Chapter 99: The Three-Eyed Raven
"To ascend the throne, you need stepping stones."
"Stepping stones?"
"Yes. No angels to guide you. No demons to sacrifice themselves. No need to hunt elemental spirits and harvest their remains.
A necromancer only needs to find the right stepping stone to ascend and become a true transcendent.
Ancient monsters, elemental beings, corrupted creatures, angels—even humans.
Anyone will do, as long as they are qualified.
If they qualify, we can step on them and climb the throne."
"Anyone?"
"That's right. Anyone."
"Where do I find them?"
"Start by hunting ancient monsters in the forest. If that fails, stir up trouble with demon apostles—or those faction mages will do as well.
And if all else fails… we can always ambush a Church Circle member. Who knows? We might be able to strip and inherit their heavenly bloodline. Heh."
---
The lingering, malicious laughter echoed in his ears as the haze of sleep faded.
Fragments of a conversation—between a man and a woman, deep within a black fortress—left Charles suddenly enlightened.
So this is the necromancer's path to advancement?
He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling hidden in darkness, lost in thought.
"What exactly is a stepping stone… and how is it used?"
He had no answer.
The dream contained only dialogue—no explanation, no method, no concrete process.
"Perhaps I should look for clues in that dungeon once I return."
With that thought, he threw back the covers and began dressing.
It had been an exhausting day.
In the morning, he watched a trial by combat.
At noon, he was dragged into an unfamiliar crimson wasteland for an impromptu "house call."
By evening, he attended a grand banquet at Winterfell.
And even in sleep, he was haunted by fragments of memories belonging to his so-called "aunt."
Now, he had to leave again.
It was deep night—far earlier than he would normally wake.
But he had been stirred by a notification from the Eye of Truth.
[Your spirituality has been touched by a special force]
Even in dreams, the Eye of Reality issued alerts.
Absurdly considerate.
"So… what kind of 'special force' is this?"
Charles didn't need to think long.
Behind Winterfell lay that ancient grove.
The godswood.
The heart tree.
Or rather—what people called the Old Gods.
This was his second night in Winterfell. After the initial anomaly, nothing unusual had occurred. He'd assumed the crow would remain hidden.
Yet here it was—appearing in the dead of night.
"When I'm idle, nothing happens. When I'm busy, I don't touch the ground."
Despite his complaint, Charles felt no irritation—only anticipation.
"If it can communicate, this is the perfect chance to ask about the Others."
This world was called A Song of Ice and Fire.
To Charles, the "truth" of the world had to revolve around those two forces.
Dragons.
And the Others.
Otherwise, he had no leads.
Fully dressed, he stepped outside. Guards stood watch—arranged personally by Lady Stark. Combined with their respectful attitude, Charles found the arrangement quite agreeable.
He had not refused her request to heal her son.
Ironically, now that the moment had come, Lady Stark herself was hesitating—such healing required sacrifice, and Winterfell had no suitable candidate.
After giving a brief instruction, Charles set off toward the godswood with his escort.
Winterfell at night was eerily silent.
Aside from guards protecting key figures, no one else was awake.
Breathing, footsteps, even the wind beyond the walls—everything sounded unnaturally clear in the ancient fortress.
Leaving the Great Keep, crossing the courtyard, passing through corridors and towers, he eventually reached a forest hidden beneath dense branches.
At his signal, the guards remained at the entrance.
Charles entered alone.
---
Moonlight filtered through the canopy.
Two direwolves noticed him.
One gray.
One black.
The gray wolf glanced at him calmly, then lowered its head to paw at the rotting leaves.
The black one barked furiously—until Charles looked at it.
Then it tucked its tail and fled like a coward.
Compared to its sibling, its temperament was unstable—something Charles had already noticed during his previous visit.
He paid it little mind and approached the heart of the grove.
There stood the white heart tree.
[Winterfell's weirwood heart tree. Extremely ancient. Contains special power and spirituality]
[It is wary of you]
"A tree… being wary?"
Charles couldn't help but smile wryly.
He crouched and examined the carved human face on the trunk, then placed his hand against it.
At that moment, a sigh echoed beside him.
"Your soul is very strong. I cannot enter your dreams, so I had to use this method. Please forgive me."
The voice sounded close—very close.
Charles turned his head.
An elderly man in a black robe stood beside him, having appeared without a sound.
His hair was white, his expression kind, but his eyes were deep and unfathomably still.
"The Three-Eyed Raven?" Charles asked cautiously.
His memory of the story was hazy, but the supernatural elements had left an impression.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Just call me Brynden."
When Charles stood up, the black-robed elder studied him quietly.
"How should I address you?" he asked. "Black Wizard, as they call you? The Messenger of the Seven? Or perhaps… a new god?"
"You can just call me Charles," Charles replied.
"Charles…"
The Three-Eyed Raven murmured the name, then continued, "I've met your predecessors. None of them were as young as you. In fact, I've seen every Son of the Seven the Faith has ever produced, even the last one three hundred years ago. So in a sense, you are not unfamiliar to me. The question is—how much do you know about me?"
"If possible," Charles said calmly, "I'd prefer it if you introduced yourself."
Relying on fragmented memories to bluff someone like this would be foolish. Candor was the better option.
The old man gave him a knowing look, then spoke concisely.
"Six thousand years ago, this land was entirely bathed in the radiance of the heart trees. That ended when the Andals landed on the Fingers, bringing with them their Seven Gods—and began squeezing us out of existence."
"You can see it yourself now. Beyond the North, the heart trees have lost all their power."
"So we're enemies?" Charles asked.
The elder's voice hardened. "Once, perhaps. But before the true war arrives, we must stand together."
As he spoke, he suddenly performed an ancient gesture of respect toward Charles.
"Without the Old Gods' protection, House Stark was destined for calamity. Thank you… for saving them."
"Protection?" Charles raised an eyebrow, thinking of the unlucky child who had been crippled after falling from a tower.
As if reading his thoughts, the Three-Eyed Raven sighed.
"The Starks are vital. Bran especially so. I cannot allow him to leave the North. In the South, he would face grave danger—far greater danger."
That much is true, Charles thought.
"So what is this threat?" he asked. "The White Walkers?"
"The White Walkers. The Night King. And the power behind them—a dark, terrifying force."
The old man fixed Charles with an intense stare.
"You may wield great power in the South, but here in the North, that power is severely diminished. Beyond the Wall, it is worse still. That land belongs to another god. He is gathering strength, preparing to shatter the Wall. And if that happens, your power will not be enough. The Night King will slaughter everyone."
"So please," he said gravely, "help me. We cannot allow this to happen."
Charles neither agreed nor refused.
The old man wasn't wrong. From the duel earlier that day alone, Charles could tell how much his abilities were being suppressed. If the lands beyond the Wall truly belonged to another god, then his status as a "god of the Seven" would be suppressed even further.
But you really think that's all I rely on?
Charles smiled faintly, offering no explanation.
"So you called me here to ask for help?"
"Yes."
"How do I help?" Charles asked. "You yourself said I have little power here."
"A group of Night's Watch brothers is stationed at the Fist of the First Men. They are already swallowed by darkness. I cannot reach them. I need you to warn Stark—one of the men there is his bastard son."
"Why not do it yourself?"
"The northern army is camped in the Wolfswood," the old man shook his head. "That forest is already being infiltrated by the Drowned God's power. I cannot approach it. And unlike you, I cannot freely communicate with mortals."
Then his expression turned solemn.
"You should also be cautious. The Drowned God's power lies in the sea—but if it wishes, it can act on land as well. I don't know why it's expending such effort to come ashore, but it will not be for anything good. The Drowned God is a servant of darkness. We must remain vigilant."
The Drowned God…
Charles was genuinely confused. He had little memory of such a deity.
But if it could infiltrate the North while the Old Gods were powerless to resist, then it was likely far stronger than the local divinities.
The Three-Eyed Raven looked weak—perhaps too weak.
Or perhaps he's taking advantage of the chaos, Charles thought.
Then another idea occurred to him.
"Since my power is suppressed here," Charles said casually, "do you mind if I accumulate strength in the North?"
The old man fell silent for a long moment, then sighed.
"I cannot stop you. I've spent too much of my power in the Lands of Always Winter. But… please. Do not cut down the heart trees. I beg you."
With that, he shook his head.
The vision faded.
When Charles opened his eyes again, the forest was dim and still. The heart tree had lost its former vitality.
He withdrew his hand from the carved face and stood in thought.
Truthfully, even if the Three-Eyed Raven hadn't asked, Charles would still involve himself with the White Walkers sooner or later. But this exchange gave him something valuable—initiative.
That aside, the conversation raised deeper questions.
The Three-Eyed Raven understood the Seven quite well. Yet he spoke of Charles as a god, never once mentioning the scepter or any "true deity."
Many people believed that—sometimes even Charles himself.
But now, his suspicions were hardening into theory.
The scepter was not the god.
The bearer was.
If that were true, then the Church of the Seven had never truly worshiped gods at all.
Combined with what the Eye of Truth had shown him—manufactured divinity—a chilling possibility emerged.
The Seven were artificial.
Named gods, but with humans behind the curtain.
And if that was true… what about the Old Gods?
What, exactly, was the Three-Eyed Raven?
And if gods could be made—how were they made?
Lost in thought, Charles returned to his chambers.
His mind drifted again to the Drowned God.
Whether it was artificial or not remained unclear—but what was its purpose in coming ashore?
To help the Ironborn invade the North?
If that were the case, Charles felt he should remember something—he paid attention to supernatural elements when watching the series. Dragons, White Walkers, the Red Priestess, the Three-Eyed Raven… but little else stood out.
Had the story diverged?
Why?
He hadn't even gone to the Iron Islands.
As dawn broke, a knock sounded at the door.
"Sir Cranston," a servant announced, "the lady invites you to breakfast."
"Alright," Charles replied. "I'll be there shortly."
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