Chapter 156 – The Blizzard
Entering the sealed shaft had been thrilling—dangerous and exhilarating.
Climbing back out, however, was far less glorious.
A coarse vine was wrapped tightly around Charles' waist. As it pulled upward with steady tension, his body was gradually lifted off the ground and drawn higher and higher.
The vine dug into his abdomen, forcing him to grip the branch tightly with both hands to avoid slipping.
Unlike the rapid plunge when he had fallen in, the ascent was slow.
Slow enough that Charles could clearly see the brilliant white light sliding away from his body layer by layer, peeling off like a drifting veil until it vanished completely.
Here, black and white existed like two solidified lights.
They never blended.
"Yet no one ever said it aloud… who would believe that the purest white could actually be black?"
He mused quietly.
Soon the world around him became pitch-dark again.
In such darkness, opening or closing his eyes made no difference.
There was no wind.
No rushing air.
No flutter of clothing.
The only sounds were his own breathing—and the faint scraping of the vine sliding against the well's walls.
He waited.
Time passed—though how much, he could not tell.
Eventually, the darkness began to thin.
Looking upward, he saw a faint glimmer of torchlight far above.
Weak.
But after so long in absolute blackness, his eyes had adapted to the dark so completely that even that faint light stung.
Shielding his eyes with one hand, he watched as the light grew brighter.
Moments later, he was pulled up over the rim.
Charles grasped the edge and climbed out of the shaft. The vine loosened from around his waist and withdrew into the darkness.
He dusted off his rumpled robe and looked up at the small figure standing before him with a torch.
The Child of the Forest.
"How long was I down there?" he asked.
"Not long," she replied in her sweet voice. "Dawn has not yet come."
Charles nodded.
Then he followed her as they left the vast black chamber containing the shaft.
"The greenseer has asked us to prepare weirwood seed paste," the Child said while leading the way. "It takes some time. He asked me to tell you not to worry."
"Thank him for me," Charles replied.
Then he paused.
"Wait… I'll be seeing him shortly anyway. Why didn't he tell me himself?"
"The greenseer is tired," she answered. "The trees have called him to rest."
Charles found that odd.
But when they returned to the upper cavern, the sight confirmed it.
The corpse seated upon the deadwood throne had closed his single remaining eye.
His shriveled body leaned motionless against the weirwood trunk—so still it looked as though he had truly died.
Living like that for centuries…
Charles shook his head inwardly.
I doubt I could endure it.
Many of the Children of the Forest were still awake.
They were gathered around the cavern, chanting softly in their strange language—a haunting, ancient melody echoing through the stone halls.
Their singing was clear and ethereal.
From the great hall beneath his feet, from the stone chambers scattered all around, the voices rose and intertwined in a continuous chorus. The melody was pure and delicate—listening to it felt as though one's soul were being washed clean, renewed.
Charles stood quietly for a while, listening.
Then he thanked the Child of the Forest who had guided him and bid her farewell before stepping out of the dark cavern.
Outside, night had fully fallen.
Without him noticing, a heavy snowfall had begun.
The wind howled across the mountainside, driving thick flakes through the air. The moment Charles stepped outside, the gale nearly shoved him back into the cave entrance.
He instinctively retreated a step—
But forced himself onward.
Just beside the entrance stood a fur-lined tent. Firelight flickered inside.
Charles trudged through the snow and pushed aside the curtain, stepping into the warmth.
Several commanders were gathered within.
Steelshanks, the captain of his guard.
A former noble vassal of Stannis from Dragonstone.
And the ever-mysterious Red Priestess.
The moment they saw him, all three visibly relaxed and hurried to their feet.
"My lord, you—" Steelshanks began, noticing the fatigue on Charles' face and stepping forward with concern.
"I'm fine," Charles said, waving it off.
His gaze shifted toward the red-robed woman sitting quietly nearby.
"You carry traces of deep darkness," she said with a frown when she met his eyes. "Are the Old Gods truly no different from the ancient dark god?"
Charles almost laughed.
What they've done has been far more useful than anything you've managed.
But he had no interest in arguing theology.
He simply shook his head.
Steelshanks quickly seized the moment to report.
"My lord, we've sighted a White Walker."
"A White Walker?" Charles frowned. "Inside the mountain?"
"No—outside," Steelshanks replied. "It was riding a skeletal horse. Appeared shortly after you left. It watched our army for quite some time."
"And then?"
"It did nothing else. But ever since it appeared…" Steelshanks glanced toward the tent entrance.
"…the snow began to fall."
"Snow…" Charles murmured.
He glanced again toward the Red Priestess.
"That is hardly surprising," she said quietly. "Where White Walkers walk, night and cold follow."
Then her voice turned troubled.
"The real question is… if they come here every night, how long can your soldiers endure?"
---
For all his unusual magic, Charles could do little against a storm like this.
The Red Priestess was in the same position.
Perhaps she once had methods to counter such forces, but since arriving here she had lost most of her ability to channel power.
If the White Walkers truly returned each day—
There seemed to be only one possible solution.
Move the army into the cavern.
It wasn't impossible. The entrance was blocked by a magical barrier that prevented almost everyone from entering.
But if the one who created that barrier chose to remove it…
Charles stood at the tent's entrance after the meeting ended, watching the blizzard rage outside.
Would the Three-Eyed Raven agree?
And even if he did—
That barrier wasn't meant to keep humans out.
It existed to keep the White Walkers—or the Great Other—away.
If it were removed…
"Perhaps that's exactly what the enemy wants," Charles thought grimly.
Beyond that barrier lay the Children of the Forest.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
And most importantly—the Seal.
Whatever the White Walkers were planning, exposing those things was unacceptable.
But if the barrier remained…
Death was inevitable.
"Troublesome," Charles muttered under his breath.
All he could do now was hope the Children of the Forest finished preparing the weirwood seed paste soon—so he could enter the dream they promised and search for some way to confront the Great Other.
Even if the chances were slim.
Better that than waiting helplessly for the enemy to tighten the noose.
---
The snowstorm lasted the entire night.
By morning, the camp along the mountainside had been buried beneath half its height in snow. Even the cave entrance was nearly sealed shut by drifts.
That very night, several soldiers nearly froze to death.
Fortunately, Charles used his Life Drain spell to treat them. The spell allowed him to siphon only small amounts of vitality rather than killing outright, making it surprisingly practical.
But it was only a temporary fix.
The next day was calm.
Then night came.
And with it—the blizzard returned.
The same thing happened on the third night.
And the fourth.
White Walkers appeared occasionally in the distance. The army responded immediately each time, firing dragonglass arrows they had long prepared.
Only once did they succeed.
On the second day, a soldier managed to kill one of the icy figures.
After that, the enemy learned caution.
The White Walkers no longer showed themselves.
But the storms kept coming.
What Charles had imagined when he first arrived was far simpler than the reality they now faced.
Even casting spells constantly, he couldn't protect everyone.
Two thousand soldiers were far too many to watch over alone.
Deaths began to appear.
At first—
One.
Then two.
But as the cold seeped deeper into bones and blood, more and more men slipped into eternal sleep.
Ten.
Twenty.
Fifty.
Soon, voices began rising throughout the camp.
They wanted to enter the cavern—to escape the storm.
The demand spread quickly and gained nearly universal support among the soldiers.
And just as those calls grew louder—
The Children of the Forest finally finished preparing the weirwood seed paste.