Chapter 61 — King's Landing
"Spiritual essence is the foundation of every spellcaster," the man murmured.
"Spirit-callers like us certainly have an advantage—you're harder to detect, your magic flows more freely… but your body remains as fragile as any mortal. Are you truly not going to reconsider?"
"No."
The woman stroked the man's cheek absentmindedly, voice low and breathy.
"I don't want to turn into some monster with three arms or five legs… and I'm not becoming one of those creatures who drink human blood just to stay alive. I don't want you to hate me. I don't."
"How could I hate you?"
The man grinned and bent to whisper at her ear.
"Even if you had three mouths… in certain moments, that might even be—"
"You're awful…"
---
Charles opened his eyes.
The remnants of a dream clung to his mind—someone else's memories, someone else's lovers' banter.
"…Did I finally hold it in for too long and end up having a spring dream?"
"But I wasn't even the protagonist…"
Helplessly shaking his head, he sat up and noticed a piece of paper lying beside the bed.
"A burning brazier, a chanting warlock, the whisper of demons, and the smell of charred flesh."
It was Melisandre's cryptic prophecy—he'd stayed up last night trying to decipher it.
He had acted dismissive at the time, but the truth was he hadn't let it go.
Being a "visitor from another world" and still getting his fate predicted by a local fire-priestess felt both ridiculous and unsettling.
But who could say it was impossible?
What if there really was danger?
What if…
"What kind of danger would it even be…?"
He tucked the thought away.
A reminder to stay cautious—though in this world, he'd never really stopped.
After washing up and putting on his coat, Charles stepped out of the tent.
From far away he could already see Roose Bolton standing at the lakeside clearing, issuing commands.
When Charles approached, the words became clear:
"Tracks in the grass—suspicious. If they're not sellswords, then someone's tailing us.
Neil, take a small team, stay behind, and drag them out!"
"Gis, stay close enough to support Neil. If you encounter a large force, send word immediately—I'll slow the column."
"Phoebe, you—"
"I'm surprised you're wasting energy on a handful of roadside bandits," Charles said casually.
Roose glanced at him. "Oh?"
"Nothing. Just bandits." Charles shrugged.
---
The army was delayed half a day.
When Roose Bolton—momentarily startled by a ragtag group of deserters-turned-bandits—finished venting his irritation by personally beheading them and ordering their heads mounted on pikes, the march resumed.
Thus began another long stretch of riding, practicing spells when he could, dodging a few eccentric nuisances along the way.
Five days later, they finally reached their destination.
King's Landing.
---
From afar, the city looked like a giant yellow-brown pancake sprinkled with countless "black sesame seeds"—the densely packed houses.
Here and there were blobs of bright color like misplaced fruit.
And at the edge of this "pancake" rose a long protrusion smeared with a spiral of red—forming a shape undeniably reminiscent of…
Excrement.
The Red Keep.
The royal castle stood alone on Aegon's High Hill, overlooking Blackwater Bay—its towers and spires unmistakable even from a distance.
The comparison was unflattering, but entirely justified.
King's Landing was the largest city in Westeros by far—
And absolutely the most odorous.
When they passed through the Dragon Gate at the northwest corner of the city, they were not greeted by ministers, nor bald kingsguard knights, nor even Ned Stark, who had arrived ahead of them.
They were greeted by stench.
Rotten fruit.
Human waste.
Urine.
Corpses left too long in alleyways.
Household garbage.
Gutters that seemed older than the city itself.
All of it fused into a wave of odor that slammed into the newcomers like a living thing.
Soldiers reflexively clamped sleeves over their noses, but it made no difference.
The smell seeped in from every direction with malicious determination.
"Seven hells, that's foul!"
Even the perpetually expressionless Roose Bolton couldn't help cursing.
Pinching his nose, he looked at Charles.
"My lord sorcerer—grant me a spell to sever my sense of smell, I beg you."
"That's simple," Charles replied dryly.
"Pinch your nose harder."
Time had taught him something important:
Underneath Roose Bolton's gloomy exterior lurked a surprising streak of deadpan humor.
One that rarely showed, but was always there.
---
The procession moved sluggishly into the city, passing the vegetable market by the gate, trudging beneath the shadow of the Rhaenys Hill, weaving through the Flea Bottom slums, and finally riding past the towering Sept of Baelor with its six crystal spires.
Along the way, crowds of commoners scrambled to avoid the fully armed soldiers. Anyone too slow to react—or simply unlucky—was shoved aside or barked at by one of the guards. And so the company advanced smoothly into the urban district.
The buildings around them remained as filthy and cramped as ever: narrow, stifling alleys; poverty-soaked lanes covered with grimy linen tarps; boisterous food stalls coughing out thin wisps of smoke; and the foul, reeking drainage channels threading through the entire city…
None of this had changed. The only difference, compared to when Charles had last departed, was the sheer number of people—far more than before, packed shoulder to shoulder.
"The Riverlands are at war. Most refugees fled to King's Landing," Bolton muttered while riding, his voice thick with disdain for the desperate masses. "The Citadel estimated fifty-odd thousand before. Now? I'd say it's way beyond that. The whole place is suffocating."
Charles nodded thoughtfully.
No one recognized him. Although he had once caused an uproar in this very city, the lower classes had long since lost the luxury of paying attention to such things. When you can't even fill your stomach, who has time to care about the dangerous games played by the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms?
What brief gossip and excitement there once had been were long eroded by the grind of daily survival. Now all Charles saw were blank, half-crazed faces.
"Lannisters must've done something nasty before leaving," Bolton remarked carelessly.
Charles agreed.
As the group pressed deeper into the city, people kept scrambling aside. Everywhere he looked were gaunt, hollow-eyed figures staring at the passing nobles with barely concealed hatred.
A filthy woman—naked and disheveled—suddenly hurled a rotten vegetable at him.
The soldiers instantly drew their swords, ready to charge, but Charles raised a hand to stop them.
"We're in a hurry."
The blades slid back into their sheaths.
Charles was not a gentle man by nature, but even he wasn't about to stoop to the level of quarreling with a madwoman.
The moment the projectile flew toward him, his inner perception identified his "attacker," and it was obvious she wasn't in her right mind.
Yes—she was insane.
This wasn't a conclusion drawn merely from her appearance, but from the notification that flickered into view:
[A deranged young woman—her past is filled with misery.]
…
Under the stunned gazes of the nearby onlookers, the noble youth—his fine clothes now stained with smashed tomato—simply gave the culprit a faint glance and rode off as if nothing had happened.
The reaction stunned the crowd. Several remained frozen, watching his back in disbelief. The madwoman, however, seemed delighted by the attention; she plucked another rotten vegetable from her basket and tossed it at the soldiers behind him.
…
As they continued, the city's oppressive atmosphere only grew heavier. King's Landing felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting—its danger so palpable it stung like smoke in the nose.
"This city is about to explode," Charles thought grimly.
The other nobles ignored it completely. Such disregard had been ingrained over thousands of years—so long as they commanded soldiers, the common folk seemed like nothing.
But Charles was far less optimistic. History had repeatedly proven that peasant uprisings were the most violent, the most thorough. In comparison, the conflicts of nobles were practically mild.
"Not that it's my problem."
With that thought, he too let his gaze slide away. He was here to strengthen himself and decipher the mysteries of the Gate—not to spread some lofty doctrine of equality or rescue the masses. That sort of thing was the job of bleeding-heart idealists… not a black wizard like him.
So he cleared his mind and tuned out the chaos around him.
But just as they passed the base of a tall hill at the edge of the street, a sudden, thunderous voice echoed from all directions—majestic, solemn, like a deity whispering directly into his soul.
Charles nearly jolted out of the saddle. He spun around, only to find that no one else had reacted. Not a single guard stirred.
He searched for the source of the sound, and his gaze finally settled on the towering "mountain" to his left—or rather, the ancient, ruin-like structure perched atop it.
"What place is that?" he asked.
"The Dragonpit," answered the steward guiding them. "Where the Targaryens kept their… pets."
The Dragonpit? And it can produce a sound like that?
Why does it feel exactly like the resonance I hear during purification practice?
Suspicion gnawed at him, but outwardly he only nodded.
The column had no time for him to linger, and he wasn't foolish enough to wander alone in this chaotic city. So he cast one last glance at the ruined dome of the Dragonpit before riding on.
As he did, the divine whisper faded into silence.
---