Chapter 75: Goals and Mutation
The courtyard buried deep within Flea Bottom had, of late, become the liveliest place in all of King's Landing.
From dawn to dusk, no matter when one arrived, there was always a long, winding line stretching endlessly from within the compound out into the narrow alleys beyond—so long that its end was nowhere in sight.
Men and women, the young and the old, the tall and the short, stepped inside with hope etched on their faces, only to depart later in dazed joy. Through word of mouth alone, the place had already gained a near-mythical reputation.
Within the compound, pure light appeared again and again—yellow, red, blue, green—each hue changing according to which deity was being prayed to.
The Seven were not seven gods, but seven aspects of a single divine whole.
The seven-pointed star was the Church's sacred symbol, and the number seven its number of fortune.
Because of what he was now doing, Charles had taken the time to consult the Seven-Pointed Scripture, and had come to understand the doctrine more clearly.
"Messenger, you should rest for a while."
A young Sparrow beside him spoke softly, reverence evident in his voice, as Charles continued to wield the staff without pause.
"There's no need," Charles replied calmly.
Again and again he acted, gazing into face after face filled with expectation and awe, feeling as though he was beginning to grasp something of the nature of faith.
Belief.
Reverence.
Looking upward.
Faith resided in the heart—and the staff's power seemed to draw upon precisely that.
The staff possessed seven abilities.
It could bestow health, strength, courage, charm, wisdom…
These gifts corresponded, vaguely, to humanity's longing for certain ideals.
With his enhanced vitality, Charles possessed far greater stamina than ordinary men. Four or five hours of sleep alone were enough for him, and ever since his progress in spell research had reached a bottleneck, he had devoted most of his time to this place—to exploring the nature of the staff itself.
As a result, he had come to understand it rather well.
First: it was ineffective against those who did not believe in the Seven.
This fact had led Charles to one conclusion.
The staff's true foundation lay in belief.
Only when a person entirely opened their heart to the Seven—truly believing that the gods could heal them—would the staff's power take effect.
The same rule applied to every other "gift."
Under such restrictions, those harboring ulterior motives or attempting deception could only leave disappointed.
And in truth, its effects were not overwhelmingly powerful.
They were closer to profound psychological suggestion.
For example, Maiden's Blessing—said to grant charm—did not alter appearance in the slightest.
It simply filled the recipient with confidence.
Women who received it looked no different than before. Only their demeanor changed.
Yet that was enough.
To others, they merely seemed more spirited—but in the eyes of the person they loved, they became utterly radiant.
In short: their charm soared.
This led to another rule.
If the beloved did not believe in the Seven, the effect diminished greatly.
Wisdom worked the same way—making one feel sharper, think faster.
Health blessings dulled the sensation of illness, inspired appetite, and encouraged optimism. Over time, bodies naturally grew stronger.
Even judgment functioned similarly.
Under divine light, the truly guilty would be overwhelmed by fear and remorse. Those with weak wills confessed outright; stronger ones soon suffered mental collapse.
This power was not even limited to believers. It resembled a forced mental state—a specialized psychological pressure.
…
"So in a sense," Charles mused inwardly,
"these aren't miracles at all—but refined forms of mind manipulation."
The effectiveness varied, but the mystery alone was more than enough to convince the masses.
Yet another thought surfaced.
The Stranger… and the Mother.
The Stranger baffled him completely. No one ever prayed to the god of death.
Who would beg to die sooner?
As for the Mother—
Her healing power hinted at something deeper.
At first, Charles had needed to reinforce it with purification magic. But at some point, that became unnecessary. It now functioned just like the others.
The effects, however, were modest—healing minor wounds, easing pain. Reattaching severed heads remained nonsense.
Why the staff no longer required assistance, he didn't know.
He only knew that it was growing stronger.
Was it faith?
Accumulated merit?
Something else entirely?
No one explained it.
Charles became so consumed by research that he neglected sleep and meals.
Others, of course, knew none of this.
They believed only that he worked tirelessly to help the suffering.
And so the gray-robed Sparrows—already worshipful—became fanatical in their devotion.
What none of them knew was that Charles, facing an unresolved bottleneck, had already decided to leave.
…
After "revitalizing" yet another middle-aged woman with a bulbous nose and pock-marked face, Charles glanced at the lowering sun. He signaled the attendants to close for the day.
He had been here for a full night and most of the following day.
Under countless reluctant gazes, he walked deeper into the compound.
Inside, an elderly Sparrow knelt before a wall painted with murals of the Seven, murmuring prayers.
The old man had joined the Church in his youth. Decades of his life were spent serving the poor. He had discarded his birth name long ago. People called him simply the Sparrow.
But since many wore gray robes now, he was known by another title:
The High Sparrow.
As Charles entered, the old man turned.
"You're leaving."
It was a question, yet spoken with certainty.
"Did I say that?" Charles asked, surprised. This man wasn't like the Red Woman—yet he was just as perceptive.
The High Sparrow shook his head.
"You should belong here. But you refuse to. I try not to think on it—but my eyes remain clear. They do not lie to me."
"I see," Charles said quietly. "Then… thank you, for everything."
"I am the one who should thank you," the old man replied.
"We hold no titles. We are merely wretches surviving in the shadows. And yet you treated us no differently than nobles—not out of condescension, nor false kindness. Only someone not wholly bound to this world could do that."
He frowned slightly.
"And yet I cannot understand why such a man would abandon us. You can help so many more. You have the power—but you choose not to."
"Everyone has something they must do," Charles replied. "And my purpose lies elsewhere."
"Can you truly not see those suffering faces?" the old man pressed, emotion breaking through his calm. "Can you not feel how desperately this world needs you?"
Charles wanted to dismiss the words outright.
Yet memories surged unbidden—
Faces lit with gratitude.
Children's soft voices calling his name.
Blushing girls offering flowers.
Young Sparrows leaping forward to shield him from blades.
The old man himself surrendering his private chamber so Charles could rest…
All of it weighed upon him.
Should I really leave?
Uncertainty clouded his expression.
But when he thought of his ultimate goal—
Everything else blurred into obscurity.
He spoke again, his voice steady.
"People are always trying to define me—deciding what kind of person I should be, or forcing me into the version of myself they imagine, even hope for."
"But I am only myself."
Something stirred in him, and Charles suddenly smiled.
"When I do wrong, I feel guilt, regret, confusion. When I do good, I feel joy, nostalgia, reluctance, even vanity. But when placed beside my goal… what do these emotions amount to?"
"So I've learned to ignore them."
"Sometimes the ending isn't what truly matters, child," the old priest shook his head. "There are things far more important than a person's so-called goals."
Charles neither argued nor agreed.
"Perhaps. But whether an ending is beautiful or not—that is my concern."
"Farewell."
With that, he turned and left without hesitation.
The High Sparrow watched his departing figure and let out a weary sigh.
…
The priest was pained by this—yet Charles was hardly untouched by it himself.
To be revered felt good.
Compared to that, black magic was truly repulsive.
Toying with corpses.
Toying with souls.
Forcing himself to pry organs from rotting skulls while the stench of decay clogged his nose, muttering incantations over a clammy, blood-slick mass in his hands.
Dragging pallid skeletons out of blood-soaked corpses, never once forgetting that these remains might suddenly recall their lives and plunge a blade into his back in fury.
Ignoring the screams of the wretches as he turned them into dried husks—crimes they might have deserved to answer for, but never in such ghastly ways.
Crushing, grinding, and reshaping souls that still retained fragments of will—then smearing them wholesale over himself.
That was the price behind the righteous image he now wore.
Filth.
Evil.
Disgusting beyond words.
If given a choice, who would ever practice such arts?
Charles had no choice.
He had been given none from the very beginning. And now, there was no turning back.
The staff was miraculous, yes—but its effects were limited, and in the end it was merely an external tool.
It could let him walk unchecked for a while—but it could never truly strengthen him.
Divine miracles from the main world's temples might have been a fine alternative, but by the time he could access them, he was already deep in necromancy—and the cost of conversion alone was prohibitive.
Necromancy—or rather, the identity of a black wizard—was what allowed him to strengthen himself quickly enough to survive.
So the words he had spoken were not only for the Sparrows.
They were for himself as well.
He had come to this unfamiliar world with a single goal.
To return home.
How?
He didn't know.
But becoming stronger was never wrong—and lingering here would only waste time.
What awaited him back home?
He wasn't sure.
But he knew at least one thing:
If he returned, he would no longer be alone.
…
Having made his choice, his resolve hardened—but his mood darkened all the same. And when he entered the Red Keep, walking along a familiar corridor on his way back to the Hand's Tower, the heavy weight in his chest abruptly turned into anger.
A group of soldiers rushed forward, surrounding him at a corner.
A knight in full armor stepped out, his voice trembling yet resolute as he shouted:
"Murder. Conspiracy against the court. Practice of forbidden sorcery. Desecration of the dead…"
"By order of His Grace King Stannis—Black Wizard Cranston, you are hereby placed under arrest and shall stand trial!"
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