The passing of a year had changed Salt Shore more than the passing of decades ever had.
The coast itself remained the same—sun-scorched cliffs overlooking the Summer Sea, dry winds rolling across pale sands, and the endless cry of gulls circling overhead—but everything beneath the shadow of the tower had transformed.
What had once been barren land surrounding a strange fortress had become something alive.
Stone roads now wound around the base of the pale tower like roots around an ancient tree. Homes of sandstone and timber clustered near the outer walls, their rooftops glowing gold beneath the Dornish sun. Merchants shouted through crowded streets while wagons creaked beneath crates of fruit, cloth, pottery, and spice. The smell of cooked lamb and sea salt drifted through the air alongside the sharper scent of iron from newly built smithies.
A town had risen beside the castle. Not a sprawling city nor anything grand enough to rival Sunspear or Oldtown, but prosperous enough that travelers spoke of it with curiosity whenever they passed through southern Dorne.
Most simply called it Peverell Town. Among merchants and sailors, however, another name had begun to spread in quieter tones.
The White Market.
At its center stood the great marble structure known as Peverell Hall.
The building dominated the marketplace almost as much as the high tower of the Castle Peverell itself. Its pale walls reflected sunlight so brightly that newcomers often shielded their eyes upon seeing it for the first time. Tall arches framed wide entrances where guards in silver-and-black cloaks watched the endless flow of customers entering and leaving.
Inside were wonders unlike anything found elsewhere in Westeros.
Healing draughts that closed wounds faster than any maester's treatment.Tonics that soothed fever within hours. Perfumes whose fragrance lingered for days. Oils that eased old aches from broken bones and scarred joints. Arc Lamps that burned longer than ordinary lamps without black smoke staining their covers.
None of it should have existed yet no one questioned it too closely.
People simply accepted that House Peverell possessed strange knowledge and deeper wealth than any minor house reasonably should.
The origins of those products remained unquestioned because the objects themselves discouraged suspicion. Subtle magic lingered within every bottle, package, and crafted tool that emerged from the workshops of Peverell Hall—not enough to command minds, but enough to soften doubt before it could take root.
A carefully woven Confundus Charm lay hidden beneath layers of enchantment.
Thaddues considered it necessary.
Without it, questions would eventually follow, and questions in Westeros had a way of turning dangerous.
High above the bustling town, in the heart of the Peverell Castle, silence ruled within the upper floors of the High Tower.
"Again," Thaddues said calmly.
Across from him, Lily frowned so deeply it looked painful.
The little girl sat stiffly at a long wooden table buried beneath parchment, books, and scattered ink bottles. Her silver hair had grown longer over the past year, though she kept tying it back loosely whenever lessons began so it would not fall into her eyes.
In front of her rested an open text written entirely in Latin.
She hated Latin or rather, she hated learning Latin from him.
"Lux est veritas," she read slowly, stumbling only slightly over the pronunciation.
"Better."
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
"That did not sound like praise."
"It was not meant to."
"You could at least pretend to encourage me, my lord."
"You are improving."
"That still sounds insulting somehow."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he leaned back in his chair.
A year ago, Lily had barely known how to read properly. Now she could understand basic Latin phrases. Progress came slower than he wanted, but he refused to rush her.
Magic without understanding was dangerous. He knew that better than anyone. He wanted to make sure Lily was prepared before beginning her journey into magic. Learning the meaning behind the spells is definitely the best choice.
Thaddues look at the screen in his sight.
UPDATE IN PROGRESS: 99%
The message had haunted him for months.
At first he assumed the update would finish within days. Then weeks passed. Eventually months slipped by with nothing changing.
As there were no system or sign in rewards appeared. No guidance returned. No effortless mastery settled into his mind the way it once had.
Everything he accomplished during the past year had been earned through trial, study, and failure.
Real failure. The kind that left scorch marks across stone floors and blood running down his hands.
Without the system assisting him, advancement became painfully slow. He spent countless nights buried inside the tower library he created studying every magical book the system had previously given him that he had not yet touched. He experimented with all of it relentlessly.
Even the cursed artifacts.
Especially the cursed artifacts.
Some nearly killed him.
One mirror trapped him inside an illusion for nearly two days before he managed to destroy it from within. Another artifact whispered constantly in forgotten languages until he sealed it beneath three layers of protective enchantments and buried it deep beneath the lower chambers.
Still, despite everything, his progress disappointed him.
He learned spells. Many spells.
But only those simple enough to grasp through repetition and raw talent.
His mastery over other branches of magic allowed him to understand magical structures faster than ordinary wizards ever could, yet true advancement remained frustratingly distant. Entire branches of magic resisted him completely. Soul magic nearly crippled him during experimentation. Blood rituals proved unstable no matter how carefully he prepared them.
Potion-making humbled him more than anything else.
Creating proper magical potions without the system's knowledge proved maddeningly difficult. Measurements had to be exact. Ingredients reacted unpredictably. Brewing temperatures shifted outcomes entirely. A single mistake ruined hours of work.
Yet after months of failures, he finally succeeded.
Not masterpieces. Nothing close to the flawless potions once gifted by the system.
But functional and useful.
Enough to give him gold dragons in return.
His healing potions had become the crown jewel of Peverell Hall.
A single bottle sold for one Gold Dragon, an absurd price for most common folk, yet demand continued growing with every passing month. To ordinary people, the potion seemed miraculous. Cuts closed within minutes. Fevers vanished overnight. Infections faded before they could worsen.
Compared to true magical healing, the potion was mediocre.
Compared to the medicine of Westeros, it bordered on divine. But to keep them accessible to common folk, he also sold weaker versions at lower prices.
Fortunately, the update had finally reached 99%. A day or two the system will come back again. Thinking about the upcoming sign in rewards made him more excited.
Lily finally slammed the book shut with enough force to make the ink bottles tremble.
"I hate this language, my lord." The little kid said.
"You said that yesterday little Lily."
"And I meant it yesterday too, my lord."
Thaddues rose from his chair and walked toward the tall windows overlooking the sea.
"Enough for today."
Her face brightened instantly.
"Really?"
"Yes."
Before she could celebrate, he added, "Tomorrow we begin again a translation exercises."
Her excitement vanished at once.
"You are cruel, my lord." the little kid nearly slumped to the ground.
"That is also not new." Thaddues added and smirk at her. He had grown strangely fond of teasing her.
She muttered something under her breath in Dornish while he stared through the glass.
Far below Castle Peverell, the town bustled with life beneath the afternoon sun. Children darted through narrow streets while merchants argued loudly over prices near crowded market stalls. Guards bearing Peverell colors patrolled beside local Dornishmen who had settled along the growing trade routes.
New settlers arrived with nearly every passing month. Some came seeking opportunity, others protection, while a few were drawn simply by the High Tower itself and the strange reputation surrounding it.
Thaddues allowed the growth because the town served its purpose well enough, and because Esteban had managed most of it surprisingly well.
The former horseman had transformed over the past year into something resembling a true steward. He oversaw taxes, trade agreements, harbor negotiations, food supplies, construction projects, and wages with relentless discipline. He treated the prosperity of House Peverell like a personal responsibility.
Even knowing Thaddues possessed wealth beyond reason, Esteban remained determined to build a future where House Peverell could stand on its own for generations.
That was where Isolde became invaluable. The woman understood commerce better than anyone Thaddues had met in this world. Together, she and Esteban turned the market into a thriving economic center within less than a year. Trade caravans now arrived regularly from across Dorne, and even merchants from the Reach had quietly begun purchasing goods through intermediaries.
Ironically, many of those same merchants mocked Dornish superstition while unknowingly buying magical products.
Thaddues found that amusing.
A knock interrupted the quiet room.
"Enter."
The doors opened, revealing Esteban first, followed closely by Isolde.
The steward looked younger than he had a year ago. Fine dark robes had replaced the rough armor he once wore daily, though the sword at his hip remained. Some habits survived any amount of change.
"The northern caravans arrived this morning," Isolde said immediately. "They bought nearly half the healing stock before sunset."
Esteban snorted.
"At this rate we'll need another batch my lord,"
"Arc Lamps are on demand as well my Lord. "Isolde continued.
Lily pushed away from the table at once.
"Can I leave now?"
"No," Thaddues answered without looking at her.
She groaned dramatically.
Isolde laughed softly.
"You work her harder than the maesters work noble children."
"She complains less than noble children."
"That is because noble children are usually smart enough not to study dead languages willingly."
Lily pointed triumphantly toward Isolde.
"See?"
Thaddues ignored her completely.
"Do not worry about the stock. I have already calculated it, and the rest is waiting on the fourth floor of the tower," he said.
Isolde sighed in relief. She remembered the fourth floor well—it served as the storage area for goods awaiting sale. Inside stood a portkey that allowed goods to be transferred directly to Peverell Hall with a single touch.
Esteban approached the window beside him, though his expression had grown more serious.
"The Martells sent a raven my lord,"
That drew Thaddues' attention immediately.
"And?"
"They're preparing for war."
The room fell silent.
Even Lily stopped complaining.
Esteban lowered his gaze briefly before continuing.
"Tyrell banners are gathering near the Prince's Pass. Reports say the Reach plans a full invasion."
"How many?" Thaddues asked.
"Seventy thousand at minimum," Estaban answered.
Lily stared in disbelief.
"That's enough to conquer kingdoms." Thaddues said.
"For most kingdoms," Isolde murmured.
"But not Dorne," Thaddues replied to his own words quietly.
He already knew how this would unfold.
History rarely changed easily. The Reach never truly understood Dorne. Armies meant little there once the deserts and mountains swallowed them whole. Supply lines failed beneath the heat. Wells turned poisonous. Men disappeared inside narrow passes without warning.
The Dornish did not fight wars conventionally.
They survived them.
Esteban studied him carefully.
"The Martells asked whether House Peverell intends to interfere."
Thaddues remained silent for several moments while waves crashed faintly against the cliffs below.
Finally, he answered.
"No."
Esteban blinked.
"You're staying neutral my lord?"
"We must."
"The Tyrells have the backing of the Iron Throne," Thaddues added quietly.
"And if we openly oppose them now," Thaddues continued, "we invite attention before we are ready."
Esteban frowned slightly but nodded in understanding.
House Peverell already attracted enough curiosity after establishing a White Market that has miraculous potion. Openly defying the Reach and the crown would force the realm to investigate them far more closely.
That could not happen yet.
Still, he had no intention of abandoning Dorne entirely.
"I already told the Martells I would intervene only if the situation became dire."
"And until then?" Esteban asked.
Thaddues turned from the window.
"Sell them healing potions."
Isolde raised a brow.
"At standard price?"
"No."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Cheaper."
Esteban barked a rough laugh.
"The Reach will curse us eventually."
"They won't know."
But they would feel the consequences soon enough.
Even modest healing potions could shift the balance of war. Wounded soldiers would return to battle faster. Infections would claim fewer lives. Men who should have died might survive long enough to keep fighting.
And so the war began.
The Reach marched into Dorne beneath banners of gold and green, seventy thousand men crossing the passes in glittering columns of steel and silk. Knights rode in polished armor beside ranks of archers and spearmen, while siege engineers and supply trains stretched for miles across the dusty roads. It was an army vast enough to humble lesser kingdoms through sheer size alone.
Dorne answered with silence.
No glorious battle awaited the invaders. No honorable confrontation beneath open skies where banners could wave proudly in the wind. Instead, the Reach found abandoned villages, poisoned wells, and roads watched by unseen eyes hidden among the rocks and dunes.
Arrows fell without warning from barren ridges. Men vanished during night marches. Scouts disappeared into the desert and never returned. Supply wagons burned beneath the cover of darkness while isolated patrols were discovered days later beneath the scorching sun, their bodies left for carrion birds with no survivors remaining to explain what had happened.
The Dornish struck like ghosts, bleeding the invaders a little more with every passing week before melting back into the sands and mountains beyond pursuit.
Meanwhile, quiet caravans continued arriving at Sunspear carrying healing potions and supplies discreetly funded by House Peverell. The aid came without banners or public declarations, yet its presence spread steadily across the principality as the war dragged through the long heat of 104 AC.
By the third month, frustration had begun spreading through the Reach camps like sickness. Pride turned to anger, and anger slowly curdled into desperation as commanders realized they were fighting an enemy unwilling to meet them on any battlefield they could control.
Everything changed during what should have been an ordinary supper.
"Where's that brat again?" Thaddues asked Esteban as he sliced his steak.
"Lily is at Peverell Hall with Isolde," Esteban said then continued. "She's trying to teach the girl the workings of trade and merchants."
He let out a soft scoff. "No matter how much she teaches her, Lily was always destined to hold a wand, not an account book."
Esteban pretended not to notice the casual irreverence in his lord's tone. He had witnessed this side of Thaddues countless times over the years. In the beginning, he had often tried to remind him of the dignity and prestige expected of his station, but eventually he had long since given up on the effort.
It also meant that his lord was comfortable around him.
Thaddues stopped mid-bite as he felt it. A sense that one of his anchor artifacts had been destroyed.
His eyes widened. Only one person has that item and it was Princess Deria.
The artifact he had left with her was destroyed. Realization struck him instantly.
He rose so quickly that the chair behind him toppled backward onto the floor.
"My Lord?"
"I'll be away, Esteban. Sunspear needs my presence," he said.
Esteban's expression turned solemn as he heard those words. He remembered what he had once told him—that Thaddues would only intervene in this war if Dorne truly reached a breaking point.
For him to step in now, House Martell must be in a dire situation.
Who had forced the peace-bringer to use her final measure?
"No need to worry, my lord. Stay safe," Esteban said.
Thaddues smiled faintly. "I will. And tell Lily to be prepared—when I return, she'll be having a quiz."
Without hesitation, a fine blue wizard cloak changed his original attire.
Then he vanished on the spot, reappearing upon the palace wall of Sunspear.
Heat slammed into him first.
Then screams. Thaddues stepped out into chaos.
In his view, the Shadow City was burning.
Flames consumed entire streets in roaring waves of orange and black. Buildings collapsed beneath torrents of fire while terrified crowds fled through smoke-filled alleys. The night sky glowed crimson above Sunspear itself.
An ominous feeling crept into his chest as he saw dragonfire.
The smell alone made it unmistakable.
Bodies littered the streets. Some were burned beyond recognition while others lay crushed beneath shattered stone and collapsing roofs. Children cried somewhere through the smoke while soldiers shouted desperately for survivors.
Thaddues stared in stunned silence before finally looking upward.
A dragon descended low across the burning city.
Massive and terrible, its red-black scales reflected the fire raging below as enormous wings cut through smoke-choked skies. Another torrent of dragonfire swept across the streets, swallowing stone, timber, and screaming men alike.
Caraxes.
And atop the Blood Wyrm sat Daemon Targaryen clad in dark armor, silver hair whipping violently behind him as dragon and rider soared through flame and ash.
For a single moment, Thaddues simply watched.
The prince no longer looked entirely human. He seemed like something born from conquest and fire itself—merciless, untouchable, ancient.
Another street vanished beneath dragonflame.
Thaddues' expression darkened.
The air around him trembled as magic surged violently beneath his skin.
Then, high above the dying city, Daemon Targaryen turned ever so slightly.
As though he had felt someone watching him.
TBC
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