Chapter 60 – A Camp Full of Oddities
Fleeing reality for no good reason, Charles felt that even the air of the medieval world seemed clearer than the air back home.
One deep breath of the cool night wind cut straight into his chest, clearing his mind as he stepped out of the trees and returned to the noisy camp.
Night had fallen completely.
Across the sprawling encampment, torches and campfires blazed to life one after another. Their bright orange glow smeared smoky shadows across the darkness, and the sharp, resinous scent of burning pine stung the nose—yet carried a strange comfort.
Not far away, the vast lake shimmered under the firelight, rippling with shifting silver-blue waves. Dark shapes of fish cruised beneath the surface, circling idly—drawn perhaps by the light, or by the scraps of food soldiers occasionally tossed into the water.
And it wasn't only the fish.
The fires drew in everything.
Rustling breezes whispered through the forest.
Crows landed on distant branches.
Somewhere far away, a wolf howled.
Beneath the grass, insects chirped sharply then fell silent.
High above the great lake known as God's Eye, strange birds circled and screeched.
Around the campfires, soldiers gathered in clusters, talking, teasing, arguing, laughing—noise rolling like waves.
No matter how dark or eerie the night could be, an army never went quiet.
"Rumor says there's an island in that lake called the Isle of Faces,"
Roose Bolton said casually as Charles returned, the lord calmly seating himself beside a fire.
As usual, Bolton was tending to his bizarre hobby: a silver tray of wriggling, wet brown leeches lay on his lap, and he pressed them one by one against his pale, hairless thigh.
"A group of 'green men' supposedly live there," he continued. "They say they can speak to animals… even glimpse the future."
A faint smile tugged at Bolton's thin lips.
"Perhaps you and they would have much to discuss."
"I doubt it," Charles replied flatly. "I've never liked mystics, and we have nothing in common."
He didn't say the name aloud, but both of them knew he meant that red-robed woman.
Bolton glanced toward another part of the camp with his pale grey eyes.
"Lady Melisandre does act in mysterious ways. But I don't believe she wishes you harm."
"If her hostility were that easy to detect," Charles thought, "I wouldn't be so wary of her."
Out loud, he simply nodded noncommittally.
Seeing that Charles had no interest in pursuing the subject, Bolton poked at the leeches in his tray with a finger, then offered earnestly:
"Ser Collinston, would you like one? They work wonders."
"No, thank you. I don't trust that sort of thing."
"A pity," Bolton sighed, sounding for all the world like a man lamenting the blindness of others.
He picked up a leech and casually pressed it against his own cheek.
The cool, slimy sensation made him let out a rather disturbing sigh of pleasure.
Away from the eyes of his subordinates, the man seemed to truly relax—perhaps a little too much.
Every night, without fail, he performed this unsettling ritual.
Charles found the whole display nauseating.
"I'll leave you to… that. I'm going back to read."
"Until tomorrow," Bolton said serenely, face tilted upward like a noblewoman applying a facial mask.
---
Charles returned to his tent and flipped the flap open.
The very first thing he saw was a fresh corpse.
A barefoot man in rough linen garments lay sprawled in the dirt near the bedroll. His bald head, calloused limbs, and sun-darkened skin marked him as a peasant.
A medieval peasant.
Roose Bolton had many unsettling habits, but in some regards he was remarkably accommodating—such as arranging this corpse.
Judging by the wound, the man had been stabbed clean through—by bandits, perhaps, or someone else entirely.
Nothing had been alive when the army passed the ruined lakeside inn earlier, yet many corpses were scattered about… disturbingly fresh.
"Likely the work of some sellsword," Bolton had said dismissively before ordering the body delivered directly to Charles's tent.
Very considerate.
Very creepy.
And quite possibly cold-blooded.
Charles rubbed his forehead, grabbed the skull pendant at his chest, and crouched beside the corpse to begin casting.
Just then, something outside the tent caught his peripheral vision.
A warped black shadow rippled across the canvas wall, trembling faintly in the firelight—distorted, shapeless, eerie.
Anyone else might have jumped out of their skin.
Charles just muttered a curse under his breath.
He strode out of the tent, intercepting the shadowy figure before it could flee.
"I've told you a hundred and eighty times—stop spying on me! Why won't you listen?"
"I-I'm leaving! I'm leaving now! Don't mind this useless old man—I'll disappear immediately!"
The hunched figure bowed repeatedly and began to scurry off.
It was none other than Qyburn—the persistent old man who had been pestering Charles ever since they met. Rejected again and again, he had now downgraded himself to outright peeping.
"Wait."
The old man froze, then turned back with skilled reflexes, eyes full of confusion and anticipation.
Charles walked back inside his tent—
and returned with a thick, leather-bound tome.
Charles shoved the heavy tome straight into the old man's arms.
Then, after glancing at the "frail" cloaked figure skulking behind him, the young man said coldly:
"Don't come looking for me again. Understood?"
"Understand, understand—I'm leaving, I'm leaving right now."
Qyburn repeated himself in a panic and tried to scurry off, but Charles grabbed his sleeve.
"I'm serious. If you come bothering me again…"
Seeing the young man's expression, the old man blinked, suddenly realizing Charles truly meant it this time.
The ingratiating smile on his wrinkled face slowly faded.
He stared quietly at Charles—as though he could see through him, or as though he was studying the face of a grandson who'd grown beyond his control.
After a long moment, Qyburn finally rasped:
"Do not struggle against it, my lord. You and I… are the same kind."
"The same kind my ass."
Charles actually laughed from sheer anger.
He wasn't the sort who would normally speak rudely to an elder old enough to be his grandfather.
But this one?
This one had been a menace.
Ever since their first meeting, the old lunatic had shown no intention of keeping his distance.
Every single day, he came pestering Charles with questions—sometimes respectful, sometimes sycophantic, sometimes as shameless as a dog scratching at a door for attention.
If Charles snapped at him, he didn't care.
If Charles insulted him, he didn't flinch.
His face was thick enough to rival dragon hide.
He had been this way back in Riverrun.
He had been this way on the road.
And he was still this way now.
Between Qyburn's constant harassment and the agony of long-distance horseback riding, Charles was ready to declare one of them an official torment from the gods.
"The common folk's thinking has chained your mind,"
Qyburn lectured earnestly, as if speaking to an ignorant child.
"If you could abandon these meaningless notions, your achievements would far surpass what you have now."
"But it doesn't matter. All young people cling to naïve ideas.
Eventually, maturity strips them away."
"So yes, my lord—we are the same kind."
---
Charles stared at him, trying to find even a trace of hypocrisy.
He found none.
Only sincerity—infuriating, unwavering sincerity.
Charles suddenly smiled.
"All right then. To prove we are not the same kind…"
He reached up and tore off the long-ignored silver cross hanging from his neck.
In Qyburn's stunned gaze, the so-called "black sorcerer" suddenly radiated an aura of pure, solemn holiness.
A brilliant chant erupted from Charles's lips—resounding, majestic, and blinding.
Light burst through the darkness, lancing around the cloaked figure behind Qyburn.
The air sizzled.
A sharp burnt smell filled the tent.
Flames raced up the frail form.
The robe ignited.
The skeleton Charles had crafted with his own magic—his loyal undead servant—was reduced, by its creator's own hands, to charred fragments and ash.
The scorched bones collapsed onto the ground, crackling like wet firewood.
A thin plume of smoke drifted upward.
Charles looked directly at Qyburn.
What happened next was something even he didn't expect.
The old man… burst into tears.
"When I was young, I revered white magic above all," he sobbed.
"But the older I grew, the more I feared death."
"My lord, you… you actually—! You…"
He trembled with raw excitement—like a child seeing his favorite puppet show spring to life.
"…So much for proving a point." Charles muttered irritably.
Then he glared.
"Why are you so damn annoying? Stop following me. I don't like you. At all. Understand?"
The blunt cruelty sliced deeper than any blade.
Qyburn froze, then forced a painful smile.
"You are right. Who could possibly like someone like me?
Who would ever wish to become what I am now?"
"Parents gone… friends gone… family gone… and soon enough, myself as well."
He gave a brittle laugh.
"Every sunset feels like another year stolen. Every time I lie down at night, I fear I won't wake."
"White magic could not save us.
So I turned to black magic."
"But… you are young. You cannot understand."
Muttering broken thoughts, the old man turned away, shuffling off like a sagging shadow.
His lonely figure made Charles's eyelid twitch.
"He isn't lying."
A soft voice sounded behind him.
Charles turned.
Melisandre stepped out of the darkness, her red robes flowing like liquid flame.
"But his words are laced with intent—and misdirection," she murmured.
"People your age have clear weaknesses. They will always be exploited."
Her red eyes fixed on Charles's face without blinking.
"…Why are you staring at me like that?"
Charles frowned, baffled.
"I saw danger in the flames," she whispered—her gaze unfocused.
"A danger in King's Landing."
"What danger? What does that have to do with me?"
"No," she shook her head.
"Not King's Landing.
You."
Then she spoke the vision:
"A burning brazier.
A warlock chanting.
Whispers of demons.
And flesh… roasting in fire."
Her words drifted like smoke.
Melisandre gave him one last long look—and disappeared into the night.
Charles stood stunned.
"A burning brazier… a sorcerer… demon whispers… and roasting flesh?"
He muttered.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
No answer.
She seemed to have come here solely to deliver that one cryptic prophecy.
Charles snorted and returned to the tent.
He looked at the dead farmer on the floor, pushed all the nonsense aside, and pulled out his skull pendant again.
The ominous chant rolled from his lips.
The candlelight flickered violently.
Moments later, the spell completed.
Charles tucked the pendant away, crouched beside the corpse, pried open one eyelid, and asked casually:
"Tell me—don't you think they're all ridiculous?"
The dead man's pupils remained still and wide from death.
But his mouth stretched into a grim smile.
"Indeed."