Chapter 57: Forced March & Sudden Illness
Thousands of soldiers streamed out of the castle in a long, snaking column, following the bend of the Trident's forked river as the army began its slow march south.
Charles rode a brown-black dappled horse beside Roose Bolton, half listening to the man's cold, precise voice while idly taking in the wilderness around them.
"When the Northern army arrived," Bolton said, "the Lannisters wisely withdrew. Lord Stark is now helping House Tully restore order in Riverrun."
"He knows you're planning to take Harrenhal?" Charles asked.
"I sent a raven. But His Grace won't know immediately. Still—opportunity is fleeting. We must strike before the enemy receives reinforcements."
Charles wasn't an expert in military strategy. So he simply listened quietly.
Bolton continued, voice flat as always:
"I intend to stage a feigned assault, have our men pretend to be routed. The Bloody Mummers will smuggle them inside. Then—inside and out—we take the fortress."
---
The army marched farther and farther. Lohn City shrank into a black dot behind them.
They rested for the night in a small castle called Seagard, left at dawn, and the journey resumed.
For three straight days, Charles spent nearly every waking hour on horseback.
They passed Cragstone, then the Maiden Market, and were preparing to cross the Blue Fork when a dust-covered rider caught up with them at a gallop.
He bore the banner of House Frey, so Bolton met him personally.
"Trouble in Lohn City?" Bolton asked.
"No, my lord," the messenger panted. "It's Lord Stark."
"What urgent business?"
"His Grace orders you to march your forces to King's Landing with all haste."
Roose Bolton's expression twitched—barely, but it twitched.
"King's Landing has no army left, true… but those six thousand Goldcloaks are not something my numbers can simply overwhelm. And storming a capital is not—"
"No, my lord," the messenger interrupted. "King Stannis has already taken King's Landing. Lord Stark commands you to rendezvous with him there."
---
So—after withdrawing from Riverrun, the Lannisters… abandoned the capital as well?
Even Bolton's perpetually emotionless face flickered with surprise.
Then his brows slowly drew together.
"The Lannisters are truly… generous."
"What do you mean?" Charles asked.
"Renly Baratheon is steadily advancing on King's Landing. If we take the capital now, we'll have to face him head-on. Meanwhile that old lion sits aside and watches."
Bolton gave a humorless laugh.
"And though we know it's a ploy—we can't refuse."
"Why not?"
"Because abandoning King's Landing is the same as abandoning the Iron Throne. Renly won't give it up. And His Grace"—meaning Stannis—"will not relinquish his claim either. Few men understand that only a drawn sword gives legitimacy. Without force, titles are nothing."
He turned his horse Charlesply.
"Pass the word: abandon the Harrenhal route. The new target is King's Landing!"
"Yes, my lord!" The herald spurred forward, relaying the order down the line.
"Lord Bolton commands—abandon the Harrenhal route! March on King's Landing!"
"Lord Bolton commands—King's Landing!"
"King's Landing!"
The army shifted formation, pivoting south, and the pace accelerated.
For the Westerosi soldiers, the situation was urgent and clear.
For Charles… none of it mattered much.
He had only one problem.
His ass was dying.
Long-distance horseback travel—even for someone whose original body had once been a fine rider—was torture over time.
Every evening, after dismounting to make camp,
Charles would rub his numb, bruised backside with tears in his eyes, praying for mercy.
But—
to maintain the "dignity" of a feared black sorcerer,
he had to do it secretly, turning his nightly ritual into a shameful, furtive massage in the shadows.
On the outside: mysterious, terrifying, awe-inspiring.
On the inside: a man whose ass was declaring mutiny.
They passed Riverrun—freshly liberated—where they were welcomed with cheers.
Beyond that, the Riverlands stretched in chaos: once fertile, now charred and barren.
"The Riverlands are paying for Tytos Blackfyre's favor," Bolton remarked coldly while surveying a burned village.
"Tywin ordered Gregor Clegane to ravage these lands, to bleed the Tullys of strength and morale. From the results, Clegane did his work well."
That night, they camped among the ashes.
The march dragged on.
Not every day held a town.
Sometimes there was an inn, sometimes a ruin, sometimes only open field.
Endless hours on horseback, day after day—
even the sights of a medieval world grew dull.
Charles longed to settle down somewhere—anywhere—so long as it wasn't a saddle.
Reading was impossible on horseback.
Only during brief rests could he glance at his book.
Still, he complained little.
The promise of dragonbone and dragonglass in King's Landing was enough to keep him motivated.
But his backside continued its rebellion, lodging a painful protest every time he sat.
He prayed each night that the journey would end soon—
and as their remaining travel time dwindled,
he took comfort in one thing:
They had at least covered more than half the distance.
___
Arkavia.
Dulin Kingdom
Pita City
Privet Street.
The quiet suburban house felt almost too peaceful.
The moment Charles returned, he collapsed face-first onto the velvet bed without even bothering to change his clothes, and fell asleep instantly.
The same happened on the second day.
And the third.
And the fourth.
He hid at home, switching between sleep and treating his injuries.
Days of nonstop riding in the other world had wrung him dry; he had no desire to jump back into A Song of Ice and Fire just to continue another endless journey on horseback.
"Anyway, time keeps accumulating even if I don't log in. It won't be wasted."
He comforted himself with that thought—but every time he remembered he would eventually have to return, he felt the early pangs of a headache.
Which only made him cherish his current, peaceful life all the more.
Reading, resting, pondering spells… with servants tending to him, Charles enjoyed several days of pure, luxurious ease—clothes delivered to hand, meals appearing before him like magic.
But tranquility never lasts long.
Just a few days later, disaster struck this cozy little home.
---
Night fell quietly outside the window.
A gentle breeze stirred the pale-blue curtains; moonlight pooled like cold silver across the windowsill, illuminating a pot of white narcissus in a soft, icy glow.
"Am I going to die?"
The girl lying against the pillows, hugging her little teddy bear, raised her pale face toward Charles as he entered. Her long brown curls spilled loosely around her shoulders, but her normally bright blue eyes stared at him with hollow despair.
She had always had a hidden illness, but she used to look lively enough.
Now she looked like a child struck by a sudden, terrible fever—dry, cracked lips, dim gaze, too weak to even sit up.
Just yesterday she'd shyly offered him her cheek to pinch.
Today, she could barely lift her head.
Charles finally understood what people meant by "illness falls like a mountain."
"You're not going to die. You just need rest… and to keep taking your medicine."
Charles held her small, frail hand and sat down at the bedside, speaking softly.
"You're lying."
The girl blinked at him.
"Every time you lie, your eyes squint. I noticed long ago."
"That's nonsense. Children shouldn't talk such silly things," Charles muttered, embarrassed. Then quickly changed the subject.
"Rest well. You'll feel better tomorrow. I promise."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead gently before standing up. But the girl suddenly grabbed his hand, her tiny fingers trembling.
"I don't want to see my mother."
Her voice was barely above a whisper, her little face tight with fear.
"She's scary… I don't want to see her."
His aunt's death… had traumatized her?
Charles sighed silently.
He soothed her with a few more soft words, and only after she closed her eyes did he leave the bedroom.
Nobody wants to die.
Not even a child.
But when the moment truly comes… who can escape it?
Charles's thoughts tangled gloomily. Despite having known her for only a short time, she was the first real, living person he met after arriving in this world—the only one he could genuinely call family.
Her lonely, tragic situation stirred his sympathy and a strange sense of shared fate.
And now this only family member… was slipping away?
"Is there really no other way?"
Leaving the bedroom, Charles turned to Dr. Domo.
The elderly physician had been tending the girl since the beginning; no one knew her condition better.
"No," the white-haired doctor sighed. "I still haven't found the cause of her illness. All I can do is lessen her pain."
Charles fell silent.
It wasn't some grand, profound bond between them—they hadn't known each other long.
But watching her die helplessly?
He couldn't accept it.
"That aunt… the one she never met. Didn't she try to find a cure…?"
After sending Dr. Domo away, Charles found his thoughts drifting to the dark castle in Canyon Town.
Not the castle itself—the underground room in its side hall.
Last time he'd been there, he had rushed out without searching carefully.
At the time he didn't think there was anything worth finding besides the family token.
But now… what other choice did he have?
Dr. Domo had once worked for the Royal Medical Association of Dulin. He was no miracle worker, but he was seasoned and knowledgeable. If he couldn't diagnose it at all… it could only mean one thing:
Her illness was no ordinary disease.
Either it was an incurable affliction beyond this era's understanding—
or something tied to a supernatural force.
"Should I risk going?"
The thought flashed—and Charles immediately crushed it.
Facing a known danger could be bravery.
Facing unknown powers, unknown entities…
that would just be plain stupidity.
But he didn't drop the idea entirely.
If that castle truly hid something abnormal—if that whispering darkness was calling to him—
Then he didn't need to take the risk himself.
He could simply report it to the Church.
Let them deal with it.
He doubted that ominous place held anything worth keeping secret anyway.
The only reason he never told anyone before… was because he'd been too lazy to invite trouble onto himself.