Chapter 16 — Return and Respite
Thick smoke billowed from the kitchen, rolling through the doorway in dark gray clouds. In just moments, the once-white doorframe had turned a sooty black.
Coughs and half-muttered curses echoed through the haze — the unmistakable sound of a young man wrestling with disaster.
"The stove uses coal, not wood," came a soft, hesitant voice from the doorway.
Charles froze mid-motion, a chunk of half-burned wood in his hand. Slowly, he turned toward the sound.
There stood Annie, small and nervous, her bright blue eyes peeking out from behind a worn apron.
"I—I mean…" she stammered, shrinking slightly under his gaze.
"Thank you for the reminder, little Annie," Charles interrupted gently, using his sleeve to wipe the ash from his face. He tried for a smile — one he hoped looked kind rather than exasperated. "Now, do you happen to know where the coal is kept?"
Blink. Blink.
The girl pointed shyly. "Right next to you… under the iron pan."
Charles followed her finger. Sure enough, beside him sat a linen sack, square-edged and lumpy — unmistakably full of coal.
"…Oh."
He could feel his ears heat up.
---
After some chaotic effort, he managed to warm up yesterday's leftovers into something vaguely edible. Once the dishes were cleared, Charles sat back with a long sigh.
It was painfully clear now — improving their living conditions had to become his first priority, Church verdict or not.
"At least I could die with a full stomach," he muttered, flopping onto the bed.
The lingering smoke still hung faintly in the air, stinging his nose. He swore to himself that he'd never cook again — though, admittedly, the small disaster had at least broken a little of the ice between him and the timid girl.
Still, the sooner he could turn those dragon bones into cash, the better.
And if something happened to him… Annie would need that money to survive.
She was under his care now — and, like him, she had no one else in the world.
Both of them were alone.
That thought lingered.
"So… Elliot, then?" he murmured. "But where do I even find him?"
The Church? Could he just walk in and ask for the man? And even if he found him — would Elliot dare to buy something so valuable and suspicious?
How would he even prove what the bones were worth?
Bathed in the orange light of sunset, Charles lay staring at the ceiling, his thoughts spiraling. Then suddenly —
A faint pulse stirred in his mind.
A soft flash blinked before his eyes.
[Portal fully charged]
His heart skipped. "The Eye of True Sight?"
That system interface — he hadn't seen it since returning to reality. How was it back now?
He hadn't done anything! Unless…
"Charging?" he murmured. "So it needs time?"
Without overthinking it, Charles focused — and at once, a translucent panel unfolded before his eyes.
[Name: Charles Cranston]
[Age: 16]
[Condition: Healthy]
[Skills: Eye of True Sight (Active), Bone Resurrection (6/100%)]
[Portal Charge Complete: 24.0.30.41]
He blinked in surprise.
The familiar display filled him with an odd, nostalgic comfort. Yet one thing stood out — unlike before, the number beside the portal timer wasn't counting down. It was increasing.
He frowned, thoughtful.
"So the longer I stay in this world, the longer I can remain in the other…"
He glanced toward the window, gauging the light. The timing matched almost perfectly with the day before.
A slow smile crept across his face.
"That means I get twice the time advantage…"
He paused. "Though unless the two worlds sync or link, it's not much use — except maybe for running away."
Still, he wasn't about to waste the chance.
He pulled the curtains shut, dressed quickly, and from beneath his pillow retrieved a small knife, tucking it into his belt.
"Shame I don't have a gun," he muttered. His mind flicked to the old butler's flintlock pistol — a single-shot antique, but better than nothing. The police had taken it.
Well, the knife would have to do.
Once ready, he reached under the bed and took out a bundle of handwritten pages — his research notes. He flipped through them briefly before stuffing them into his coat.
If the Church ever found these, it would be over for him.
The thought made him uneasy. Then again, the Church's so-called "detection" had failed before.
"Maybe they really can't sense my magic…" he whispered, a dangerous spark flashing behind his eyes — before he quickly shoved the thought aside.
No time for arrogance.
Drawing a slow breath, Charles focused on the image of the door in his mind — the strange, ancient gate that connected worlds.
The air shimmered.
A low hum filled the room as the space before him froze, then twisted.
Out of the stillness, a massive bronze door materialized — solemn and silent, covered in carvings too ancient to understand.
Unlike last time, he didn't rush to open it. Instead, he studied the reliefs carefully — human figures, beasts, runes that almost seemed to move under the light.
No meaning revealed itself.
"Well then," he murmured, "let's see if the world beyond is still the same."
With a deep breath, he placed a hand on the cool metal and pushed.
The door opened — and the world dissolved into darkness.
---
Night.
The air was cold and still. Charles found himself standing atop a grassy ridge, the faint smell of brine and decay wafting from a winding stream below. The moonlight shimmered faintly over the water's surface.
A voice spoke beside him — deep, calm, and familiar.
"Finding your notebook won't be easy."
Charles froze. He turned — and there stood a rugged, brown-haired man in tattered clothes, his expression thoughtful as he gazed at the distant city.
[Eddard Stark — Duke of the North. Your limping ally from the escape. A man burdened with silent weight.]
"Eddard," Charles said softly, almost in disbelief. "Long time no see."
"…What?"
The older man blinked, clearly puzzled. Then, as his gaze swept over Charles's attire — the clean shirt, the belt, the neatly combed hair — his eyes widened in shock.
"You… changed your clothes?"
"Of course. A little magic of mine," Charles said with a perfectly straight face, brushing the dust off his sleeve. "Now, where to next?"
He still remembered exactly what had happened before. They'd escaped from the Red Keep — barely alive.
"You're sure about this?" Eddard asked, his tone earnest. "Staying with me will be dangerous."
Charles sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I'm curious — if I don't go with you, how exactly are you, a cripple, planning to find this Yoren guy? Crawl there?"
"I'd manage somehow," Eddard replied dryly. "But since we're out, I need to be clear. King's Landing is crowded. In the Keep, we could hide. Out here, faces are recognized. You're not my bannerman. You owe me nothing."
"Fine, let's be honest then," Charles said with a shrug. "I don't know this city, I don't know the streets, I don't even know where to go. So whether I'm following you or anyone else — I need someone who knows their way around."
He smiled wryly. "And you, old wolf, seem dependable enough not to stab me in my sleep."
Eddard exhaled through his nose. "Perhaps you could show some respect for your elders."
"Elders? What are you, forty?"
"Thirty-five."
Charles chuckled. "Not quite ancient, then."
"Old enough to be your father," Eddard replied evenly. "And far too old for your tone."
Charles only grinned wider. "Then we'll call it even — equals in trouble."
Eddard sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. You're impossible."
---
They moved quickly through the narrow, twisting alleys of King's Landing, the sound of their steps muffled against cobblestone. Guided by moonlight and memory, they eventually stopped before a small, weathered house tucked between taller buildings.
"When I was still the King's Hand," Eddard murmured, "Yoren mentioned he sometimes stayed here. Let's hope my memory hasn't failed me."
Charles helped him to the door. The older man raised his hand and knocked.
"Who's there?"
"An old friend from the North."
A pause — then shuffling footsteps. The door creaked open, revealing a rugged, bearded man.
At the sight of Eddard, his eyes widened — and he almost shouted before catching himself.
"Lord Stark—!" He stopped midword, glancing nervously outside before ushering them in.
"Seven save us… it's really you. I was told you'd taken the black. They said you were to join us at the Wall, but— Saints above, what happened? They're saying you tried to seize the throne!"
The man's voice trembled between disbelief and relief.
Charles leaned against the doorframe, half-smiling, as Eddard sighed heavily beside him.
"Long story," the Duke muttered. "And one I'd rather tell quietly."
The bearded man in black robes paused mid-sentence and suddenly turned his sharp, weathered gaze toward the young stranger standing quietly behind Eddard.
"…And this one?" he asked suspiciously.
Eddard glanced back. "This is Ser Cranston — the one who helped me escape from the Red Keep."
He'd chosen the formal Westerosi title deliberately, remembering the brief conversation he'd had with Charles earlier about noble customs.
The old man's brows rose. His eyes swept over Charles — barely sixteen, ash-blond, too clean and composed to look like an outlaw.
A boy like that… freed Eddard Stark from the Red Keep?
The skepticism in his stare was almost comical, but he kept silent, merely nodding once before leading Eddard further inside.
---
"Because of your imprisonment, my lord," the old man said as they walked, "the North has gone to war with House Lannister. Young Lord Robb has already gathered his banners and is marching from Riverrun. Even Renly Baratheon is stirring in the Stormlands. King's Landing is in lockdown — you were wise to come here."
As the words poured out, Eddard's face hardened again, the faint relief of freedom evaporating beneath grim understanding.
"Joffrey the Usurper…" he muttered, fists tightening. "The Seven Kingdoms must rise against that false king. But why doesn't Renly join his brother Stannis? Stannis is Robert's true heir — by every law of gods and men!"
"False king?" The old man blinked, clearly confused. "My lord, I don't understand what you mean…"
Their voices continued to rise and fall, names and politics tumbling into a web of schemes Charles barely followed.
He listened for a while before tuning out completely.
To him, it was all a blur — Riverrun, Stormlands, Baratheon, Lannister — names that meant nothing beyond a vague familiarity, as if plucked from half-remembered dreams.
And none of it, as far as he could tell, helped him survive.
So instead, he quietly slipped away to a small table by the wall, drew a stack of papers from his coat, and spread them out.
Each sheet was scrawled with uneven, looping symbols — neither words nor pictures, somewhere between the two.
They resembled pictographs, but cruder — as if a child had tried to mimic them without understanding what they meant.
The lines twisted and crossed without pattern, more chaotic than the oracle-bone carvings he'd once seen in textbooks.
Still, Charles thought, these are supposed to hold power.
At the top of one page, faintly inked, were three words written in the local script:
Curse of Agony
Despite the name, the spell was less a chant and more a ritual — a fusion of symbols and materials to create a physical vessel for pain. Without the precise runes, the magic wouldn't even spark.
Charles still remembered the incantation. He could almost feel the rhythm of it in his mind, the way it vibrated in his chest when he'd first tested it.
And the process itself wasn't complicated.
He could do it again — easily.
If he did, he'd have a second spell in his arsenal. A weapon. A layer of safety.
But then came the same heavy thought that had haunted him since his trial:
The Church is watching.
If they discovered he was still studying dark arts, there'd be no leniency next time — only fire and ash.
He stared down at the twisting runes, the candlelight flickering over them like veins of shadow.
The temptation was strong — so was the fear.
"Should I keep training this… or burn it all?" he murmured to himself.
His reflection in the window offered no answer.
Outside, the moon hung heavy over King's Landing, cold and pale, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Charles sighed, leaning back in his chair, torn between reason and survival.
If he wanted to live, he'd need power.
But power, in this world, always came with a price.
He tapped the edge of the parchment thoughtfully.
Maybe he'd just practice the symbols.
That wasn't exactly spellcraft… right?
A small smirk crossed his lips — half amusement, half defiance.
"Knowledge isn't a sin," he whispered. "Not yet."
The runes on the page seemed almost to shimmer in response.
--