Chapter 31 – Cautious Growth
A low, chilling murmur echoed through the lower deck cabin, seeping faintly through the thin wooden door. Any sailor passing by would quicken their pace, shoulders tense, pretending not to hear.
Inside, a single candle burned steadily, its flame casting long, swaying shadows across the walls. The flickering light made the cramped room seem alive, every corner breathing in rhythm with the eerie whispering that filled it.
To the crew, this was no ordinary cabin.
They called it "The Ghost's Den."
Home of the Black Sorcerer.
None dared approach after sunset.
By day, the young man within seemed harmless—mild-mannered, even polite, his tone easy and his eyes bright with good humor. Yet the moment darkness fell, strange noises began to stir from his room: scratching, murmuring, the faint hum of words not meant for mortal ears.
His neighbor, once a burly Dragonstone sailor, had already begged to be reassigned. The poor man was now a trembling old wreck—half-deaf, half-blind, and unwilling to even speak of what he'd heard.
But if any of them had actually peeked inside that "haunted" cabin, their fear might have turned to laughter.
Because the terrifying black sorcerer was, at that moment, muttering at… a fish.
A small, pale cod, to be exact.
"Rise, damn you," Charles grumbled, waving his hand over the creature.
The skull-shaped pendant in his grip glimmered faintly under the candlelight, as threads of grayish energy coiled from its surface like strands of smoke, weaving toward the fish on the wooden table.
[You attempt to cast Bone Resurrection... Spell failed.]
[You attempt to cast Bone Resurrection... Spell failed.]
[You attempt to cast Bone Resurrection... Spell failed.]
One failure after another appeared before his mind's eye.
Each time the incantation was spoken, the gray light sank into the fish's body, causing it to twitch once or twice… and then fall still. The once-white scales darkened to a sickly blue-green, the lifeless body turning brittle and useless.
A whole bucket of such "test subjects" already lay beside his feet.
No human corpses to practice with, so he made do with fish. After all, practice wasn't about success—it was about familiarity.
And the cod, at least, didn't complain.
Sadly, only Bone Resurrection and Touch of Fatigue could be practiced this way. The rest of the necromantic spells required either spirits or corpses—neither of which he had on hand.
Still, he could see progress in his invisible status panel:
[Bone Resurrection – 41% Proficiency]
[Touch of Fatigue – 13% Proficiency]
A grin tugged at his lips. Not bad.
And since the Purification spell seemed to work far better here—no divine backlash, no maddening whispers—he had shifted focus to mastering it. Out of ten attempts, three now succeeded. A one-in-three chance was far better than the zero he'd had before.
Soon, he'd test it again back in his own world.
Maybe it would still work. Maybe it wouldn't. But even fifty percent hope was better than none.
Lately, though, that success had brought… complications.
Like now.
The door creaked open without warning.
Soft footsteps—measured, deliberate, unmistakable—approached from behind.
Charles didn't even bother turning around.
"Let me guess," he said dryly, still gesturing over the fish. "Shouldn't you be off worshiping your Stannis 'King of Rocks'? What are you doing haunting me every night? I'm not the reincarnation of whoever-you-keep-mentioning."
"Azor Ahai's reincarnation is sacred," came the familiar serene voice, "but so is the messenger of the Lord of Light."
He sighed. "You've said that about fifteen times already."
It all started when he'd accidentally succeeded with the Purification spell—the holy glow bursting from his hand. Since then, Melisandre had followed him like a shadow.
"You ever seen a 'messenger of light' dabble in necromancy?" he said, pointing at the fish bucket.
Unbothered, the red priestess replied smoothly, "The shadow serves the light. Before I was a priestess, I was a Binder of Shadows—I have always dealt with darkness."
Charles shot her a look. "Yeah, sure. Everyone knows where there's light, there can't be dark."
She smiled faintly. "It is light that creates the dark."
He rolled his eyes and gave up arguing.
Ever since she'd witnessed him casting divine magic without injury or backlash, Melisandre had been convinced he was chosen—a vessel sent by her god. It explained, in her mind, why she couldn't see his past in the flames.
So now she insisted on following him—"to guide and serve the one sent by the Lord of Light."
Complete nonsense, in his opinion.
Charles suspected it had far more to do with him rescuing Eddard Stark—and ruining her delicate plans on Dragonstone.
"I had already persuaded His Grace to embrace the Lord of Light," she said quietly, her tone tinged with restrained frustration. "But after Eddard Stark pledged himself, he refused to speak further of faith. He called it a private matter."
Her crimson eyes flickered with something between annoyance and sorrow.
"The Lord of Light's cause outweighs all mortal concerns," she murmured. "Everything else is merely… the noise of men."
Charles stared at her for a long moment, then smirked faintly.
"Right. And I suppose I'm the noise that just won't go away."
Every time she came to see him, the conversation was always the same few lines.
No matter how Charles tried to ignore, deflect, or mock her, Melisandre would calmly repeat her cryptic preaching, as if her mind were locked in a loop.
He was, quite frankly, done with it.
"Think whatever you like," Charles said flatly, waving her off without looking up from his desk. "I'm not some 'messenger of light.' And even if I were, I've got nothing urgent to do about it."
"Oh?" Her voice was smooth, melodic, infuriatingly patient. "Then where do you come from?"
"I…" He hesitated.
"And why," she continued, "do you travel in the company of House Stark?"
"None of your business."
He snapped before he could stop himself. What was he supposed to say?
That he followed the Starks because they were convenient vessels for collecting souls? That his so-called divine purpose was rooted in necromancy?
Yeah—no. Even the open-minded Stark family might hang him for that one.
"Coldwater City is half a month away," Melisandre said softly, ignoring his glare. "You have time to reflect. Perhaps you do not wish to speak of your true purpose, but I believe you've merely forgotten your divine calling—your memories buried."
Her crimson eyes shimmered faintly in the candlelight as she added,
"Only the Messenger of Light can summon radiance in the depth of night. Only one chosen by the Lord of Light can wield magic without paying a price. No other being can do such a thing."
With that, she cast him one last lingering look, then turned and walked away.
The door clicked shut.
"Honestly…" Charles muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. "Should I call her naive or just self-absorbed?"
He slumped back in his chair, flicking the dead fish on the table with a sigh.
"And what's with this 'amnesia' nonsense? You make up my tragic backstory before I can even object. Really, you're more creative than I am."
He shook his head, deciding it wasn't worth dwelling on.
Having a clingy "red-robed tail" following him around was annoying—but not entirely bad.
At least her decision to tag along had been worth the spectacle. On the day they left Dragonstone, when Melisandre suddenly declared she would accompany him, the look on the island nobles' faces had been priceless.
Particularly Lady Selyse—Stannis's infamous, sharp-nosed wife. Her face had cycled through shock, fury, despair, and jealousy so fast it was almost a comedy sketch.
Charles had barely kept a straight face.
Melisandre herself might be strange—cryptic, devout, and obsessed with fire—but in truth, she hadn't shown any actual danger. For all her mystique, her "power" seemed more ritual than real.
In this world, magic wasn't something people could freely wield.
And as far as Charles knew, no one else could use it quite like him.
Which meant, if he played his cards right, he could live rather comfortably here.
But comfort wasn't what he wanted.
His real goal remained unchanged: to grow stronger.
Because the other world—the real one beyond the Gate—still waited.
And for a necromancer, growth always came with death.
That was the purpose of his journey—to seek the boundaries of life and soul, and push past them.
Unfortunately, this was a real world, where travel took time.
You couldn't just teleport from place to place.
Originally, their route was supposed to lead to Gulltown, under the Vale's jurisdiction—a simple half-month journey at most.
But after hearing word that his sister-in-law in the Vale was unreliable, Eddard Stark had changed course entirely.
He decided to avoid the Vale's heartlands and instead make landfall at a small border port on the eastern edge—then march inland to join his eldest son, Robb Stark, who had already raised banners and begun his campaign in the Riverlands.
The detour doubled their travel time.
There was a faster path through the war-torn Trident region, but with two daughters in tow, Eddard refused to risk it.
Charles didn't argue.
Yes, he had magic—but not the kind that could stop an arrow, or patch a knife wound.
A single lucky strike, and all his spells would mean nothing.
So for now, the goal was simple—
Stay alive. Grow quietly. Don't draw attention.
Or, as he put it more bluntly to himself—
"Cautious development. Sneaky survival. Stay low, live long."
(End of Chapter)