Chapter 30 – Light in the Dark Night
Eddard's party had remained on Dragonstone far longer than Charles expected. Perhaps it was because they were deep in discussion about how to reclaim King's Landing. Or perhaps it was because Arya's illness still hadn't improved.
Though, if Charles were being honest, he suspected a third possibility — that old Eddard might've been quietly detained.
Still, every so often he'd catch a glimpse of Sansa Stark's bright auburn hair in the courtyard, laughing and playing with a pale-skinned girl whose face was marked by faint gray scales. Judging by their expressions, the two houses didn't seem to be at odds.
If Arya's condition were truly worsening, there was no way Sansa would be smiling like that.
Unfortunately, Charles couldn't check for himself. His "freedom" on the island was… limited.
Not exactly imprisoned — but Dragonstone was enormous, a labyrinth of cold stone corridors and echoing halls. With no idea where anything was, and with servants speaking to him only when delivering meals, it felt like a comfortable sort of confinement.
At first, he suspected this was Melisandre's doing. But later, he overheard a pair of maids whispering that it was actually Lady Selyse, Stannis's wife — the "big-eared madwoman," as Charles privately called her — who had warned the servants not to approach "the sinister sorcerer with demonic tricks."
Charles had just snorted and muttered under his breath,
"No wonder your husband's about as passionate as a block of ice."
Still, he didn't mind. Peace and solitude had their uses. He took the time to rest, memorize more of the notebook's incantations, and plan how to actually begin practicing when the time was right.
The days passed in quiet rhythm, and with just over three left before he could return to his original world, Charles found himself oddly unhurried.
Nothing much happened… or rather, almost nothing.
Because one night, when he stepped out onto the balcony, he noticed something strange in the heavens.
The deep navy sky, once flawless and speckled with stars, now bore a single scar of crimson.
It was like a wound slashed across the firmament — a streak of blood tearing through the velvet dark. The tip of it burned a deep red, fading gradually into pink, as if the very color were bleeding away into the void.
A comet.
A red comet.
The servants were buzzing with speculation, whispering in the corridors and praying at their altars. But Charles recognized it immediately.
He just didn't know why it was here — or what it meant.
This was a world where magic and prophecy were as real as the air itself. Was this a celestial event, a natural movement of the heavens… or the omen of something darker, something summoned?
Its arrival was silent, too sudden. One evening the sky was clear, and the next morning the crimson tail hung high above Dragonstone like a bleeding flame.
Some said it was King Robert's spirit, weeping from the heavens over his false heirs. Others claimed it was a divine sign — proof that Stannis Baratheon's war to overthrow the "false king" was righteous.
"The sword of vengeance," the sailors whispered.
"The dragon's tail star, sweeping clean the sins of the world."
And wasn't it fitting, they said, that it should appear above Dragonstone, the ancestral home of the Targaryens — the Dragonlords themselves? Surely it was a sign that Stannis's new reign would be blessed by fate.
Charles, overhearing this while passing through the corridors, could only stare blankly and mutter,
"Sure. Or maybe it's just me accidentally breaking the weather again."
Some servants even whispered that the red comet was the work of his black magic.
That one earned only a long, tired sigh.
"Yeah," he thought dryly, staring up at the burning streak across the night sky.
"Everything weird in this world's apparently my fault now."
If he really had the power to summon comets, Charles thought dryly,
he wouldn't still be sitting here doing nothing.
"Pretty sure that wasn't in the show," he muttered, leaning on the windowsill and staring up at the starry sky, the red comet still glowing faintly above the dark horizon.
Then again, it made sense. His memory of the world's plot was fragmented at best, and details like cosmic phenomena had never been the focus.
But still… something felt off.
Since awakening his spiritual sense, his perception of the world had sharpened dramatically. To him, reality no longer felt like mere air and matter—it had texture, depth, weight. In the past, this world had seemed like a wall of stone—solid, coarse, and alien compared to the one beyond the Gate.
Now, though, that "wall" was changing.
Bit by bit, it was being polished—refined.
"This world is… shifting," he whispered.
As the thought settled, a sudden spark of realization flickered in his mind.
"Wait—this place doesn't have the Holy Church… or their damned Thorned Cross. If I tried the Purification spell here… would those restrictions still apply?"
It was a dangerous thought.
A tempting one.
The Church's magic had always been more curse than blessing—binding him, forcing ideology into his mind with every incantation. But here, in a world without their gods or faith…
Would it still twist his thoughts the same way?
He hadn't dared to test it before. Between the chaos in King's Landing, the escape, and the new spells from his notebook, the Purification ritual had long been buried at the back of his mind.
But now—three days from returning through the Gate—he found himself staring into the night, wondering.
Should he try?
Just the memory of the last attempt made his throat tighten. The noise, the whispers, the dreams that followed had been unbearable.
Still… he wasn't one to shy away from a little danger.
"It's not like it'll kill me," he muttered.
Without further thought, he unclasped the silver cross pendant hanging from his neck and aimed it at a gargoyle perched on the castle wall below.
He drew a breath and began to chant.
"In the name of the servant of the Divine—Charles Cranston—
I call upon the light that is ever-present—"
He paused.
Not because of the booming voices that had once overwhelmed him,
but because—this time—they didn't come.
The words flowed effortlessly. No echoing choir. No suffocating pressure.
Just… silence.
A thrilled grin crept across his face.
He started again, more firmly:
"In the name of the servant of the Divine—Charles Cranston—
I summon the omnipresent light.
Crush. Burn. Cleanse. Purify.
So long as evil endures, this prayer shall not end."
The air trembled.
Then came the sound—majestic and resonant, not the shriek of madness he'd heard before, but something holy.
His voice deepened, layered upon itself until it filled the room,
reverberating like the tolling of cathedral bells.
A surge of brilliance answered his call.
Threads of light pierced the night from all directions, weaving together above him like silver rivers. Weak yet unwavering, they gathered toward his hand—toward the small silver cross clenched between his fingers.
The glow stung his skin with faint heat, a tingling pain that quickly softened into warmth—gentle, cleansing warmth.
And then the cross transformed.
The light solidified into shape, expanding and spinning before him.
A radiant cross of pure white flared into being, trailing a streaking tail like a comet—his own tiny reflection of the one above.
It shot downward in a single burst, embedding itself against the gargoyle's stone forehead.
The creature was bathed in light.
The cross burned brighter, drawing in more and more of the same faint luminescence from the shadows around it. In moments, the entire gargoyle glowed like a demon bound within divine flame—its jagged features swallowed by purity.
The sight was breathtaking.
And eerie.
But the night was thick, the moon faint. Without sunlight to sustain it, the glow began to flicker, growing dimmer by the second.
"So that's how it is," Charles murmured. "If this were daytime… how much stronger would it be?"
He was just about to continue experimenting when—
BANG!
The door to his room burst open.
A streak of crimson swept through the threshold—Melisandre, her expression tight with alarm.
"What did you just do!?"
Her usually calm, melodic tone was sharp—almost panicked. Before he could answer, she crossed the room in three strides, pushing past him to lean out the window.
The last remnants of his spell shimmered before them—the glowing cross collapsing into a cloud of white motes, scattering into the night like a swarm of fireflies.
Melisandre stared, frozen.
Then slowly, she turned back toward him.
Her eyes, red as rubies, burned with disbelief—and something else, something feverish.
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
They simply stared at each other, the silence heavy with unspoken meaning.
The tension was so palpable, Charles finally cleared his throat and muttered:
"Uh… sorry, but could you not look at me like that? I'm not into older women."