Chapter 54 — Kindred Spirits?
[A man named Qyburn. Estimated age: 55–65.]
[Breathing slightly labored—likely mild airway issues.]
[Seems to be in unusually good spirits.]
Information flashed rapidly before Charles's eyes as an elderly, stooped man in a grey robe shuffled into the corpse-strewn training yard under a soldier's guidance. His hair was a washed-out grey, and he walked with hurried, eager steps despite his age.
"Greetings, Ser Cranston."
The old man's voice was respectful—almost overly so. His cloudy blue eyes swept up and down Charles's figure, lingering especially on the countless black runes crawling across his skin. Curiosity practically glowed in those tired eyes.
"Hello, sir."
Charles inclined his head politely. He was just about to ask what the man wanted when—
—his cheek trembled.
A distorted, ghostly face burst through his skin, snarling silently before being yanked back beneath the runes.
It happened fast—too fast for Charles to stop it.
But not fast enough to escape the old man's notice.
Charles's expression darkened.
Seriously? When I'm alone it behaves, but now, with someone watching… this thing chooses now to act up?
He glanced at Qyburn, expecting fear—or disgust.
Instead, the old man looked delighted.
"Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!" Qyburn nearly trembled with excitement. "I found no ghosts in Harrenhal—but here, here I see proof with my own eyes! Souls truly exist! Those grey-clad sheep kept denying it, but it is their ignorance speaking, not truth!"
His enthusiasm only grew, and his tone became even more deferential than before.
"Grey-clad sheep?" Charles blinked. He did not know this man; everything he said felt inexplicably disconnected. And why was he here, exactly…?
"The Citadel," Qyburn sniffed. "Those sheep in grey robes. Pretentious, close-minded, and no different from ignorant peasants. Bah—animals with delusions of wisdom."
That at least rang a bell.
The Citadel—Westeros's supposed center of knowledge, in Oldtown. Charles knew of it, though he had no dealings with them.
He coughed lightly, glancing from the corpse piles to the excitable old man.
"So… you were looking for me?"
"Yes! Yes indeed."
The arrogance in Qyburn's voice vanished instantly, replaced by nervous eagerness. "I heard of your feats while in Harrenhal, Ser Cranston, and I have long—long—wished for this opportunity…"
He wrung his hands, nearly stammering.
"M-might I… I beg your indulgence… might I witness your magic? Just a glimpse! Please don't misunderstand—I do not ask for secrets, only the honor of seeing it once. Just once. That alone would fulfill my life's greatest ambition."
He looked so anxious—like a trembling grandfather hoping not to scare away a child—that Charles almost pitied him.
But he shook his head.
"Magic is for killing, not for performances."
"This… yes, yes, I understand. My request is presumptuous," the old man murmured, bowing his head. "But I hope you can forgive the impatience of an old man whose lifelong dream is almost within reach."
He hesitated—then seemed to make a decision.
"In exchange, I offer you my knowledge. No—no, I dare not ask for yours in return. Just… just allow me to see one spell. In return, I will give you this."
He quickly reached under his robe and pulled out a thick, worn leather-bound book. His hands lingered on it with almost paternal reluctance before he pressed it into Charles's hands.
"This book contains the fruits of my research. I—like you—am a student of the darker arts. This is the most precious possession I own. Please… examine it."
Charles accepted it with raised brows.
He flipped through.
Strange symbols. Hand-drawn diagrams. Ritual illustrations. Runes in fluid, ancient handwriting.
A system of magic—one native to this world.
Immediately, a notification flashed:
[A tome containing ancient, indigenous arcane knowledge. Extremely old. Extremely rare.]
Charles closed the book and looked up.
"And you're not afraid I'll keep this and give nothing in return?"
His tone was respectful—Qyburn was an elderly man, after all.
Qyburn chuckled softly.
"It is said that casting spells for you is as effortless as eating or drinking. I doubt such a formidable mage would trouble himself tricking an old man."
He leaned closer, voice filled with fervor.
"Besides… I want this knowledge to flourish in your hands. Let the grey sheep gasp when they learn the true power of that which they dismissed!"
His wrinkled face twisted with old resentment.
He really hates those Citadel folks, Charles thought.
But he wasn't interested in digging into an old man's past grievances.
He had already gotten what he wanted.
Charles flipped through the book again, then nodded.
"Very well. A deal's a deal. What do you want to see?"
"I heard that in the Red Keep you once summoned the spirits of the dead to serve you. I wish to… witness such a marvel."
"That's simple enough," Charles said. "But you'll have to prepare the corpse yourself."
The old man froze, then glanced around at the piles of bodies.
"Are these… not suitable?"
"They've been dead too long," Charles replied bluntly. "If you want a broken, half-functional version, I can oblige."
The truth was, their souls had already been absorbed; their shells could only produce stiff, useless skeletons.
Since he'd accepted the old man's treasured book, Charles felt at least some obligation not to cheat him.
"No! Entire—complete! Nothing broken!"
Qyburn nodded frantically, then turned and shouted toward the fence.
Moments later, a short, grey-robed boy sprinted around the corner.
"This is my new apprentice from Harrenhal—Joey." Qyburn said with grandfatherly gentleness, patting the boy's head. "Come, greet the sorcerer."
"G-greetings, my lord sorcerer…"
The apprentice bowed.
And in the instant he lowered his head, a flash of silver arced across his throat.
A razor-thin line of red appeared—then burst open.
The boy's eyes widened, mouth gasping soundlessly, still carrying the shy, awkward expression from a heartbeat earlier.
He clutched his neck, stumbled, and collapsed onto the ground.
Blood streamed through his fingers.
His gaze lifted toward his master—confused, terrified, pleading.
But the light in his eyes dimmed rapidly, and his legs spasmed once before falling still.
A spreading pool of blood darkened the dirt.
Charles's eyelid twitched violently. He stared at Qyburn—who showed not even a flicker of emotion.
"Why would you do that?" Charles demanded, utterly baffled. He had assumed the old man wanted the apprentice to fetch a fresh corpse, not become one.
Qyburn looked genuinely puzzled by the question.
"A sheep should feel honored to contribute to great work."
Seeing Charles's dark expression, he added, even more confused,
"As a fellow practitioner of the black arts, I thought this would not trouble you."
"'Black sorcerer' is what others call me," Charles said coldly.
Disgust stirred in his chest—until the corner of his vision caught the corpses around them.
Blue-purple skin. Twisted limbs.
Silent accusations.
They were reminders—of what he had done, what he was doing, and what he would continue to do.
He was in no position to condemn anyone.
In truth, this was merely "the pot calling the kettle black." (T/N: Don't you dare spam that...)
Charles exhaled slowly.
"I'll cast the spell. You'll watch. After the deal is done, your apprentice will follow you as long as you want."
His tone lowered, turning icy.
"And if possible, I prefer not to see you again."
Qyburn blinked, clearly not understanding the reaction, but Charles no longer cared.
He began chanting.
Low, guttural syllables filled the air—thick with mystery and malice.
Qyburn instantly forgot everything else. He leaned forward, ears straining, eyes glued to the fresh corpse.
Moments later, the apprentice's chest bulged.
Then his stomach.
His thighs.
His forehead.
With a wet crack, pale bones burst upright from within the body, sitting up like a beggar rising from a mound of trash—flesh and organs sliding off in clumps.
"Incredible… the pinnacle of the dark arts…"
Even a man who had dissected living subjects could not suppress a jolt of fear—and quickly, fascination.
Qyburn circled the skeleton with gleeful excitement, poking and prodding, muttering madly to himself.
"He's a lunatic," Charles concluded flatly.
He glanced at the book in his hand—and briefly regretted the exchange.
Only briefly.
After commanding the skeleton to follow its new master, he turned and walked away without another word.
"Same kind," perhaps—
but Charles had no intention of keeping this one close.