still held a novelty that tugged at his curiosity.
Perfectly ordinary—yet the soldiers around them reacted as if a ghost had drifted past. Each time Charles's eyes swept over someone, they jerked their gazes downward, shoulders stiff with terror. One poor soldier panicked so hard he tripped over his own feet and crashed face-first onto the floor, provoking a burst of laughter.
But the moment they remembered who was present, the laughter died in their throats.
"Am I really that terrifying?" Charles sighed.
"No, no—of course not," Wendel stammered. "That soldier must simply be… ah, easily startled."
Anyone could see he didn't quite believe his own words. Charles didn't mind.
Fear could breed hatred, but it could also cleave straight into the soul like a sharpened blade. And wrapped in the mantle of the "Black Sorcerer," Charles found many things became much easier to accomplish.
For example—the unexpected "battle" yesterday…
He cast a sympathetic glance at the fallen soldier, then continued walking without a care.
Wendel rode beside him as they headed toward the main keep. But Charles slowed after only a few steps—something had caught his attention.
A woman in a flowing crimson gown.
Copper-red curls fell in soft waves over her shoulders. The ruby at her throat shimmered in the sunlight, its glow strangely hypnotic.
Charles instinctively recognized it wasn't ordinary.
A faint notification glimmered before his eyes:
[A ruby filled with unknown power]
But even that gemstone paled next to its owner.
She stood among the crowd like a scarlet flame—elegant, poised, lips moving in a serene cadence as she addressed those gathered around her.
"The Lord of Light bathes His children in radiance. And darkness—darkness is His scourge, His whip, His blade against evil."
"As His servant, Ser Charles Cranston came not to destroy, but to save. It was he who freed the innocents of this city from Lannister oppression and the cruelty of wild men. It was he who rescued your lord's greatest ally, Eddard Stark, from the capital."
"He walks through the night bearing the boundless power of the Lord of Light—and that power now reaches toward you with benevolence."
"'Black sorcerer' is merely the slander of the ignorant—fear twisted into lies by our enemies, temptations whispered by false gods to hinder the Lord's chosen."
"…"
Her voice flowed like warm wine—soothing, persuasive, dangerously convincing.
Charles stared, expression growing complicated.
The crowd had gathered tightly around Melisandre, hanging on her every word. From time to time someone would raise a question, and the Red Priestess would answer with patience and solemn poise—kind, yet never truly approachable. Every movement carried an air of untouchable authority.
She was, in every sense, a masterful zealot—someone who knew exactly which posture, which tone, and which mystery would most effectively sway the ignorant.
And ignorant they were. Ninety percent of this world, Charles had learned, couldn't even recognize their own names in writing.
Knowledge was a luxury kept under lock and key—hoarded by the few and never shared with the many.
It was no wonder Charles often felt baffled by the strange ways people thought.
Like the incident a few days ago—he'd only meant to scare a few people into wetting themselves. He never imagined they'd panic so hard they'd abandon an entire city.
Ridiculous, absurd… and yet, it happened.
Now he watched a different brand of absurdity: Melisandre's flowery nonsense—confident, elaborate, dripping with mystique—and the crowd swallowed every word as if she were reciting divine truth. Some even began murmuring prayers under their breath…
And then, as Charles approached, something he hadn't felt in a very long time appeared—
normal human interaction.
"Great Messenger… will you bless my mother with a long life?"
A tiny girl—three, maybe four—looked up at him with wide blue eyes.
Brown hair, tattered gray dress, dirt smudged across her cheeks, and bare feet on filthy stone. Her appearance said everything about her life.
At her age, she knew no fear. And that childlike innocence—sudden and earnest—caught him completely off guard.
He looked at her, then at the young woman holding her hand, then at the cluster of frightened yet hopeful refugees watching him.
And for the first time in a while, Charles forced himself to say something he didn't mean.
"…Yes. I will."
The girl beamed.
Charles attempted a smile that felt painfully stiff—and immediately pulled Melisandre out of the crowd by the arm.
Once they had moved far enough away, he scanned the area, then muttered:
"I've been wondering why you insist on sticking to me. I think I've finally figured it out—you're using my name to preach your Lord of Light nonsense."
"This brings you no harm," Melisandre replied calmly.
He had expected excuses—some flowery, mystical justification.
Instead, she sounded perfectly righteous.
Charles let out a sharp laugh.
"You're unbelievable. I want people terrified enough to wet themselves when they see me. And you think turning me into a saint helps? All I see are downsides."
"Downsides?"
Her red eyes shimmered faintly. "Are you truly unbothered by being feared, shunned… hated?"
"Why would I care? Fear is a perfectly good weapon, and you've seen I'm using it just fine."
"If you truly didn't care," she asked, voice softening, "then why did you drag Eddard Stark into your ritual?"
"I don't know anyone else."
"Do you really expect me to believe that?"
Her gaze fixed on him—quiet, penetrating.
"The common folk will never understand your true intentions. They see your methods, and to them you are a devil from the abyss. By involving the Warden of the North—the highest authority in the region—you forged yourself a protective charm. Am I wrong?"
Charles blinked—then smirked.
"You old auntie… your imagination never stops running wild."
Before she could respond, he abruptly changed the subject:
"When is the envoy from Dragonstone supposed to arrive? I've been waiting long enough."
"Perhaps you should ask your 'protective charm' yourself."
Annoyed by his earlier comment, Melisandre huffed, turned, and stalked away.
"…"
Charles clicked his tongue.
"So much for treating the Lord of Light's so-called 'messenger' with respect…"
Still amused, he glanced back at the crowd, chuckled to himself, then headed toward Wendel Manderly, who was waiting.
"That lovely lady seems upset," the fat noble observed.
"Oh, she is. I made the mistake of mentioning her age." Charles nodded solemnly. "She's been sulking ever since."
He nudged his horse forward—but a commotion at the gate drew his eyes immediately.
"What's going on?" the guards barked, their voices sharp. The entire street turned to look.
The war had just ended. Any disturbance set nerves on edge.
"Emptying the privies, ser! Northmen besieged too long—the pits are overflowing," the filthy carter explained.
"Privies?"
The guard frowned and cracked open one of the wooden barrels.
A wave of stench burst forth.
"Seven hells—get it out of here! Move!"
"Yes ser, yes ser, we're going!"
Charles watched the exchange, head tilted.
Nothing outwardly strange.
But something felt wrong.
A castle built over a river needs to leave the walls to dump waste?
Since when are medieval people so hygienic?
Suspicion prickled.
He kept his eyes on the moving cart—his vision flicked over its barrels—then froze on one.
[A latrine barrel with a hidden slit — likely concealing a person]
Charles blinked.
That tiny?
Someone was hiding… inside that?
He turned to Wendel.
"You're sure the dwarf lord is dead? Completely dead?"
"Of course. Shot full of arrows like a hedgehog. Someone even chopped his head off."
Wendel sighed. "Shame, though. I heard he refused to flee even as our men stormed the walls. Kept shouting that Lannisters don't run."
"I see…" Charles murmured.
He looked back at the cart—
and flashed his teeth in a cold grin at the suspect barrel.
The barrel twitched.
Charles chuckled softly
and chose not to interfere.
He nudged his horse forward, hooves clacking on the stone.
"Where are the bodies from yesterday's battle being kept?" he asked.