Chapter 107 — An Unexpected Great Enemy
The North was thrown into upheaval by the growing influence of the Faith of the Seven.
Ever since word spread from Winterfell, any noble house with wounded or sick family members set out for the castle without hesitation.
Lady Stivor of Last Hearth, Ser Cregan of Karhold, Lord Manderly of White Harbor—
almost every northern noble who had not gone to war made a visit at least once.
As a result, the name Charles Cranston rose to prominence throughout the North.
One injury after another was repaired.
One illness after another was eased.
Life energy could not truly cure disease, but it could dull pain and replenish vitality. Even those suffering from terminal conditions looked markedly different after receiving his "blessing."
So although Charles never again performed miracles as dramatic as restoring youth, even this alone was enough to leave people awestruck.
And after what had happened last time, no one dared try to deceive him again.
---
During this period, the Three-Eyed Raven appeared once more.
He was curious about how Charles had driven off the Drowned God and deeply surprised by Charles's current methods.
But those were not his true reasons for coming.
His real concern was the free folk.
Beyond the Wall, countless wildling tribes—who had lived there for thousands of years—were fleeing south to escape the Others and their army of the dead. Their only hope was to break through the Wall and seek refuge in Westeros.
That, inevitably, meant collision with the North's existing powers.
Most of the free folk were followers of the Old Gods. The Three-Eyed Raven did not wish to see needless slaughter. Against the Others, these people could also serve as valuable reinforcements.
But persuading northerners—who had fought wildlings for millennia—to accept them was not something that could be solved with a few words.
Charles held no prejudice against the wildlings he had never met.
To him, many medieval people were barely different from "savages" to begin with—so what distinction did it make if some were truly so?
Still, he made no promises.
A so-called god who needed outsiders to mediate relationships among his own believers—
he truly could not understand what kind of existence these "Old Gods" were meant to be.
---
"Holy Mother… please save me…"
Under the cover of night, a broad-shouldered, black-clad fat man lay sprawled in the snow, staring blankly at the sky as he muttered in a trembling voice.
"Get up, you pigheaded knight!" someone shouted as they passed by.
But the man was too exhausted to respond.
One Night's Watch brother after another passed him, torches in hand—some mocking, some encouraging, some indifferent.
Regardless of their reactions, the fat man remained motionless, utterly spent, lacking even the strength to speak.
Bathed in golden light, Charles stood nearby, glancing at him in silence. He couldn't understand why this man—who seemed so utterly unremarkable—was someone whose prayers he kept hearing.
"Well… not entirely unremarkable," Charles mused dryly.
"At the very least, he's spectacularly cowardly."
Freshly summoned, Charles turned to examine his surroundings.
They were in a shrub-covered woodland blanketed in snow.
The sky was still dark and heavy with clouds, though snow no longer fell. The column of black-clad men stretched far into the night, torchlight flickering like scattered stars. As they passed, every face looked hollow and shaken.
"They were scattered in the last clash… and now they're fleeing," Charles realized.
He looked again at the man who had called him here.
Two companions had arrived beside the fat man. One—tall and broad, with an honest-looking face—ignored the protests and hoisted the exhausted man onto his back. The other followed closely, murmuring words of encouragement.
The three of them were now near the very end of the column, hurrying forward. Ahead, the scattered figures told a grim story.
A force that had once numbered in the hundreds now seemed to have fewer than fifty left.
Which meant—
The Others had gained several hundred more wights.
Charles frowned, walking alongside them in silence, contemplating what this meant for him—and for the world.
The calm of the march did not last long.
The big man carrying the black-clad fat fellow soon began panting heavily and finally set him down on the snow.
"I… I can't carry you anymore," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. "I wanted to—but I just can't."
Before he could finish speaking, a sudden shiver ran through him. He froze, then turned sharply, scanning the darkness.
"Who's there?!"
No one answered.
The bushes ahead rustled violently. Then, without warning, a gray horse burst out of the darkness—its frozen intestines dragging across the snow, stiff as iron, carving long grooves into the ground. The sight alone was grotesque enough to make its arrival feel unreal.
The fat man and his two companions recoiled in shock.
Alongside the horse appeared a figure pale as death itself, like living black ice.
It sat astride the horse in silence, watching them. After a few slow steps forward, it dismounted with deliberate calm.
The creature was gaunt as a skeleton, clad in crystalline armor that glimmered faintly under the night sky. Its eyes burned a cold, luminous blue, its gaze indifferent—as if the three men were nothing more than insects.
"An Other!"
Realizing this, the three reacted instantly.
They did not flee.
The large man drew his weapon and charged head-on. The thick-necked youth circled the creature, launching feints and harassing strikes. As for the fat man in black, he collapsed to the ground, shaking uncontrollably.
The fight ended almost immediately.
Courage could not bridge the gulf in strength.
In a single exchange, the large man was impaled straight through the chest. He screamed once as the icy blade pierced his heart. Blood burst forth, froze instantly, and then his body slid from the crystalline sword, crashing into the snow in a spray of white.
Seeing his companion fall, the thick-necked youth stumbled backward in panic, certain he would be next.
But the Other ignored him.
Instead, it walked calmly toward the fat man sprawled on the ground.
"Father above, please—please—!" the fat man screamed in terror, kicking backward as he retreated. His eyes squeezed shut as he flailed wildly with the dagger clutched in his hands.
It was the clumsy resistance of a frightened child.
So pitiful that even the surviving companion turned away, unable to watch.
Yet just before it reached him, the Other suddenly halted.
It turned its head sharply, scanning the surroundings.
It had sensed something.
Too late.
A massive impact slammed into its back.
The big man—who had been stabbed through the heart—had risen again.
Howling like a mad beast, he threw himself at the towering Other with tremendous force. The collision sent both bodies tumbling forward—straight toward the fat man.
Screaming in blind panic, the fat man stabbed wildly.
By sheer luck, the blade plunged into the creature's chest.
The struggling Other froze.
The brilliant blue light in its eyes extinguished instantly. Its body shattered like brittle ice, exploding into fragments that rained down over the fat man's body—and then began to melt.
Just like that, one of Charles's most feared enemies was gone.
"…It died?" Charles stood nearby, momentarily stunned.
He hadn't expected much from resurrecting a corpse for a surprise attack. The Others seemed mysterious and overwhelmingly powerful—yet this one had fallen so easily.
"…Where did that fat man even get a dragonglass dagger?"
As he was still processing this, the scepter in his hand suddenly trembled.
A thin strand of black, thread-like energy rose from the spot where the Other had fallen. It shot forward like lightning and plunged straight into the crystal atop the scepter.
A prompt flashed before his eyes:
[A power containing secrets of the Long Night. Effect unknown.]
He barely had time to read it before the black thread vanished into the crystal.
Nearby, the fat man stared wide-eyed at his resurrected companion, while the remaining youth shouted incoherently in shock.
Charles ignored them.
He focused on the crystal at the top of his scepter.
But there was no visible change.
"…Same as what happened in the Wolfswood?" he wondered, uncertain.
At least that time, he had gained a new ability—raising fog over the sea, even if he had never used it.
This time?
Nothing.
After returning to Winterfell, he studied the scepter repeatedly, but found no answers. In the end, he could only commit the matter to memory.
---
For a long while afterward, nothing unusual occurred.
Charles's days fell into a steady rhythm—practicing spells, spreading his name, occasionally using the scepter to wander the world like a traveler.
Life was calm. Almost leisurely.
Yet as time passed, the duration he could remain in this world grew shorter and shorter.
And just as that time was nearly exhausted—
The northern army returned from the Wolfswood.