Chapter 44 – The Inheritance "Rite"
For more than ten straight days, Charles barely stepped outside his door.
He spent every waking hour practicing Blood for Blood—the spell that demanded both focus and nerve.
Other than eating, drinking, and the bare minimum of human necessities, he didn't leave the house once.
A true shut-in.
"Not even during the internet age was I this reclusive," he muttered to himself one morning, rubbing his eyes. "Guess I had to cross into another world just to become a professional hermit."
It was half a joke, but there was truth in it.
He had no plans to change.
Perhaps it was because he desperately wanted to master the spell as soon as possible.
Or perhaps, deep down, it was because this unfamiliar world—its politics, its faith, its blood-soaked lands—gave him no real sense of safety.
Logically, a young spellcaster like him should be out mingling, learning from others of the craft. But experience had taught him otherwise.
Two encounters with fellow mages were enough to understand that, until one's strength was proven, it was wiser to stay invisible. Strong men did not befriend the weak; they used them.
Of course, wealth could buy exceptions—but Charles had none to spend.
The world of A Song of Ice and Fire, he'd come to realize, was still a realm ruled by mortal ambition, not true sorcery.
Dragons and prophecies aside, most "magic" here was politics in disguise.
Gold and names mattered more than spells.
Dragonglass was valuable, yes—but rare, and for now, utterly out of reach. He'd already asked the Red Woman to send a letter to Dragonstone for him. Her influence there was considerable, backed by a few hidden allies.
He figured, if she's going to tag along with me, I might as well get something out of it.
Unfortunately, the Seven Kingdoms weren't exactly known for swift correspondence. Unless Stannis himself sent envoys north to meet with Eddard Stark, there was little chance he'd see any results soon.
---
And so, Charles buried himself in work.
Day and night blurred together. He ate little, slept less, and lost himself in the endless cycles of repetition—writing, reciting, redrawing runes until the motions became automatic.
Crumpled sheets of failed inscriptions piled around his feet like snowdrifts. When the floor grew too cluttered, he tossed them into the fireplace and watched them burn to ash.
He was consumed. The prompts from the Eye of Insight now danced before his eyes even in his dreams.
Sometimes he woke up in confusion—unable to tell whether he had dreamt of practicing, or practiced while dreaming.
It was madness, yes—but productive madness.
And then, just when he thought he was nearing mastery, a message arrived that snapped him back to reality.
Sir Seth, Chairman of the Noble Welfare and Administration Association, had returned to Pita City.
---
"The title of Baron entitles you to an annual royal subsidy of fifty gold crowns," said the portly man sitting across from him, voice smooth and measured.
He wore an immaculate waistcoat stretched tight over his belly, his gloved fingers delicately holding a porcelain coffee cup.
"That tradition has stood for nearly a century," the man continued, speaking in the polished royal accent of Dulin. "However, your timing is rather unfortunate. The latest council session has just approved a revision."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "A revision?"
"Indeed." The man smiled pleasantly, as if discussing the weather. "Prince Braun proposed that the annual stipend be divided into monthly payments. Apparently, too many of our newly ennobled gentlemen have proven… financially irresponsible."
He took a slow sip of coffee before adding smoothly,
"Of course, I have no doubt you are not one of those men, Sir Cranston. But rules are rules, and the Crown's decisions are not ours to refuse."
Charles listened in silence for a few seconds, then asked the only thing that really mattered to him.
"So… where's the ceremony?"
They were sitting in what looked more like a government reception hall than any place of noble heritage. No banners, no heralds, no guests in finery—just a desk, a chandelier, and this well-fed bureaucrat with the patience of a snail.
It felt less like an "inheritance ritual" and more like renewing a driver's license.
Wasn't there supposed to be a ritual? Trumpets? Witnesses? A priest waving incense or something?
If this was what passed for nobility in the modern kingdom of Dulin, he couldn't help but feel just a little cheated.
Charles wasn't actually interested in the so-called ceremony. He was just… confused.
"Ceremony?" repeated Chairman Seth with a grin that made his cheeks fold into neat little ridges. "Ah, if you've got plenty of friends here in Pita City, you're welcome to host a banquet tonight to celebrate. Of course—" he raised a pudgy finger, "—it'll be entirely at your own expense. The Association doesn't do reimbursements."
He chuckled, clearly amused by his own joke.
"Alternatively," he continued smoothly, "you could send out invitations to the other noble families in the city—if, that is, you're interested in making connections."
Charles blinked. "So… that's it? I'm done?"
He glanced down at the stack of documents he'd just signed—his inheritance contract, the seal still drying in red wax—and the small medallion resting on top of it, the emblem of his newly acquired barony.
It all felt oddly anticlimactic.
"Different times, different customs," sighed the portly chairman, swirling his coffee with a silver spoon. "No land, no tax income—our nobles today are far poorer than our ancestors. And as for holding a grand inheritance ceremony… well, you'd have to invite half the city's upper circle."
He leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Let me be blunt, Sir Cranston. These people have expensive tastes and egos to match. If your banquet isn't grand enough, they'll gossip for weeks about how small-time the new baron is. It's a waste of gold and goodwill. Why bother? We're not idiots."
He smiled. "So, generally speaking…"
"'Act within one's means'?" Charles finished for him.
"Exactly."
The chairman raised his cup and took a satisfied sip.
Then, as if the matter were settled, he continued in that same smooth bureaucratic tone:
"As for your assets in Canyon Town, I'll have a detailed report delivered to your residence in the next few days. I must apologize—I wasn't expecting your visit quite so soon."
He dabbed his lips with a handkerchief and added, "Now, aside from your monthly royal subsidy, His Majesty's government has instructed all city administrations to grant nobles priority consideration for municipal positions. In other words, if you'd like, we can help you secure a post in local governance. Please don't take this personally—I say the same thing to every nobleman who comes through that door. It's policy."
He smiled meaningfully. "The salary's decent, too, if you're interested."
"Not for now, thank you," Charles replied flatly.
Work? He almost laughed.
He hadn't crossed worlds and studied forbidden magic just to clock in and out like some office clerk.
That would be… humiliating.
And besides, he wasn't broke.
Well—not yet.
Seeing there was nothing else to discuss, Charles rose from his seat, pocketed the certificate, and prepared to leave.
But before he reached the door, Seth called out again.
A plump, ring-laden hand extended toward him, accompanied by an oily smile.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Sir Cranston. Allow me to reintroduce myself—Peter Seth, Baron of Watchtower Town."
Charles shook his hand, forcing a polite smile.
---
Later, in the carriage back home…
"Privilege breeds arrogance," he mused quietly, turning the five gleaming gold coins over in his hand.
That was his first monthly stipend—his "noble welfare."
For a commoner, that amount would've supported an entire family for months. But for him, it was just a casual allowance—no effort, no labor.
"Some people break their backs just to survive," he murmured, "while others lie in bed and collect gold for breathing."
He sighed and pocketed the coins. There was no point pretending to be righteous about it.
He was on the winning side of that equation now.
Best not to complain.
Still… the irony wasn't lost on him.
For all the talk of nobility and titles, the only thing that truly mattered in this world—or any world—was power.
Not gold. Not status.
Power.
And that was something he could earn with his own two hands.
---
As the carriage rolled onto Privet Street, the familiar houses came into view.
He stepped down, stretched his arms, and was just about to unlock his front door—
—when a knock came from behind.
A messenger, breathless and pale, handed him a sealed envelope marked with the crimson sigil of the Church.
"Sir Cranston," the man said, bowing low. "Your mission from the Church has arrived."
Charles stared at the seal for a moment, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and dread.
So soon?
He exhaled slowly, tucked the envelope into his coat, and stepped back into the night.
The next chapter of his story had already begun.