[100 CHAPTERS!!!]
Chapter 100 – The Wolfswood
The fire in the hearth burned brightly, casting wavering shadows across the stone floor of the hall. The chill of early morning had frosted the castle windows; beyond them, the world lay blurred and indistinct.
For a moment, Charles felt dazed. Just yesterday, he had been standing on a scorching red wasteland—yet now he was forced to endure a winterlike cold.
"The situation at the front doesn't seem good," the red-haired woman said with visible concern. "Maester Luwin has sent out three ravens in succession. None have returned."
Breakfast had just ended. They were discussing the Wall and the war around Deepwood Motte.
Just as the Three-Eyed Raven had warned the night before, something had clearly gone wrong.
"Torren's Square did send word," Catelyn continued, "but they reported that three days ago, Ned led his forces into the Wolfswood—and since then, all contact has been lost."
At first, this had seemed like a minor issue. The Ironborn invaders numbered only one or two thousand. Even though they had seized a castle, Deepwood Motte was little more than a wooden fortification—hardly an impregnable stronghold.
Under normal circumstances, there should have been news by now.
Yet now, the Northern army had vanished without a trace.
"Are there any houses in that region who worship the Seven?" Charles asked.
"There are," Catelyn replied. "House Manderly, House Flint—some of their smallfolk follow the Faith as well."
As she spoke, she gave Charles a strange look.
Despite his calm demeanor over the past few days, she hadn't forgotten what he had done. Asking this question now clearly carried deeper implications.
"And Bran's matter…" she began.
"If you have chosen a candidate, you may come to me at any time," Charles said. After a brief pause, he added, "And if others seek help, my lady, please let me know."
"You intend to remain here…?"
"The North may yet learn to appreciate the light of the Seven," Charles said quietly—his tone uncannily priest-like.
In the North, the Spectre of Authority was heavily suppressed. Many of its abilities were difficult to use here. This situation needed to change.
Moreover, while the Northerners treated him with respect, their devotion to the Old Gods prevented them from truly receiving the Staff's blessings.
If they became his people, everything would be easier.
They could pray to him directly. He could descend at will. They would witness divine power firsthand.
And there was no real loss on his end—only opportunities to refine his abilities.
Catelyn nodded without comment. But she understood the deeper meaning all too well.
The North was on the brink of change.
Seeing her distracted, Charles suddenly recalled something.
"If I remember correctly," he said, "the man in your dungeons is not who you think he is."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm referring to the one imprisoned below."
They had mentioned the dungeon earlier, which had jogged his memory.
The Bolton bastard from the Dreadfort had brutally forced himself upon a widowed noblewoman—one who had already lost her husband and heirs—and starved her to death.
House Manderly had ended the atrocity, shooting him on the spot. Later, they sent one of the bastard's servants to Winterfell to serve as a witness, awaiting Lord Bolton's return.
But Charles remembered clearly: the man they called "the Bastard" had already been killed—slain by skeletons, after being shoved forward by the bastard himself.
That had been Charles's first experience with spirit traversal. The grotesque scene had left a deep impression.
"If he's not the bastard, then…" Catelyn's expression grew complicated. She trusted Charles—and she was no fool.
"The Boltons are powerful in the North," she said slowly. "That bastard is now their only heir. If we—"
She hesitated. Unlike the Stark bannermen, she was not driven solely by outrage.
Charles waved the matter aside. He had only mentioned it in passing. Now that she was aware, there was no need to press further.
After some more casual conversation, Charles took his leave and returned to his chambers.
Recalling the Three-Eyed Raven's words from the night before—and what he had just heard—his eyes narrowed slightly.
He took up the staff and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he had already left his body behind.
The bed, the windows, the sunlight beyond—all had faded into dull gray tones. In the courtyard below, figures appeared where none had been before.
Charles was accustomed to this.
After orienting himself, he focused his mind outward.
Just as he had once done in King's Landing, he concentrated—listening for the faint whispers of prayer.
Before long, a weak but distinct supplication arose from the southwest.
In that instant, flames ignited across Charles's entire form.
When he appeared again, the surroundings were no battlefield at all, but the ruins of a dilapidated chapel. A beggar was hunched in the corner, his lips trembling as he muttered indistinct prayers.
The prayer was faint—nothing like the one from yesterday, which had carried such force. Even so, the small spark of light Charles released was enough to ease the beggar's suffering.
He did not linger. Without sparing the man at his feet another glance, Charles fixed his attention on a distant direction and repeated the process.
The flames flared and faded as he moved again and again.
Churches. Villages. Open wilderness. Even dungeons.
On the sixth transition, a white haze suddenly descended over his vision. At the same time, a warning from the Eye of Reality made him wary.
[You have entered the Sea Mist Domain. Your Authority of Death is suppressed.]
[The Sea Mist Domain contains hallucinatory forces. Your vision is partially impaired.]
A voice drifted to his ears.
"Damn this fog—seven hells take it! Someone make it disappear already!"
Charles lowered his gaze to the soldier kneeling on the ground, having just finished his prayer. He then scanned the surroundings once more and finally confirmed it.
He had arrived.
This was a forest thick with towering oaks, interspersed with evergreen trees. The dense growth heavily obscured vision.
A pale, milky fog saturated the area, reducing visibility to almost nothing—like seawater vapor condensed into an oppressive curtain.
The army stretched outward from the center in both directions, a dark mass swallowed by the mist, with neither head nor tail in sight.
Every soldier looked lost and unsettled. Snippets of their conversations made one thing painfully clear to Charles.
"They're lost."
As he moved forward, he soon spotted the commander of the northern host—a familiar figure.
Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth, one of the fiercest warriors in the North.
At this moment, the so-called "giant of a man" was gripping the beard of a middle-aged man and roaring at him.
"You've got the nerve to call this your territory? Those bastards have been running circles around us! We've been stuck here for three bloody days and still can't find the way out—and you dare call yourselves the vanguard? Attack? How the hell are we supposed to attack when we can't even see Deepwood Motte? Tell me—how am I supposed to explain this to Lord Eddard?!"
"The fog is too thick, my lord—"
"Don't give me that crap! Didn't you Glover lot claim you could walk through the Wolfswood blindfolded?!"
The Umbers were infamous for their temper. As he bellowed, Greatjon sprayed the man's face with spittle.
Listening from the side, Charles quickly pieced together their situation.
The sudden appearance of this unnatural fog had completely disoriented the army.
Worse still, the invaders seemed unaffected by it, harassing the northern forces relentlessly. Casualties mounted, yet there was nothing the army could do.
So they'd accomplished absolutely nothing all this time…
Charles felt a wave of exasperation, though a glance around made the situation understandable.
The fog wasn't absolute darkness—but beyond five meters, visibility dropped to almost nothing.
Advancing under such conditions was already difficult. Add in the strange hallucinations, and it became a nightmare.
"So this is the work of the Drowned God?"
Charles tried to recall anything he knew about the deity. Whether from his previous life or knowledge gained in this world, the figure remained vague and indistinct.
As he pondered, a new prompt appeared before his eyes.
[Ironborn scouts assigned to enemy reconnaissance. They are observing the army ahead.]
Charles paused, then looked closely.
In the dense fog, two heads peeked out from a tree.
They were well concealed—but not well enough to escape the Eye of Reality. Charles moved closer, intending to eavesdrop.
In his current state, no one could detect him, so there was no need for caution. Unfortunately, while he could remain unseen, he couldn't climb the tree. The scouts spoke in hushed tones, their words hard to catch.
He waited below.
It didn't take long before the two scouts jumped down.
"There are just too many northerners. Who knows how long this'll drag on."
"Obviously until that bitch Asha gets bored—damn it."
Grumbling to themselves, they slipped away along a narrow forest path.
Charles followed.
It was strange—though the northerners were native to this land, these rough-looking Ironborn moved through the forest with far greater ease. Observing carefully, Charles realized it wasn't familiarity.
It was instinct.
Yes—pure instinct. There was no discernible pattern to their movements. They charged forward recklessly, as if blundering through at random.
Yet they never hesitated. They knew where they were going.
"Drowned God, guide me. I'll offer you even more enemies."
The quiet murmur of the younger scout gave Charles pause.
Following the two men deeper into the mist-laden woods, the fog gradually thinned.
Soon, a wooden fortress built atop a forested hill came into view.
And above the castle, Charles saw something profoundly wrong.
A deep, unnatural blue stained the sky overhead.