Chapter 9 — Escape Amid the Chaos
The servant was only a few steps from the alarm rope when Charles barked a mental command to Skeleton One.
The undead soldier raised its arm and hurled its longsword with all its strength.
The throw wasn't particularly accurate — or graceful — but it was enough to make the thin servant flinch in terror.
The sword spun end over end through the air, the sound slicing across the hall like a whistle of death.
Thwack!
The hilt, not the blade, struck the man squarely in the arm. It didn't pierce, but it hit hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
The servant winced, clutching his arm in pain — but before he could recover, his eyes went wide.
Charging straight toward him, bare bones gleaming under the torchlight, came a pallid, blood-slick skeleton.
Panic seized him. He forgot all about the alarm and bolted for his life.
Now there were five skeletons and five guards — a grim symmetry. Each undead had found its prey, harrying them relentlessly. Skeleton One, of course, was chasing the terrified servant.
From the surrounding iron-barred cells, prisoners pressed their faces to the metal, watching with a mix of terror and fascination. Their hoarse shouts echoed down the corridor, feeding the chaos.
The entire hall was bedlam — screams, clanging steel, the rasp of bone on stone.
Charles only prayed that the thick iron door leading to the upper levels was soundproof enough to muffle the noise.
Still, he wasn't about to rely on luck.
He lowered Ned to the ground and drew his sword. "I'll help them."
Ned caught his arm. "You've had sword training?"
"No!"
"Then don't rush in like a fool," Ned warned sharply. "They fear the skeletons — not us."
"They'll figure out soon enough that the skeletons can be killed," Charles said, trying to pull free.
Ned frowned, thinking fast. "Then carry me. My legs are useless, but my arms aren't. Be my legs — I'll be your blade."
Charles blinked. "That's… insane."
But then he hesitated. Insane, yes — but practical.
Four hands were better than two, weren't they?
"Fine," he said finally, crouching down. "Hold on tight."
With Ned gripping his shoulders, Charles charged into the fray.
The sight was absurd — a limping nobleman with a sword perched on the back of a blood-smeared youth — but it worked.
Prisoners gasped. Guards gawked. For a heartbeat, even the skeletons seemed confused.
"Eddard Stark?!" one of the wardens shouted, disbelief cracking his voice.
"Impossible!" another yelled. "He's escaping!"
Even with death snapping at their heels, the guards' shock was palpable. The name alone carried weight — enough to turn panic into full-blown hysteria.
But their disbelief cost them dearly.
Charles and Ned charged the nearest guard. The man was already fending off one of the bloodied skeletons when Ned's blade flashed in, deflecting his counterstrike.
Before he could recover, a second blade — Charles's — punched through his ribs.
The man staggered back with a strangled scream, dropping his weapon.
Ned froze, eyes widening — he hadn't expected Charles to strike so ruthlessly.
Charles pulled the sword free, his expression cold. "He was in the way."
To make sure the guard wouldn't get up again, he drove the blade down once more, ending it quickly.
The skeleton that had been fighting that same guard tilted its head, teeth bared in something like anger.
For a moment Charles thought it would attack — but it merely hissed soundlessly, as if recognizing him, then turned and bounded off toward another target.
Ned exhaled heavily, shaken. "We don't have to kill them," he muttered, voice low.
"Leave a snake alive," Charles replied evenly, "and it'll bite you later."
The Westerosi words came out formal but clear enough for Ned to understand the meaning. He didn't argue — not now. There was no time for moral lectures.
As Charles searched the fallen guard's belt, he found a ring of keys and tossed it toward Skeleton One.
Ned stiffened. "You're freeing the prisoners now? That's madness! If those skeletons finish the guards, they'll turn on the prisoners next — maybe even on us!"
"I'm not freeing them yet," Charles replied calmly. "Just finding the right key."
Skeleton One caught the ring midair and clattered away. Charles shifted Ned's weight and headed back into the fray.
In less than a minute, the battlefield had changed completely.
Two guards were already dead — one by Charles's hand, another by a skeleton's.
The servant lay crumpled in the corner, his throat torn open by Skeleton One.
Of the remaining three wardens, one had been ripped apart, leaving only a broken pile of bones, while the last two stood back-to-back, their blades flashing desperately against three berserk skeletons that clawed and bit like rabid beasts.
The torches flickered in the chaos, throwing wild shadows across the walls — blood, steel, and bone, all caught in a mad, frantic dance.
Charles gritted his teeth. "Let's finish this."
In the end, the battle ended exactly as Charles expected — brutally, efficiently, and without mercy.
The remaining guards didn't last long. Within moments, the hall fell silent, save for the dull drip of blood.
[You participated in the assault and killed an unfortunate prison warden. You've gained a minor proficiency in the use of torture instruments.]
[You participated in the assault and killed an unfortunate prison warden. You've absorbed a trace of life energy. Your wounds have completely healed.]
The eerie quiet that followed didn't bring peace — only tension.
The guards were gone, but the "blood skeletons," robbed of their prey, turned their hollow gazes toward Charles and Ned — the only two living beings left in the room.
Their green-lit sockets burned faintly, bodies trembling as if straining against an invisible leash.
They didn't attack — not yet — but the air itself felt ready to snap.
It was only when Charles pushed open the heavy iron door leading upward that the standoff broke.
The three remaining skeletons hissed one last time, baring their teeth in a grotesque grin, before darting out through the doorway and vanishing up the stairwell.
Compared to the chaos before, their numbers now seemed pitifully small.
Charles was about to summon a few more to "reinforce the distraction" when Ned stopped him sharply.
"That will expose you," Ned warned.
Charles gave a humorless laugh. "After everything that's happened down there, I think I'm already exposed."
"Maybe. But as long as no one saw you cast the spell, no one can prove it."
Charles glanced at the surrounding cells — rows of prisoners pressed against their bars, eyes wide with fear and awe. He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
"Fine. We'll let Skeleton One handle the prisoners," he said, setting Ned down gently. "You and I head up first."
Following the main wave of chaos would be suicide. Even if none of the other prisoners turned traitor to buy their freedom, sticking with a crowd would slow them down. And time was the one thing they didn't have.
The Red Keep was no ordinary prison. It was the beating heart of the royal fortress — reinforcements could flood in at any moment.
And those rogue skeletons, for all their ferocity, were still doomed to be destroyed once the guards rallied. Their purpose was to buy chaos, not victory.
Using that chaos, Charles and Ned slipped out.
Luck, it seemed, was on their side.
The night watch was thin, and as they reached the uppermost level — the spire hall — they found only two guards standing before the gate.
Or rather, running from it.
Three of the blood-soaked skeletons were already there, tearing through the entryway, chasing the men in circles. The guards' terrified shouts echoed off the stone walls, drawing hurried footsteps from the levels above.
"Now!" Charles hissed.
Before anyone could notice them, he hoisted Ned higher and sprinted through the chaos. They darted past the fleeing guards, out the great door of the stone tower, and disappeared into the chill, moonlit night.
For the first few minutes, they thought only of running — darting between shadows, following Ned's whispered directions.
The castle was enormous, its courtyards and bridges webbed together like veins. The towers loomed over them, the moonlight slicing across the spires of King's Landing's royal keep — the Red Keep itself.
Ned's knowledge of the castle was their only advantage.
Under his guidance, they moved swiftly — slipping through narrow corridors, avoiding patrol routes, ducking into alcoves whenever they heard armor clanking nearby.
Archers patrolled the walls above, their torches sweeping across the courtyards. One glint of light on armor could mean death.
But behind them, their earlier chaos was still raging.
From somewhere near the dungeon tower came the sound of clashing metal and the ringing of the alarm bell — a deep, resonant clang that carried across the keep.
It worked.
The guards were flooding toward the noise, not away from it.
By the time they reached the covered archway leading toward the Maidenvault — a smaller fortress adjoining the keep — both men were gasping for breath.
Ned leaned heavily against Charles's shoulder. "At first, I thought you were a fool," he said between breaths. "Trying to escape the dungeons alone… dragging a cripple along with you. I thought you were delusional."
He managed a faint, wry smile. "Now it seems the fool was me."
Charles grinned weakly. "Where I'm from, we have a saying — 'Everything is possible.' Guess it applies here too."
Then his expression darkened. "Speaking of which — that blond bastard who nearly killed me and stole my notebook… who was he?"
Ned blinked. "Blond? Describe him."
"I didn't get a good look. I was half-conscious at the time," Charles muttered. "But he was surrounded by men in full armor — the heavy kind — so he must've been someone important. One of his guards stood out, though. Big guy, ugly scar on his face, and he wore a hound-shaped helm. Looked like a brute."
Ned froze mid-step. His eyes widened.
Charles, sensing the shift, stopped and ducked behind a stone column, peeking cautiously toward the corridor ahead.
A tall figure was approaching — broad-shouldered, carrying a torch, the metal of his armor gleaming orange in the light.
"Just our luck," Charles whispered. "We're on a collision course."
He didn't sound too worried, though. After all, even with one cripple and one amateur swordsman, they'd fought through worse tonight.
But the tension radiating from Ned told a different story.
Charles felt the man's grip tighten on his shoulder, his entire body going rigid.
"That's…" Ned whispered, voice low and grim, "Sandor Clegane."
Charles's blood ran cold.
The Hound.