Chapter 120 — The Book Thief and the Wildling Raid
"Ghost grass, nightshade tree leaves, stone lizard tails, monkshood, sweet-sleep flowers, black lotus root…"
…
Murmuring the long list of densely packed items written on the page, Jiren couldn't help glancing up at the young man before him.
"My lord," he said hesitantly, "many of these materials simply don't exist in Westeros."
Born into a family of cobblers, Jiren was one of the few among the five hundred private soldiers who could read and write. Because of that, Charles often entrusted him with errands that required precision and discretion.
"Take your time. There's no rush," Charles replied calmly. "You can focus on contacting the maesters in the various castles. Some of these materials might be in their collections."
"Yes, my lord." Jiren nodded, then paused, clearly weighing his words. "May I negotiate with that… Lannister?"
"Lannister?" Charles raised an eyebrow.
Jiren hurried to explain. "In your name, he informed us that any future petitioners will be required to pay a price. He says he'll need our cooperation to handle this. I wanted to ask for your approval first."
He only left a short while ago, didn't he? Fast mover, Charles thought with mild surprise.
Still, this was something he had already agreed to earlier. He gave a brief nod.
"That's fine."
…
The Lannister dwarf regarded Charles's abilities as an extraordinarily valuable resource. Allowing people to benefit from them freely, without cost, was—in his view—nothing short of wasteful.
Once Charles gave his approval, Tyrion wasted no time implementing the idea.
After some thought, Charles didn't object either.
True, there wasn't much in this world that he personally coveted—but that didn't mean he had no needs.
Gold.
Rare treasures.
And, most urgently, all kinds of arcane materials.
If Charles were to gather these himself, it would be painfully slow and troublesome.
But if the entire North helped collect them on his behalf?
That was an entirely different story.
In the end, Charles agreed to Tyrion's proposal.
The initiative came from the other side, required no effort on his part, and benefited him directly—there was no reason to refuse.
Watching the guard leave, Charles turned his attention back to the desk.
Several sheets of paper lay there, each covered in simple line drawings.
Eyes.
Lines forming eyes of various shapes.
These were Eyes of Fate—the name given to those crude magical diagrams.
Their function was to induce hallucinations, much like what Daenerys had experienced.
On the surface, hallucinations alone weren't particularly impressive. The arrays were difficult to construct and required numerous supporting materials, making them of limited immediate use to Charles.
But if he remembered correctly…
Daenerys's hallucinations had not merely been illusions.
They had stirred memories buried deep within her mind.
Which led Charles to a troubling—and intriguing—thought.
If these arrays could provoke her memories…
Then once completed properly—
Could they also draw out his?
His own memories were nothing special—but the memories beyond himself were another matter entirely.
The book on dream-weaving was exceptionally difficult. Much of its content was so obscure that he could barely grasp it at all. His current foundation of knowledge was simply insufficient; mastering it in the short term was out of the question.
And so, if he wanted to find a path to advancement as soon as possible, he had no choice but to consider alternative methods.
This was one such method.
In fact, it wasn't impossible.
"It just needs to be tested."
Muttering to himself, Charles left the room.
Personal strength was important, but the threat south of the Wall—the White Walkers—was equally critical.
They were terrifyingly powerful, capable of bringing the Long Night and awakening countless wights to form an undead army.
And yet, in another sense, they were absurdly fragile.
A White Walker—an entity of legend—had once been stabbed to death by a cowardly fat man with a dagger. Thinking about it was almost laughable.
Their power fluctuated wildly, making them impossible to judge. Even more intriguing was their true origin and the full extent of their abilities.
With nothing pressing at the moment, Charles decided to look into any available records.
He had planned to do so when he first arrived, but Daenerys's call had interrupted him.
Now that he had finished sorting through his recent gains and had nothing urgent to attend to, it was the perfect time.
And when it came to information about the White Walkers…
What place could be more fitting than the Wall's library?
…
Unfortunately, he had been far too optimistic.
After arriving at what was called a library—but was, in truth, little more than a dim underground cellar—Charles found almost nothing related to the White Walkers.
There weren't even many books.
Only scattered ranger journals and handwritten notes, difficult to read and largely unorganized.
"Very few among the Night's Watch are literate," explained Maester Aemon, blind and trembling, supported by an attendant. "If my lord ever has the chance, Oldtown is where you should go. It holds the most complete collection of books in all of Westeros."
The maester, sent by the Citadel to serve at the Wall, had been stationed here for decades. He was the most respected figure in Castle Black—and well over a hundred years old.
To be honest, Charles felt a little guilty troubling the old man, but there was no one else here who knew more.
"That will have to wait," Charles replied.
Yet a sudden thought struck him.
With the staff's ability to answer prayers, he could travel to almost anywhere—the Vale, the Westerlands, Dorne, the Crownlands, even beyond Westeros itself.
So why had he never heard prayers from Oldtown?
That city was, in essence, the heart of the Faith of the Seven across the entire continent.
"This shouldn't be the case…"
He had never truly considered it before. Now that he did, the situation felt deeply abnormal.
Unfortunately, this was not a question anyone else could answer.
Matters concerning gods were not common knowledge. In all of Westeros, Charles suspected that only the Three-Eyed Raven—and perhaps the enigmatic Drowned God—understood the truth.
Even the Red Woman likely didn't know. She spoke endlessly of false gods, yet never explained how they were false.
With these doubts lingering in his mind, Charles thanked Maester Aemon and left, intending to return to his quarters.
But when he arrived, something was very wrong.
A crowd had gathered outside his door.
The room stood open. Inside, chaos reigned—retching sounds, shrill screams, and the wet noise of something being torn apart echoed through the hall.
A stench of rot filled the air.
Charles already had a guess.
He stepped forward. "What happened?"
"My—my lord," stammered a gray-cloaked guard from the Dreadfort. "They climbed in through the window—not the door!"
He sounded desperate to clear himself of blame, too shaken to explain further.
There was no need.
Stepping inside, Charles saw a human-shaped mass of rotting flesh collapsed in front of his bookshelf.
It wore the black robes of the Night's Watch.
Its face had completely liquefied, eyes sunken deep into their sockets. Its body sagged bonelessly, covered in pus and crawling with maggots—a nightmarish sight.
A glance at its hand confirmed his suspicion.
It was clutching a book.
"I'm sorry, my lord. We failed to guard the room," a guard reported in a trembling voice.
"It's fine," Charles replied calmly. "They were more familiar with this place than you."
He then turned to the other screaming man.
Compared to his companion, this one had been luckier—but his blank, gray eyes told the rest of the story.
He was pinned against the stone wall by two Flayed Men guards, sobbing and begging.
"Please spare me! I won't do it again! I swear!"
"My lord—"
"There's no saving him," Charles said flatly. "Take him away."
Ignoring the man's wails, the guards dragged him off.
Clearly, the two had been curious about the wizard's secrets. They had dared to steal a book—and paid the price of its curse.
Charles could only say they deserved it.
He had never left those books here simply because others couldn't read them.
In truth, they were more dangerous than he was.
Shaking his head, he watched as the guards swiftly cleaned the room. He dismissed the incident from his mind.
As he stepped outside, raising an eyebrow, the two fallen books floated back onto the shelf. Before the guards' reverent gazes, the door closed on its own.
Charles was about to leave and return later once the stench faded—
When a loud bell suddenly rang out.
A guard rushed out of the tower to investigate. Moments later, he returned, his expression grim.
"My lord," he said urgently, "the wildlings are attacking."
"Wildlings?" Charles's eyes sharpened. "How many?"
"They say… all of them."