Chapter 53 — Wraiths
"Rosemary… clover… a century-old root… and soil taken from a crossroads…"
Inside one of the river-castle's tall towers, sunlight poured through the arched window. In that bright room, a young man stood beside a polished nanmu table, a brown-gray notebook in one hand, the other hovering over a chaotic spread of bizarre materials.
Reading line by line, Charles tossed each "ordinary-looking" object into a special wooden bath-tub beside him, his expression focused, ignoring everything else.
By now, the Northern host had already set out—marching in haste to relieve their besieged allies.
Charles had been invited to join them, of course. But he no longer felt the slightest interest in tagging along.
Last night's "battle" had barely involved real fighting, but the chaos that erupted afterward… that was another matter. Freys, opportunists, local thugs, lurking enemies—every rat had come crawling out of the dark. By the time order was restored at dawn, more than two hundred corpses littered the castle.
Two hundred souls.
Enough for Charles to finally master all three of the spells he'd been chasing.
So he stayed behind in the Twins while the army marched on.
Some northern lords expressed "regret," but no one dared question his decision.
How could they? After witnessing his "power," most of them already viewed Charles as the Northern Army's ultimate secret weapon.
But Charles knew exactly what he was.
No matter how frightening his reputation, no matter how impressive his theatrics…
a paper tiger was still a paper tiger.
If anyone ever worked up the courage to tear through the illusion of terror he cultivated—
they'd quickly discover two or three ordinary soldiers could corner and "bring to justice" the black sorcerer feared across the Seven Kingdoms.
"These foolish mortals," he muttered to himself, amused, tossing the last wild fig into the tub.
A full night of using his "special status" to order people around had been enough to gather every ingredient he needed.
The once-clear bathwater in the tub now resembled a pot of thick stew. Herbs, bones, roots, mud, fruits—everything floated in murky layers of shifting color, slowly turning the water a cloudy, sickly gray.
Here and there, a pale bone surfaced with a faint bubbling "glorp" before sinking again.
At first glance, the mixture looked like a witch's toxic broth.
It didn't smell any better.
Charles leaned in, sniffed, and recoiled at once.
"How stupid do you have to be to bathe in this sludge?"
Despite the disgust twisting his face, his hands never stopped.
He stirred the mixture with a ladle until it blended into an even thicker ooze. Then he pulled out a stack of papers already covered in runic script. Taking a deep breath, he held the stack over the tub and began chanting.
Invisible fire ignited along the edges.
Flames spread rapidly—yet instead of ash, black symbols peeled off the pages like droplets of ink, falling into the water one by one. A moment later, the symbols resurfaced, swirling like dark tadpoles beneath the surface.
As the runes detached, the murky "broth" slowly cleared—as though being filtered from within. The bones at the bottom gradually dissolved into swirling white filaments, drifting through the water like threads of ghostly silk.
By the time the last rune dropped away, the foul, lumpy stew had transformed into a strange, translucent mixture—filled with white wisps and black runic motes drifting lazily like living things.
Still eerie. Still unnatural.
But compared to its earlier state, almost pleasant.
Almost.
The transformation of the water reassured Charles—if only a little.
So he stopped hesitating.
With a sigh, he shrugged off his night-robe, stepped onto a chair, and climbed into the wooden tub.
Heat slammed into him instantly.
Moments earlier the water had been icy cold; now it scalded like boiling oil. Fire licked across every inch of his skin. Charles hissed sharply through his teeth, though—having endured this once before—his expression held more resignation than shock.
At the same time, countless black "tadpoles" in the water surged toward him the moment his body submerged, swarming like a living storm. A prickling sting spread through him, layering atop the burning pain until he could no longer tell where agony ended and numbness began.
Heat and stinging intertwined.
White threads spiraled around him like tiny whirlpools. Black runes crawled up his limbs, his torso, his neck, each one wriggling and burrowing into his skin—until the water beneath him, little by little, turned crystal-clear once more.
When it was over, the tub looked as though it had been filled with fresh water…
…and Charles looked nothing like himself.
Every inch of his skin was covered in writhing, glossy black symbols—thick as swarming tadpoles and just as alive. They slithered over him in chaotic patterns, winding around his arms, his chest, his back, even his cheeks and throat, forming dark chains that bound him from head to toe.
The pain faded. Then vanished.
Charles exhaled slowly and climbed out of the tub.
"If I add any more of these things, I'm going to turn into a full-blown dark-skinned uncle."
He glanced down at himself, a momentary thought flashing through his mind.
His once-pale skin was now so densely cloaked in black markings that almost none of his original color peeked through.
After dressing, he stepped across the wooden floor; each step creaked loudly.
The runes made him heavier—literally.
It felt as if someone had hung several hundred pounds of stone across his shoulders.
Annoying, yes, but hardly debilitating.
He drew his black cloak over his shoulders, letting the fabric conceal the patterns, and headed out.
As he walked through the castle halls, soldiers straightened instinctively. Some—emboldened by the presence of their comrades—managed a loud, shaky greeting. Charles nodded back when addressed.
Most, however, lacked such courage.
They simply held their breath as he passed, a mixture of fear and relief flickering across their faces.
When he stepped through the inner gate, a squad of guards automatically fell in behind him—assigned by the castellan, per Ned Stark's explicit instruction before leaving the castle.
Even beyond the keep, the reactions were the same… with one peculiar exception.
Thanks to a certain red-robed "aunt," a surprising number of commoners now regarded Charles with awestruck, borderline fervent admiration.
Charles found it irritating.
The soldiers trailing behind him found it downright shocking.
Ignoring every kind of gaze—fearful or worshipful—he continued forward until he reached a secluded, fenced-off training ground on the edge of the castle.
All the corpses from yesterday's nightmarish chaos had been dumped here.
The place stank of death and abandonment.
To everyone else, this was refuse.
To Charles… it was treasure.
He ordered the guards to wait outside, shut the wooden gate behind him, and inhaled deeply as he stepped toward the piled bodies.
---
The harvesting began.
---
[You have absorbed a remnant soul from a Lannister soldier.
Under the influence of the runes, your spirituality has shifted slightly.]
[You have absorbed a remnant soul from a Tullytown blacksmith.
Under the influence of the runes, your spirituality has shifted slightly.]
[You have absorbed a remnant soul from a nameless corpse in the Twins.
Under the influence of the runes, your spirituality has shifted slightly.]
One after another, the notifications echoed in his mind.
Under the sunlight, Charles walked among corpses while whispering low, eerie incantations. Faint sobs and wails rose in answer.
Had anyone been watching, they would have seen translucent, face-shaped wisps of smoke rising from the bodies—only to streak toward Charles and disappear into him.
But no witnesses remained.
The guards had fled long ago, terrified out of their wits.
Soul after soul surged from the dead, drifting like ghostly insects—swarming around Charles, circling him, merging into him.
His expression remained solemn. His pace slow and steady.
When the last thread of soul finally slipped into his body, a tremor ran through him.
A cold chill rippled outward, as if summer had suddenly plunged into winter.
Charles frowned. Something felt wrong.
He lowered his gaze to his left palm.
The tiny runes etched there began bulging upward—writhing, pulsing. Something beneath them was pushing, pushing—
"What the hell…?"
Suddenly a distorted human face surged out of his palm—formed of mist, snarling silently, its features stretched and covered in a net of black symbols.
It lunged for him—
—only to be yanked backward at once, dragged into the darkness by chains woven entirely of runes.
Charles blinked, startled.
Then it was gone.
As if it had never happened.
"Was that… real?"
He stood frozen for a moment, mind racing—until hurried footsteps sounded behind him.
He turned.
One of the guards—previously frightened off—ran toward him, pale but determined.
"Something you need?"
"S-sir—someone seeks an audience with you, Ser Colinston," the soldier stammered.
"Who?"
"A guest of Lord Bolton. He's come from Harrenhal.
An old man named Qyburn."
---