Chapter 130 – The Real World and Departure
The semi-transparent turtle drifted lazily through the air before him, gliding at an unhurried pace, looking as though it were thoroughly enjoying itself.
Tyrion watched it closely and, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, felt a trace of envy. He reached out and gave it a poke.
His fingers passed straight through empty air.
This was a turtle that did not exist.
It ignored walls and doors entirely, appearing wherever it pleased. When needed, it would dissolve into shimmering light, silently projecting whatever image its master wished to convey.
Tyrion understood this all too well—after all, it had just "summoned" him here.
While he was using the privy.
"…It didn't record me relieving myself, did it?" he wondered nervously, briefly fretting over his dignity. After casting a glance out the window at the lively Black Castle below, he turned back to Charles.
"Another shipment of materials from White Harbor just arrived," Tyrion said, unconsciously slipping into honorifics. "Would you like to inspect them?"
"Not necessary," Charles replied. "You already know what they are."
"This batch is different," Tyrion said. "Lord Manderly claims he's found Golden Ghostgrass. You specifically mentioned that one."
"Golden Ghostgrass?"
Charles raised an eyebrow.
This plant was a required component for casting a certain illusionary curse—native to regions beyond Westeros, originating from the Dothraki Sea. It was notoriously difficult to identify and exceptionally rare.
The North had sent him plenty of materials, but this particular plant had never appeared—until now.
Charles had always been curious about native curse magic. His initial disinterest faded, replaced by mild intrigue. But after glancing down at himself, he sighed.
"Have them store it in the warehouse. I'll take a look later."
He wanted to go immediately—but couldn't.
Since arriving here, he'd been constantly on the move: traveling, reading, dueling, experimenting with local magic. Truly critical matters were few, yet time had slipped by unnoticed. After completing the Phantom Turtle, he'd realized he had barely a day or two left.
That time was nearly gone.
"All right," Tyrion shrugged. After a moment's thought, he added, "Dragonstone's forces just reached Eastwatch. After resting, they should head this way. You might even see an old acquaintance."
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Trust me—Westeros rarely sees women that… impressive."
Charles shot him a sideways glance and said nothing. If she really turns into a leathery old crone, he thought, you probably wouldn't say that.
---
Even with the wildlings and the northern armies combined, the Wall's defenses—though formidable—weren't enough to truly kill the White Walkers.
Only dragonglass could do that.
Ordinary weapons were useless.
Charles had written a letter about this back when he was in Winterfell, but before any reply came, he'd already left for the Wall.
Two days earlier, however, Arya—who had arrived with the army—delivered a response from the Red Woman herself.
Only then did Charles learn that the enigmatic priestess intended to come to the Wall in person.
The letter was short. He couldn't tell whether she was coming alone or bringing along her so-called reincarnated hero. But he suspected the bald man wouldn't bother with such matters.
Not long ago, ravens had arrived at the Wall bearing news: King Stannis had declared his intent to rebuild King's Landing under the guidance of the Faith, demanding supplies and fealty from all lords in recognition of him as the true king.
How he'd managed to negotiate with the Sparrows was anyone's guess.
Once bitter enemies, the two factions were now—somehow—working together.
Charles didn't really have an opinion on the matter. Although he had saved those people, he had never intended to ask for anything in return.
Even after they organized themselves into an armed religious order, he rarely paid them any attention. In the end, as long as they believed in the Seven, he could draw power from that faith. And he never considered himself particularly wise or sagacious anyway—
so it was better not to meddle too deeply.
That thought suddenly reminded him of the matter of "spreading the faith," and he asked casually,
"Any supplicants?"
Ever since Tyrion had pledged himself to him, Charles had gradually handed over all mundane affairs. Partly because he found such matters a waste of time, and partly because Tyrion was genuinely capable—most things no longer required Charles's involvement at all.
At the question, Tyrion replied without hesitation,
"The daughter of Lord Sevin of Sevinhold, Jolir Sevin, is about to give birth and hopes you will bless her with a safe delivery."
"A safe delivery?" Charles frowned. "Does he take me for a midwife?"
"In return, Lord Sevin is prepared to offer five chests of gold, five chests of jewels, and—of course—a private force of fifty soldiers at your disposal."
The displeasure vanished from Charles's face at once. But Tyrion wasn't finished yet.
"Additionally, if you would be willing to name the child, Lord Sevin will also present you with a dagger forged of Valyrian steel."
"Naming the child?" Charles frowned again. "Just make something up for him and say it was my choice."
"This involves a baptismal rite—"
"Absolutely not. I don't have the time. Just a name. Take it or leave it."
Tyrion coughed lightly and nodded discreetly, then continued,
"Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte recently married the widowed Lady Dustin. However, given their age, he fears they may not be able to produce an heir and requests your blessing."
"Deepwood Motte?" Charles immediately thought of the fortress once invaded by ironborn—now reduced by his hand to a field of corpses—and of the Lady who had died there.
He nodded. "I can try. No guarantees."
"And one more thing—"
Tyrion suddenly grew serious, looking directly at Charles.
"I know many people have been speaking ill of me lately, but I hope you will trust me, my lord."
Seeing his solemn expression, Charles raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue.
"They say I abuse your name, act purely out of greed, and hoard wealth shamelessly. These are slanders—though I admit there are reasons people might think so." Tyrion spoke with thinly veiled contempt. "I would never demand offerings from those who are truly poor and in need. But believe me, my lord—many nobles are far less pleasant than you imagine."
Charles remained silent, and Tyrion continued.
"Ramsay Snow may be twisted by nature, but his very birth was the result of Roose Bolton's animal cruelty. He hanged a miller, then raped the miller's wife before the corpse. His excuse? He claimed the right of the first night, arguing that she married without his consent. Gods know why such a vile custom—abandoned for centuries—can still be used as justification."
"Harman Tallhart of Torrhen's Square is infamous for torturing prisoners. Even minor offenses earn savage punishment at his hands—death or mutilation is almost guaranteed."
"And the Umbers of Last Hearth," he added, "are also rumored to still practice the right of the first night. Many believe they never truly abandoned it."
He sneered. "They mock me as a Lannister's little demon. Yet to me, they're no different from the savages beyond the Wall—just as brutal, just as cold-blooded."
After a brief pause, Tyrion looked at Charles and took a deep breath.
"Perhaps you think I'm simply slandering them. But tell me—how devout can such people truly be, even if they claim faith in the Seven?"
...
After a moment of silence, Charles nodded.
"Rest assured. No one can lie to me."
That was enough.
Tyrion visibly relaxed, his tone brightening with relief. After delivering a few more reports and agreeing to inspect the materials at the warehouse later, he took his leave.
Charles found the moment oddly gratifying—rather like a capitalist watching a diligent employee.
Tyrion clearly treated Charles's affairs as a true career. He worked tirelessly, day and night, sparing no effort, and placed immense importance on Charles as his patron. At the first hint of bad rumors, he had rushed over to explain himself.
And what Tyrion said wasn't baseless.
With his ability to hear the prayers of believers, Charles had unknowingly learned many secrets—among them, the private sins of various lords, including those newly sworn to the North.
Bureaucratic corruption, cruelty, lust, moral decay, arrogance, treating commoners as less than human…
Nearly every noble possessed at least one unforgivable flaw. Truly spotless individuals were rarer than giant pandas.
Most nobles were filthy and steeped in darkness.
Charles saw this clearly. He simply chose not to dwell on it.
With that thought, he turned and left the study, returning to his bedchamber.
The reason he didn't go inspect the ritual materials immediately was simple:
his remaining time in the world of ASOIAF was running out.
And since there was little left to do in this world for now, it was time to place priority back where it belonged—
on matters of the main world.
Such as advancing to the Circle.