Chapter 55: Blood Basin
Silver-trimmed purple unicorn banners.
Golden wreath banners.
Sheaves-of-wheat banners.
Blue scarab banners…
The standards of the great houses of the Westerlands whipped violently in the wind, circling a river-bound fortress like a ring of wolves around a wounded elk.
Columns of soldiers slogged into the water under the harsh commands of their knight-officers. Their legs sank deep into the riverbed muck as they charged toward the stone stronghold rising from the current.
Arrowstorms rained down from the fortress at the river's center. The shrill whistle of fletching sliced overhead like fireworks cracking through the sky—sharp, relentless, deafening. Yet not a single man in the river faltered.
More than thirty soldiers were cut down in moments. Bodies toppled into the churning water, and those behind—unable to stop in time—tripped over the dead and vanished beneath the surface, removed from the battle before they even reached the walls.
One man took an arrow to the shoulder. Reflex drove him a step sideways—right off the safer path carved out by the vanguard's repeated crossings. His boot sank into a hidden spike trap. Pain shattered his balance, and he plunged into the murky river.
Before he could rise, the press of men behind trampled him into pulp. His blood billowed into the mud-dark water and blended away just as quickly beneath the stampede.
Others died clawing up ladders, charging the bank, or writhing under blazing oil poured from above. Corpses were kicked aside like rags in the mud. Crows circled overhead, refusing to leave as the stench of blood thickened—old blood not yet washed away before new blood replaced it.
House Lannister's host had been besieging this river-locked city for days—first unable to land, then fighting tooth-and-nail just to gain a foothold, then being thrown back again. Their constant assaults filled the air with battle cries, metal screams, and death.
Arrows.
Stones.
Men wading, slipping, drowning.
The peaceful river city had become a cauldron of violence.
They should have broken through soon.
Riverrun's outer defenses were beginning to buckle…
…but then a messenger arrived, and the entire war shifted.
---
Inside the Lannister War Tent:
Storm clouds smothered the sky.
Inside the command tent, Westerlands lords packed the space, arguing over one another at full volume.
"One man scares off thousands!? Even the White Walkers wouldn't swallow a lie like that!"
"Whether the Others believe it doesn't matter. We need to decide whether we do!"
"I don't believe a word of it!"
"Nor I! What kind of 'black sorcerer' could possibly—"
"Lord Tyrion would never invent something like this!"
"Unless the enemy forced him into it."
"I want to know if that toad-witch's potion actually worked."
Arguments piled on top of arguments, none leading anywhere.
Ravens had been sent from Riverrun before the city fell, then carried again by courier from Golden Tooth to the Lannister host on the river.
The rumor spread like wildfire: one black sorcerer had single-handedly terrified two thousand mountain clansmen into fleeing.
And the North's army was marching south with alarming speed.
Panicked, every lord abandoned the siege lines and hurried to the command tent.
But after all their shouting… there was still no conclusion.
At last, the quiet, heavy presence at the central table stirred.
A broad-shouldered, bald man with pale green eyes and a trimmed gold-streaked beard finally spoke.
"Send word to Ser Clegane. Recall the Riverlands raiders. Have him rejoin the main host."
Before the lords could react, he continued:
"Ser Crakehall—confirm that not a single raven has flown into Riverrun these days."
"I swear on my House's honor, my lord—our archers shot down every one!"
"Good."
The old lion nodded.
"Send another message: Riverrun is to release Ser Jaime. Do that, and we withdraw at once."
"Withdraw?"
Silence crushed the tent.
The lords stared at one another. Confused. Bewildered.
Even if the rumor was true…
Even if the North's army was close…
It was barely over ten thousand men. Enough to complicate things, yes—but not enough to force a full retreat, not when Riverrun was on the verge of falling. One more push and—
"My lord, I believe—" one noble began.
"You will carry out the order."
The bald general's cold stare cut him off instantly.
"…Yes, my lord," the man murmured, bowing quickly.
The old lion turned away, gaze settling on another figure seated at the table's corner.
"How goes Lord Renly's march?"
"Still dragging his feet, my lord. Slow as ever. But eventually he must arrive. I believe we should prepare early."
"We should indeed."
The old man narrowed his eyes and motioned for parchment.
A scribe rushed forward as he began writing a sealed letter—swift, sharp strokes of a man already several steps ahead.
The sealing wax hardened slowly.
As the red lacquer cooled, a flicker of hesitation crossed the old lord's bearded face—so brief it almost wasn't there. Then it vanished, replaced once more by that rigid, impenetrable solemnity as he handed the letter to his attendant.
"Ride to King's Landing. Deliver this to the Queen.
You will place it in her hands personally."
"Yes, my lord!"
The man bowed, tucked the letter under his cloak, and hurried out of the tent.
The old lord watched him go.
Almost absentmindedly, his fingers brushed the silver ring on his hand.
A complicated shadow crossed his expression.
"All for House Lannister," he muttered under his breath—perhaps to justify himself, perhaps as a prayer.
And like a mask snapping back into place, his face returned to its usual austere calm.
---
Black blood dripped from Charles's wrist, falling into a polished silver basin filled with clear water.
The moment the droplets hit the surface, they spread like liquid ink, staining everything an obsidian black.
Blood that should have been crimson now ran dark and cold.
The dense web of secret glyphs that had covered his body—the same sigils that caged the collected spirits inside him—had twisted the very nature of his blood.
A faint chorus of distant wails seemed to echo from each drop, though perhaps it was only dripping water, or imagination.
Still, the sound crawled beneath the skin.
The blood kept flowing.
The sigils dimmed with it—
from pitch-black,
to ash-gray,
to faint traces,
until finally they vanished altogether.
Red blood welled from the wound at last.
The runes were gone.
What remained inside the basin was a bowl of pitch-black water, dense with trapped souls.
A basin of darkness.
A basin of ghosts.
Charles stared into it for a moment, then inhaled sharply and plunged his head into the liquid.
His face broke the surface—
and did not meet water.
No drowning.
No breathlessness.
Instead, it was like shoving his head through a veil into a hollow cavern—quiet, cold, oppressive.
Moist air brushed his skin.
A chill wind whispered across his ears, carrying dozens of thin, fragmented murmurs.
Charles opened his eyes.
His chamber was gone.
He stood—no, floated—in a sealed, lightless underwater world.
Below him: endless black.
Around him: shadowed currents, drifting in a slow, heavy murk.
And scattered everywhere…
Shapes.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Ghosts.
Some expressionless.
Some contorted with agony.
Some drifting aimlessly.
Some thrashing or silently screaming.
They made no real sound—only a soft, collective humming that vibrated like a chill through the water.
They were the souls he had absorbed.
Bound.
Trapped.
Condemned to drift in this internal abyss.
When Charles's presence entered their realm, the "sky" above the darkness rippled—
and a massive human face appeared, its eyes blazing like twin searchlights cutting through the gloom.
The ghosts recoiled instantly, fleeing from the sweeping beams.
But the world was too small; no matter where they fled, the light found them.
Charles saw everything clearly.
Half-transparent upper bodies.
Tails dissolving into smoke.
Gray trails curling as they drifted.
A nightmare of half-formed souls.
And one among them… defied the fear.
A massive figure—shrouded entirely in roiling black mist—shot upward toward Charles's face in a frenzy, jaws gaping as if to tear away flesh.
But a black net materialized instantly, blocking it.
A net woven from writhing runes.
The ghost slammed against it again and again, but the runes pulsed angrily, emitting black vapor that made the spirit's smoky form shudder violently.
Forced back, the specter retreated—but its hate-filled scarlet eyes glared upward with pure venom.
Charles recognized it instantly.
The same face that had twice burst from his skin to startle him.
The angry one.
The stubborn one.
Information flickered before his sight:
[Soul of an unknown corpse from Lohn City.
In life he suffered deep humiliation.
In death he harbors only hatred.]
Figures.
Charles studied the spirit, the creature baring ghostly teeth at him, but he soon remembered his purpose and began reciting another incantation.
Dark whispers rolled through the abyss.
The ghosts convulsed.
Their forms warped and cracked.
Faces collapsed inward.
Hands dissolved.
Bodies crumbled like rotting plaster.
They weren't "appearing to weaken."
They were truly disintegrating.
One by one.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
Until the black water filled with a storm of drifting gray ash, swirling like a dead sea.
When the destruction ended, only two figures remained intact:
1. The raging spirit, trembling in a corner.
2. A white-robed ghost, kneeling as though praying.
It still retained some sense of self, whispering with frantic devotion.
More text flashed before Charles:
[Spirit of a preacher.
Devout.
He despises your existence.]
Charles snorted.
"You hate me? I didn't even kill you."
But he shook off the irritation.
He had what he came for.
The ritual selected the suitable candidates.
Now it was time for the second phase.
Charles lifted his hand and began the next incantation.
Tongue of Oaths.
The easiest to cultivate—just needed enough souls.
Phantom's Veil.
Required the right spirit depending on what identity he wished to imitate.
Good, evil, righteous, wicked… the mask reflected the chosen soul.
Wraith Substitute.
Flexible.
Almost any spirit would do—but Charles had already chosen his target.
And after the mass purge he had just performed…
well, his options were conveniently limited.
Perfect.