Chapter 40 – Practice and the Night Raid
"I've already arranged for you to leave with Sansa and the others the day after tomorrow," said Eddard Stark, not looking up from his desk. "The frontlines are too dangerous. You shouldn't be here."
Inside the dim command tent, the candlelight flickered across maps, scrolls, and a dozen letters spread before the Lord of Winterfell. Dressed now in a rough brown leather cuirass instead of his noble furs, his face looked older—gray stubble creeping across his jaw, eyes hollow from sleepless nights.
Charles blinked, caught off guard. "Wait—are you seriously sending me away like I'm some sick old man?"
He hadn't even been inside two minutes before hearing that.
Sure, he wasn't exactly a battle-hardened warrior—but "frail civilian" felt like an insult.
"War is no child's game," Eddard said, glancing up briefly before returning to his letter. "From what I've heard, your sorcery isn't suited for the battlefield."
"It's suited well enough to keep me alive," Charles countered.
Eddard's quill froze mid-word. "Can it protect you when ten thousand men charge at once?"
"…"
Okay, he had a point.
The silence lingered until Eddard sighed and softened his tone. "I don't know what you truly seek, nor what path you intend to take. But you saved my life in King's Landing—without asking for reward. I cannot, in good conscience, let that debt go unpaid. The least I can do is ensure your safety."
He finally set down the quill and looked Charles in the eye. "Go north with Arya and Sansa. Return to Winterfell. It's far safer there. Here…" His gaze drifted toward the tent flap, beyond which the sounds of the camp—shouts, hooves, and clattering armor—filled the night air. "Here, I can't even promise to protect my own life."
Charles said nothing. Because, truthfully, Eddard wasn't wrong.
Among thousands of hardened soldiers, his magic—strange, misunderstood, untested—wouldn't change the tide of battle. He might survive a duel, but not a war.
And yet… safety was never his goal.
If he'd wanted safety, he could have stayed in the "world before the door"—a world of order and reason, dull but stable. There, he could have drifted through life unnoticed, clinging to mediocrity until the end.
But instead, he was here—in a land ruled by swords and fire.
Because he couldn't stomach helplessness.
Because the only way to survive between two worlds was to grow strong enough to walk them both.
"Then I'll compromise," Charles said at last, tone casual but firm. "I won't serve as infantry. But I could be an archer. That's less dangerous, right?"
Eddard frowned. "Less dangerous doesn't mean safe."
"True," Charles agreed, smirking faintly. "But if you don't approve, I might just… go on my own anyway."
That earned him a long, heavy stare.
For a moment, neither spoke—the only sound was the scratching of quill against parchment and the faint whistle of wind outside the tent.
Eddard's expression didn't change, but Charles could tell he understood.
He wasn't a man who begged to live quietly in the shadows.
He'd already chosen the path that walked beside death.
"I know you mean well," Charles continued, his voice calm but resolute, "but sometimes, good intentions only make things worse."
He met Eddard's gaze squarely, eyes steady, expression earnest.
"You said you didn't know what I wanted," he said. "Then let me make it clear—I want to stay here. If you truly wish to repay that debt you mentioned, then don't send me away. Just make sure I can stay alive here."
A faint smile curved his lips. "And if I die… well, don't feel guilty about it. It'll be my own damn fault, won't it?"
The tent fell silent.
Eddard studied him for several long moments, his brows knit tight. Finally, he sighed and gave a slow nod.
"Very well," he said at last. "You may remain here—and I'll place you with the archers. But on one condition."
Charles raised a brow. "Which is?"
"You'll undergo proper training. You'll drill and learn as they do. I won't have you slowing anyone down."
Charles grinned. "No problem."
———
That was the end of their talk.
As the commander of an entire northern host, Eddard had no time for drawn-out discussions. His duties consumed every waking hour—planning, writing, commanding—often well past midnight.
So Charles, wise enough not to overstay, took his leave.
He'd assumed it would take several days before anything came of their conversation. To his surprise, the very next afternoon a servant appeared at his tent.
"Your training begins immediately, my lord," the young man said politely. "Lord Stark insisted you not train with the common soldiers—it would be… improper treatment for a guest of your stature."
Charles nearly laughed. Yeah, that sounds like something one of the nobles decided on their own, he thought. Eddard's too practical for that kind of nonsense.
Still, he didn't mind.
Group training might teach coordination, but one-on-one instruction? That meant faster progress.
And so began the strange sight of a sorcerer learning archery.
———
"Draw the string smoothly. Use your index, middle, and ring fingers to hook it. Keep the arrow on the left side of the bow. Now—steady…"
"The most important thing on the battlefield is to follow orders. But as an archer, your first priority is survival. Always watch your surroundings…"
"Eyes, bow, and target—one straight line. Draw slowly. When you loose, don't jerk the string. Let it go naturally. Too much force ruins your aim."
The instructor—a wiry, sharp-featured soldier named Rorl—spoke with the patience of a man who'd trained a hundred recruits.
Charles listened carefully, mimicking each motion.
And as he practiced, faint messages shimmered at the edge of his vision:
[You listen attentively to Soldier Rorl's lecture on projectile mechanics. Your Archery Skill has improved slightly.]
[You study Rorl's demonstration of aiming techniques. Your Archery Skill has improved slightly.]
[You attempt your first live shot. Your Archery Proficiency increases.]
And so it went—learning, drilling, shooting—until an entire week slipped by unnoticed.
———
In the "world before the door," nothing of importance happened. Charles ate, slept, and occasionally stopped by the Nobility Welfare and Administration Councilin Pita City to ask about the elusive President Seth. Every time, he got the same answer: no word of his return.
So he focused all his time here—training his aim, refining his spells.
He'd nearly mastered two of them now.
The barracks provided endless practice materials—rats, crows, and the occasional dead livestock—enough for his [Bone Resurrection] to reach 99% proficiency.
But then… nothing.
No matter how much he practiced, progress stopped cold.
"Maybe there's a step I'm missing," he muttered, flipping through his black notebook for the hundredth time.
No luck.
It confirmed his suspicion: the book only recorded basic spells. The last few sealed pages—those containing the "disguise" incantations—were clearly on a different level altogether.
As for any mention of the notebook's origin or the mysterious possession incident that once connected it to him, there was nothing.
Either the information was sealed—or it had never been there at all.
Cautious as ever, Charles decided not to pry deeper.
For now, he devoted himself to practice—archery by day, spellcraft by night.
His progress was startling. The [Eye of True Sight] ability corrected every tiny flaw in his movements, letting him improve faster than any normal student could.
Rorl, his instructor, often stared at him in open disbelief, muttering that no one in his twenty years of service had learned so fast.
Yet, no matter how much he advanced, there was still no talk of actual combat.
Charles began to suspect Eddard meant to keep him training safely until the war was long over.
A week after their talk, frustration got the better of him. He went to find Eddard again—only to discover the lord was out inspecting defenses.
Grumbling under his breath, he trudged back toward his tent.
And then he heard it—
a deep, thunderous rumble beneath the quiet night.
Hoofbeats.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Charles froze, head snapping toward the sound. His eyes widened as the ground itself began to tremble.
Out of the darkness, under the cold gleam of the moon, surged a sea of cavalry—armored riders thundering straight toward the camp.
No warning horns. No signal fires.
They hit the outer perimeter without slowing down.
And at their head, lit by the flicker of torches and the silvery light of night, a crimson banner whipped in the wind—embroidered with a golden lion rearing on its hind legs.
The sigil of House Lannister.
Charles's blood ran cold.
The night had just been shattered—by fire, steel, and the roar of a Lannister raid.