Chapter 18 — A Sudden Realization
"If I'd had Needle with me, I'd have stabbed you full of holes by now!"
The scruffy girl sat cross-legged on the chair, clutching a wooden cup and gulping down water like she hadn't drunk in days. When she finally came up for air, she scowled at Charles, eyes burning with indignation.
"Are you really my father's friend? 'Cause I've never heard him mention you before."
Charles didn't answer right away. He stood by the small window of their rented inn room, peering down into the dimly lit street below. The place was quiet — too quiet — but he saw no sign of goldcloaks or bounty hunters. Only then did he reply, still facing away from her:
"Of course I am. Your father told me himself that his favorite child was his little daughter, Arya."
It was meant as a simple bit of flattery.
But it backfired spectacularly.
"That's a lie," Arya said immediately, frowning. "He likes Bran best. Then Rickon. Then Sansa, Robb, and Jon. I'm last — always last."
Charles turned back with an amused look. That confidence vanished fast enough.
Seeing nothing suspicious outside, he shut the window and leaned against the sill. He was about to reply when Arya cut in again.
"But I do believe you're his friend," she said suddenly, her tone softening. "If you weren't, you'd have dragged me to the goldcloaks already to claim the bounty."
Charles raised a brow. "You know there's a bounty on you?"
"Only an idiot wouldn't," she said matter-of-factly.
"So… you're saying you're smart?"
"Of course. The Red Keep couldn't catch me, could they?"
She puffed her chest out with childish pride — conveniently forgetting how close she'd come to being caught more than once. But then, as the boast left her lips, her voice faltered.
"Too bad Father didn't make it out… and Syrio…"
The name hung in the air like smoke. Her face dimmed, the lively spark in her eyes fading as the weight of loss settled in. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Charles studied her quietly — the girl who'd just hours ago been bartering pigeons on the street. Beneath the dirt and bravado, she was still just a child. A lonely one.
He finally broke the silence. "Arya… what's an 'Other'?"
Her head lifted, puzzled. "You don't know?"
"Not really," he admitted. "Some kind of ghost?"
"Of course they're ghosts," she said, like it was obvious. "Old Nan used to tell us stories about them when we were little. She said the Others are monsters made of ice and death. But Mother always told me they were just tales to scare children."
Her voice grew lower, rougher, as she recited what she remembered — a mix of fear and fascination in her tone:
"They hate fire, steel, and sunlight.
They ride pale dead horses, leading armies of corpses — cold, silent, and endless.
They sweep through villages and cities, killing heroes and soldiers alike, until everything warm and living is gone."
Her gray eyes glimmered faintly in the candlelight, reflecting something old — something that didn't quite belong to a child.
Charles felt a faint chill run down his spine.
It wasn't just the words. It was the way she said them — calm, detached, as though part of her believed it.
He leaned back, arms folded. "Sounds like something best left in bedtime stories."
"Maybe," Arya murmured, staring down at her empty cup. "But Old Nan said once that they always come back. Every time people forget."
Her voice trailed off, and for a fleeting instant, Charles could almost feel her unease — like the whisper of cold air creeping through the shutters.
He smiled faintly, trying to chase away the gloom. "Well, if they do come back, let's just hope they hate jam tarts as much as sunlight."
That earned him a small, reluctant laugh.
And for the first time since they'd met, the fierce little tomboy lowered her guard.
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The girl's tone suddenly shifted — softer, almost playful — as she mimicked the voice of her old nurse, Old Nan. Then, bursting into a fit of laughter, she waved her hands dramatically.
Just like that, the sorrow clouding Arya's face began to fade.
Charles watched her quietly, deep in thought. After a long moment, he asked,
"Tell me something… where you're from — is there a Wall?"
"The Wall? You mean the Wall of the North?" Arya blinked, surprised by the question. "Jon's there. I haven't seen him in ages."
Charles' heart gave a small jolt.
"And there are wildlings, right? And your little brother — he can't walk? There are ravens everywhere, maybe even dragons?"
"Bran fell from a tower. He can't use his legs anymore," Arya said matter-of-factly. "And yeah, Winterfell's full of ravens. Dragons? Well, they're in the stories — but I've never seen one."
Charles froze. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Of course.
Everything suddenly clicked.
He had felt it before — the strange familiarity of this place, the way the names and faces tugged at something buried deep in his memory.
And now he finally understood why.
This wasn't just some random medieval world.
This was Westeros.
The world of A Song of Ice and Fire — of kings and betrayal, dragons and the dead.
"The world behind the Gate… is this?"
Charles' mind raced.
He remembered watching the show years ago, bits and pieces still clinging to the edges of his memory. The rest was a blur, but certain words came back like sparks in the dark —
Dragon eggs… White Walkers… The Wall… Ned Stark betrayed by his queen… conspiracies… incest… the fat one with the eyebrows…
"Who was that guy again?" he muttered under his breath. "The chubby one… Sam? Yeah, Sam something…"
His memories were fragmented — a messy collage of vague impressions — but one thing was clear: this was no ordinary world.
And Ned Stark… didn't exactly have a bright future ahead of him.
Charles felt a pang of regret. He hadn't known the man long, but there was something steadfast, even noble, about the old wolf — the kind of person you could trust when everything else was chaos.
If there was anyone worth saving in this twisted, dangerous realm, it was him.
But could he save him?
Charles rubbed the back of his neck, frowning.
He wasn't a hero — not by a long shot. The Red Keep was a fortress. Even if he knew the secret tunnels they'd escaped through, breaking back in would be suicide.
"Unless I had a squad of elite commandos," he muttered dryly. "Yeah, not happening."
Still… the more he thought about it, the less impossible it seemed.
If the Gate could appear here — if this world was real — then maybe, just maybe, he could change what was meant to happen.
The thought ignited something reckless in his chest.
He pushed off from the table and strode toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Arya asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"To find a way to save your father," Charles said simply.
She blinked — then shot upright so fast her chair tipped over. "You have a plan?"
Her dull expression vanished, replaced by fiery determination. She threw on her boots, grabbed both her wooden practice sword and the thin blade she called Needle, and hurried after him.
"I'm coming with you!"
Charles groaned. "You'll only slow me down."
"Slow you down? I killed a stable boy once!" Arya snapped, glaring up at him.
Charles gave her a long, unimpressed look. "Then maybe you should ask your father about my record. Also, a little respect wouldn't hurt. Your dad and I were of the same generation. Technically, you should be calling me Uncle."
"Same generation?" Arya scoffed. "You look about Robb's age! I'm not stupid."
"Call me Uncle, or you're not coming," Charles said coolly, folding his arms.
"You—!"
He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Go on."
The girl glared daggers at him, her gray eyes blazing with defiance. But in the end, under his maddeningly patient stare, she cracked.
"...Uncle!" she spat out the word like it burned.
Charles chuckled. "Good girl."
She shoved past him, muttering curses under her breath, and stormed down the stairs.
Smiling faintly, Charles followed.
They stepped out of the inn together. The street was quiet, the sun dipping low behind the rooftops. Charles led the way confidently — until, after a few steps, he stopped dead.
Arya frowned. "What's wrong now?"
He scratched his neck, embarrassed. "Uh… you wouldn't happen to know how to get to the Dragon Gate, would you?"
"Of course I do."
"Good. Then you lead," he said with visible relief.
Time in this world was running short — and without her, he probably couldn't even tell north from south.
Arya nodded, none the wiser, and motioned for him to follow.
And so, under the fading orange sky, the odd pair set off together — a sharp-tongued tomboy and a displaced traveler from another world — toward the city walls and the beginning of a new, uncertain plan.
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