Chapter 95: On the Road
After being treated by Charles, the old Lord—who had previously been unable even to open his eyes—woke the very next morning and rose to his feet.
Brynden, who had come from Riverrun, was overjoyed by the sight.
As the Lord's only son, the red-bearded Edmure was just as excited. He hovered around his father nonstop, and his attitude toward Charles grew markedly reverent.
However, by the second day, that joy began to take on a strange undertone.
On the first day, the Lord merely appeared to be recovering from a serious illness. Aside from an unusually large appetite, nothing seemed amiss. But after sleeping through the night and waking again, something astonishing happened—
The gray-white hair that should have marked his age had turned brownish-red once more.
Not merely brown, but lustrous and vivid, like a calm flame quietly burning. The color was so rich that it looked even brighter than his son's red beard.
That alone would have been shocking enough. But what followed left everyone utterly stunned.
By the third day, the loose, wrinkled skin that had once sagged like chicken skin across Lord Hoster's face began to vanish, replaced by the firm elasticity of a middle-aged man.
The fourth day.
The fifth day.
By the seventh day, the Lord—once gaunt to the point of looking skeletal—now appeared no different from a man in his prime.
Renewed vitality radiated from him. He donned armor he had not worn in years, his back straight, his bearing proud. Standing beside his son, no one would have thought them father and son—they looked more like brothers.
In fact, he appeared younger.
When this became clear, Brynden—the Lord's gray-bearded younger brother—fell completely silent. Edmure, meanwhile, was utterly dumbfounded.
And the lords who understood what had happened?
They went mad.
Those who had believed themselves familiar with Charles were once again reminded why silence was wisdom in his presence.
Before, it had been fear.
Now, it was awe.
So he truly was a god walking the mortal world.
Back in King's Landing, many nobles had scoffed when common folk called Charles a divine messenger. They had thought the peasants foolish, exaggerating in their ignorance.
Yes, Cranston's methods were uncanny—but a god's envoy? That had seemed absurd.
Now they understood.
Not only had the people not exaggerated—they had underestimated him.
Restoring youth.
Erasing disease.
Manipulating life and death.
Returning vitality.
If that was not the power of a god, then what was?
In the silence that followed, countless fervent gazes turned once more toward a certain direction within the host. In every heart, calculations began to click into motion.
It was only when they learned that such "blessings" required faith in the Seven that this fervor was temporarily restrained.
After all, no matter how miraculous Cranston was, the North had worshipped the Old Gods for thousands of years. Traditions rooted so deeply in the soul could not be abandoned overnight.
Yet beneath the surface, currents were already stirring.
On one side stood the Old Gods—silent, distant, and unseen.
On the other stood a new god—one who could decide life and death, who could grant a form of immortality.
Only a fool wouldn't know which path was more tempting.
Since awakening, the "former" Lord of Riverrun had treated Charles as though he were a true god incarnate. Every morning, the very first thing he did was kneel outside Charles's tent in fervent prayer. The intensity of his devotion made Stark—now technically his son-in-law—twitch uncontrollably.
Yet Stark did not feel that his "father-in-law's" behavior was wrong. Faced with such a miracle, no one could possibly maintain their former restraint, dignity, or pride. Before a true deity, those things seemed as trivial as eating, drinking, and relieving oneself—utterly insignificant.
Because of this, an unfamiliar distance slowly grew in Stark's heart, and he found himself becoming increasingly polite toward Charles without even realizing it.
Like everyone else, Stark had begun to treat Charles as a genuine god—perhaps not the god he worshipped, but certainly no longer a mere mortal.
That sense of distance only truly faded one day during the march, when Stark happened to see Charles duck into the woods to relieve himself.
…
The Riverrun party did not remain with the northern army for long. Upon nearing Harrenhal, they regretfully split off and returned toward their own lands. Riverrun and the Riverlands had been ravaged by war and were in dire need of reconstruction, and the duke—having only just "recovered from a grave illness"—had countless affairs to set in order.
Before leaving, however, Lord Hoster boldly declared that once Riverrun and the Riverlands were stabilized, he would abdicate his title and follow Crolanston to serve at the side of the "god" himself.
The announcement stunned everyone.
His red-bearded son, Edmure, secretly breathed a sigh of relief. His father's recovery was worth celebrating—but if the man ended up younger than his own son, did that mean Edmure would remain heir to Riverrun forever?
…
While on the march, Charles would enter that strange spirit-like state each night, roaming across Westeros.
Most of those who called out to him were southerners; the north contributed very few voices. Among the southerners, women made up the majority—and their prayers were usually for trivial, everyday matters.
Charles discovered that the more devout a believer's faith in the Seven, the louder and clearer their prayers became, and the more likely he was to hear them. The opposite was also true.
But hearing prayers did not necessarily bring rewards. Most of the time, these nocturnal wanderings amounted to little more than sightseeing and the accumulation of the scepter's so-called "seven-colored energy"—which, in practice, was largely useless.
He even tried wrapping himself in the burial shroud he had obtained in the other world, hoping it might allow his spirit form to become corporeal and enable long-distance curses or the like.
Unfortunately, while the golden flames could carry him between worlds, they could not bring the shroud along.
Without the ability to cross space, the shroud's usefulness diminished sharply. Charles eventually resigned himself to tossing it into a chest to gather dust.
The other items he had acquired were no more helpful. The book was little more than a collection of stories—entertaining enough to pass the time, but devoid of practical knowledge. The amethyst crystal and the red cord likewise revealed no secrets, and were stored away with the shroud.
After surviving such a dangerous ordeal, it seemed he had gained nothing at all.
Yet Charles remained strangely calm about it. On the first night after leaving the main world, he had a dream.
A dream that resembled the origin story of a villainous final boss.
It was long, fragmented, and largely forgotten upon waking—but its implication was clear to him. Having lived through a similar experience before, Charles was now intensely curious about why that individual had been hunted so relentlessly by the Church.
He only wondered when he might dream of it again.
…
The northern army departed King's Landing, passed through the Riverlands, skirted the vast, empty ruins of Harrenhal, crossed the Trident, and followed the Kingsroad north past the Inn at the Crossroads, finally reaching the Neck.
This strategic chokepoint was why Ned Stark had been so eager to press onward.
Fortunately, because the invasion plans were exposed early, the Ironborn forces had been shattered by Robb Stark's vanguard before they could seize Moat Cailin. The Neck was firmly in northern hands.
The army passed through without incident.
Beyond Moat Cailin lay a desolate wilderness. Mist-shrouded mountains loomed in the distance. To the left stretched the Barrowlands, filled with ancient First Men tombs; to the right lay White Harbor.
Their true destination was not Winterfell, but Deepwood Motte, which remained under enemy control. Thus, the army split.
One contingent continued toward Winterfell, while the other crossed the Barrowlands toward Torrhen's Square—the closest fortress to the occupied Deepwood Motte.
"This is a war of mortals," Ned said half-jokingly before the separation—though his true intent was clear. He hoped Charles would return to Winterfell with a smaller force.
He seemed reluctant to ask for further divine intervention.
Charles found the sentiment amusing and did not insist otherwise.
At this point, his urgency to participate in the war had faded. He had originally followed the army to practice his disguise spells; later, he went to King's Landing for the dragon remains beneath the city.
Now, while his magic still benefited from corpses, it was no longer pressing. The unique space within the scepter made further spirit repairs unnecessary.
The only thing war still offered him was the strange "monster-killing progression" effect.
But siege warfare did not allow indiscriminate killing. Defensive battles, however—that might be interesting.
So, under the regretful gazes of many lords, Charles continued north with the logistics forces.
Tyrion Lannister was among them, as was the Hound. One was bound for the Wall; the other for Winterfell to "assist with an investigation."
Neither was pleased with their fate. Yet Charles's earlier display had terrified not only allies, but enemies as well.
Because of that, the Hound finally stopped talking about escape, while Tyrion—though not particularly reverent—watched Charles with sharp curiosity.
As the remaining force pressed onward, crossing the wilderness, threading between mountains along a gravel road, and fording a narrow, muddy river, a gray silhouette finally appeared on the horizon.
Seeing it, everyone exhaled in relief.
Winterfell had arrived.