Chapter 119: Hope
"Use your arms, not your wrists—damn it, Sardin! You're the dumbest soldier I've ever seen!"
…
In the courtyard outside the tower, the newly appointed Night's Watch drillmaster, Sandor Clegane, was berating a pale, beardless youth with undisguised impatience. Half of his long face looked as though it had been burned into charcoal, drooping in a way that made him terrifying to behold.
The boy kept his head lowered, responding meekly, not daring to meet the Hound's gaze. The black cloak he wore silently testified to his current identity.
A Night's Watch recruit.
Since the Age of Heroes—when the ancestors of House Stark raised the Wall at the edge of the world—the Night's Watch had stood guard beneath it for thousands of years, never wavering from its duty.
They transcended the politics of Westeros. Their sole purpose was to defend the Wall and face the dangers beyond it.
But compared to their former glory, the Night's Watch had long since fallen into decline.
The White Walkers had vanished for millennia. Beyond the Wall, only the wildling tribes remained as enemies.
Small bands of wildlings occasionally slipped through narrow gaps in the Wall to raid and harass, but large-scale invasions were impossible. Against a frozen barrier like a giant's spine, they stood no chance.
And such petty raids no longer inspired fear.
As a result, the great lords of Westeros gradually withdrew their support. By now, the Night's Watch had all but been abandoned.
Recruitment reflected this decay.
In the past, noble houses sent men without being asked. Now, even when veteran rangers went out to recruit, all they brought back were the dregs of society.
Rapists. Thieves. Bandits. Male prostitutes.
Men who were scum in the outside world suddenly became "heroes defending the frontier" the moment they donned black.
Their former duties had been limited to skirmishing with wildling tribes beyond the Wall. But winter was coming. The Long Night loomed once more, and a heavy, unseen burden pressed down upon the Wall—one few here seemed capable of bearing.
Lord Commander Mormont had sensed the early signs of that darkness and led a large force north to investigate.
They had yet to return.
Charles suspected that the groups he had encountered earlier—those attacked by wights—had been that very expedition. Their fate required no further speculation.
Before Robb Stark's army arrived, fewer than three hundred men remained at Castle Black—and most of them were craftsmen and stewards. There wasn't even anyone assigned to train new recruits.
Thus, the Hound had been handed the role without ceremony.
He clearly disliked it. His face was perpetually sour during drills.
Yet strangely enough, he made no attempt to flee. Beneath the curses and snarled insults, he actually performed his duty with grim diligence.
…
"After leaving, that dog has become a lot more agreeable," the blond dwarf remarked as he withdrew his gaze from the window and turned toward Charles, who was seated at the desk, writing without looking up.
"He said he's his own dog now," Charles replied flatly, his quill never pausing. "He doesn't take orders from any master anymore."
As the feather pen moved, lines of neatly written Common Tongue filled the parchment—lists of materials, diagrams, and notes.
The unexpected excursion the day before had yielded an abundance of local magical knowledge—far more practical than the spellbooks he had brought from the main world. These were techniques he could actually use right away.
Glass candles.
Phantom tortoises.
The Eye of Fate formation.
Shade-of-the-evening.
Illusion curses.
Over a dozen Undying Ones had fallen, but their knowledge overlapped heavily. In truth, the harvest boiled down to just these few disciplines.
Even so, it was more than Charles had expected.
An unexpected windfall.
Unfortunately, that didn't mean it was easy to use.
Not at all.
None of these things—whether spells or magical artifacts—could be used without the proper casting or crafting materials.
And right now, Charles had absolutely nothing.
Utterly inconvenient.
As the thought crossed his mind, something else surfaced. He looked up at the blond dwarf.
"If I remember correctly, Lann the Clever was your ancestor?"
"That's right," Tyrion replied, shrugging. "An ancestor from thousands of years ago. They say he had a hundred sons and a hundred daughters. When I was young, I used to wonder just how many wives the old man had. Why?"
"Nothing," Charles said, shaking his head.
Your ancestor's soul is actually with me right now, he thought—but decided that was a bit too unsettling to say out loud.
That so-called hero's soul was, in essence, a human spirit—ancient, vast, dating back to Westeros's Age of Heroes.
The soul of Lann the Clever, founder of House Lannister.
Why a Westerosi hero's heart had been ripped out and imprisoned by warlocks across the sea was anyone's guess. But all secrets had turned to dust when Charles purified it.
Unlike ordinary spirits, this hero's soul glowed faintly gold, not unlike Charles's own spiritual form—except it lacked the sigil on the forehead.
Time had worn it down completely. Whatever will or consciousness it once had was gone, leaving behind something dull and puppet-like. As such, Charles had learned nothing from it.
Worse still, he had no idea what use it actually served.
At the very least, the Eye of Reality showed no practical function. After brief experimentation, Charles had simply stored it away in the black void within his staff and ignored it.
The so-called Thread of Fate wasn't much better. It sounded impressive, but in practice, he had no idea how to use it.
"Mix it into an illusion array, like those warlocks?" he mused silently.
As Tyrion stepped closer and sat across from him at the desk, Charles raised an eyebrow.
The glass wine bottle and silver goblet nearby lifted into the air on their own. The bottle tilted, pouring a stream of golden liquid into the cup, releasing a soft, sweet aroma.
"Arbor gold?" Tyrion's eyes lit up. "Seven save me—haven't had this in ages."
He licked his lips unconsciously. The moment the cup was full, he grabbed it and took a deep drink, sighing in satisfaction.
"You're in danger here," Charles said calmly, ignoring Tyrion's reaction.
"After your trial by combat, you should've returned to Casterly Rock and kept your head down. Staying here means you might end up with an arrow through your skull."
This wasn't idle talk.
Charles could foresee death.
Though his authority over death had been suppressed in the North, Castle Black was different. People from across the continent gathered here, and followers of the Seven outnumbered those of the Old Gods.
Combined with his recent efforts, his authority had partially returned—enough for him to glimpse fragments of fate again.
And Tyrion's fate had changed.
From dying peacefully in old age…
to being shot clean through the head.
"If the wise Lord Tywin can forgive his ugly, treacherous son," Tyrion said dryly, "then perhaps I'll go home."
He took another sip of wine, then finally voiced what he'd been holding in for a long time.
"I'm certain it was you who saved those people in King's Landing. Because as far as I know—no one survives wildfire. No one."
"So I'm not a person now?" Charles replied flatly.
When Tyrion opened his mouth to continue, Charles cut him off.
"If you're hoping I'll turn you into a tall, handsome Lannister, you might as well pray for better luck in your next life."
The implication was clear.
Tyrion hadn't stayed here by accident. With enemies everywhere, only a fool would linger in the North without a reason.
His desire was different from everyone else's.
"I believe the Seven are omnipotent," Tyrion said, raising his cup slightly.
"I am not the Seven," Charles replied plainly.
Pretending to be a god around strangers was one thing. Doing so constantly among allies was exhausting—and risky. A divine messenger was far more convenient than a god.
"True enough," Tyrion said with a grin. "The Seven wouldn't need to eat, drink, or relieve themselves. You're quite human—reads books, eats meals. At this rate, I might even see you visit a brothel one day."
"Then what exactly are you expecting?" Charles asked. "You know I can't do it."
"You can't now," Tyrion countered. "That doesn't mean you won't later. Take that spell you used—draining a man dry. After the Riverlands, I noticed you still needed a stone tablet. Now you do it with a wave of your hand."
Charles remained silent.
Tyrion coughed awkwardly.
"I don't understand how sorcerers or divine agents learn their arts. But the speed of your growth is terrifying. If that continues, turning a dwarf into a tall man might not be impossible."
Still no response.
Tyrion forced a grin, his misshapen face unusually calm.
"So now I'm thinking—what can I offer to persuade you to help me just once?"
Charles said nothing.
Tyrion continued anyway.
"Bolton flattered you with blood—killed his own son, gave you an army. But I'm neither Bolton nor Stark. Lannister gold is useless to you. I'm not a woman. I can't seduce you. I'm ugly, unpleasant… so the only thing I've got is a sharper mind than most."
"So?" Charles finally prompted.
"I don't understand your magic," Tyrion said. "But I understand noble games. If you need someone to handle politics, schemes, and tedious human nonsense—I can do that for you. And someday, if it's possible…"
He tried to keep his voice steady, but beneath the table, his twisted hand clenched tightly.
As a child, he had dreamed of waking up taller. Of becoming a giant, like the heroes of legend—perhaps even a Lannister giant.
But years passed. Books piled up. Reality crushed fantasy.
Life had given him nothing but ridicule, contempt, and scorn.
No miracles.
A year ago, he would have sworn miracles didn't exist.
But now—
The miracle stood right in front of him.