Thaddues woke early in the morning, long before the sun fully rose above Sunspear. Pale orange light slipped through the curtains of his chamber in the Shadow City, while the distant sound of waves drifted in from the sea below the city's walls. For a few quiet moments, he simply stared at the ceiling, his mind already occupied with thoughts of land, territory, and the future of House Peverell.
A house could not remain rootless forever. Sooner or later, he needed a seat—not for ambition, but for stability. Only then could House Peverell move freely without being bound to the will of other lords, and Thaddues could finally turn his attention toward the life he truly desired: quiet leisure far from court politics, studying the deeper mysteries of magic and knowledge, and ultimately becoming a powerful wizard who could achieve flawless immortality.
After washing and changing into lighter noble clothing suitable for the Dornish culture, Thaddeus left his chambers and headed toward the inner courtyard garden where breakfast had already been prepared.
The courtyard was peaceful during the early hours of the morning. Orange trees lined the marble pathways while a small fountain rested at the center, its waters flowing gently beneath the rising sun. Flowering vines climbed along pale stone arches, and the warm breeze carried both the scent of flowers and the distant salt of the sea.
Esteban was already waiting beside the table.
The horseman immediately stood upon seeing him approach.
"My lord."
Thaddues nodded before taking his seat. Servants quietly placed breakfast before him—fresh bread, roasted lamb, fruits, soft cheese, boiled eggs, and a goblet of sweet Dornish wine.
Esteban personally poured the drink before speaking."The servant from Sunspear brought word this morning, my lord."
Thaddues calmly tore a piece of bread apart.
"Tell me."
Esteban straightened slightly. "Your lordship will be recognized at a standing comparable to the ruling houses of Dorne once your fief is established. As for the land you requested… Salt Shore remains under House Gargalen's control."
Thaddues remained silent, allowing him to continue. "They have not granted leave for it, but neither have they refused your request."
A neutral answer.
Not refusal, but not acceptance either.
Thaddues slowly drank from his goblet while processing the information. Truthfully, he had not expected Salt Shore to already possess an established seat. Perhaps he had forgotten the detail, or the book from his past life had never provided much information about it, leaving him to overlook it entirely.
Still, Salt Shore was the perfect location.
Remote enough to avoid unnecessary political interference. Close enough to important maritime routes. More importantly, it possessed the exact atmosphere he wanted.
He could already picture it clearly in his mind—a fortress standing upon cliffs overlooking the sea, cold winds drifting through stone halls while waves endlessly crashed below.
A place worthy of House Peverell.
"It is still the best place for me," Thaddues finally said, still somewhat disappointed that even with the Peacebringers' influence, House Gargalen had not given a clear answer.
Esteban listened quietly.
"I know House Gargalen has held those lands for centuries, yet Salt Shore remains ideal." Thaddues leaned slightly back in his chair before continuing, his tone measured. "How amenable do you believe they would be if properly compensated?"
"My Lord?"
"Gold Dragons," Thaddues said simply. "Most men become reasonable once enough coin is involved."
Esteban slowly nodded. "I will carry your offer to them, my lord."
He stepped back slightly as if preparing to leave, but Thaddues suddenly raised a hand.
"Wait, Esteban."
The horseman stopped immediately.
Thaddues reached toward the small pouch hanging from his waist. At first glance, it appeared ordinary, barely large enough to hold several coins. Yet as Esteban watched, Thaddues calmly pushed nearly half his arm inside it as though reaching into a space far larger than physically possible.
Esteban's eyes widened.
Even after spending time around his new lord, moments like this still felt unreal.
After several seconds, Thaddues finally withdrew his hand, pulling out a parchment and a quill. He placed both upon the table before lightly waving his fingers.
Instantly, the quill rose into the air.
Its tip touched the parchment and began writing by itself.
Esteban stared openly now.
The quill moved smoothly across the page, black ink spilling into shaped words without a guiding hand. There were no tricks, no hidden strings or clever devices—only magic. Real magic.
"This," Thaddues said calmly, "sets forth your terms of service as steward of House Peverell."
Esteban nodded slowly, though his attention remained fixed on the enchanted quill.
"You will serve as the first steward sworn to House Peverell in Westeros," Thaddues continued. "And such service must be properly recompensed."
The quill continued writing.
"Once you sign the contract, you will receive an annual salary of one hundred Gold Dragons."
Esteban nearly lost control of his expression.
One hundred Gold Dragons.
Even many landed knights did not earn such an amount yearly. Meanwhile, his own salary as a sworn shield under the late prince had barely reached ten to twelve Gold Dragons a year.
Yet Thaddues continued speaking as though the amount were insignificant.
"In addition, you will receive a thirteenth-month payment equivalent to one month's salary. You will also receive at least one day of rest every week."Thaddues paused briefly.
"I had originally considered two, but your duties will likely become more demanding once the fief is established."
The quill scratched continuously across the parchment.
"If circumstances prevent you from using your day off, compensation equal to twice your normal daily rate will accumulate and be distributed every three months."
Esteban struggled to follow several of the unfamiliar terms, but he understood enough to realize how absurdly generous the offer was.
"Additionally," Thaddues continued, "you will receive eight days of vacation leave and eight days of sick leave every year. Unused leave may also be converted into additional compensation. Food, accommodation, and necessities will naturally be provided by me. You may also bring your family into my service should you wish it."
Silence followed.
Only the scratching sound of the enchanted quill remained.
Esteban genuinely did not know how to react. This was no ordinary employment. It bordered on nobility itself.
Slowly, he lowered himself onto one knee.
"My lord…" His voice shook slightly. "I accept your offer. But one hundred Gold Dragons yearly is far too generous."
Thaddues expected that reaction. Even he understood the amount was excessive by Westerosi standards, but loyalty was expensive, and capable people were difficult to obtain.
"I offer such compensation because I expect much from you," Thaddues said calmly. "House Peverell must take root in Westeros sooner or later. For that, I require capable and loyal men beside me." His gaze sharpened slightly. "And I trust my generosity will ensure that loyalty does not falter."
Esteban immediately bowed his head lower.
"My lord, I would never betray you. I understand your intentions clearly." He placed one hand over his chest. "I will dedicate my life to ensuring House Peverell prospers in Westeros."
A faint smile appeared on Thaddues' face.
Satisfied.
Not because of the words themselves, but because he could sense sincerity behind them.
"I have already set down the terms of your service," Thaddues said. "The first year shall serve as a trial. This is merely the initial contract. If your service proves satisfactory, a new agreement will follow, with greater authority and reward."
He then looked toward him.
"Do you wish to add anything?"
"No, my lord."
"Then sign it."
The parchment and quill floated into the air before gently drifting toward Esteban. He hesitated only briefly before signing his name.
The moment the final stroke touched the parchment, a strange sensation spread through his body. Warmth flowed beneath his skin like invisible currents before settling deep within him.
Esteban stiffened slightly.
"Do not worry," Thaddues said calmly. "The contract contains an enchantment."
Esteban slowly looked upward.
"You are now the steward of House Peverell, under a year of judgement. From this day onward, your words and actions represent both myself and the house you serve."
The weight behind those words settled heavily upon Esteban's shoulders, yet strangely, he felt proud.
Then Thaddues reached once more into his pouch. This time, he withdrew folded clothing made of dark silver and black fabric embroidered with elegant patterns.
A steward's uniform. He placed it before Esteban.
"Wear these from today onward."
Esteban carefully accepted the garment with trembling hands. The fabric alone felt impossibly valuable.
"You need not concern yourself with its upkeep," Thaddues said. "Ancient runes are woven into the fabric. Dirt will not cling to it—it cleans itself. It will also resist certain mystical forces and withstand several lethal blows before the enchantments fail."
Silence settled over the courtyard.
Esteban stared at the uniform as though it were a sacred relic. Such a thing could incite wars among lesser houses, yet his lord had offered it as casually as common cloth.
He wanted to refuse, but could not. Even under judgment, he now stood in service to House Peverell.
Slowly, he bowed and accepted it with both hands.
"Thank you, my lord."
Thaddues merely nodded, his expression turning slightly more serious.
"Bring them here."
Esteban immediately understood who he referred to.
"Yes, my Lord"
He bowed once more before leaving the courtyard, while Thaddues resumed his breakfast beneath the warm Dornish sun.
Far away, beyond deserts and seas, the fate of the realm was already beginning to shift.
At Driftmark, cold winds swept across the island while waves crashed endlessly against the rocky shores below. Inside a chamber overlooking the sea, Lord Corlys Velaryon stood beside the window holding a golden goblet in one hand.
"It will not be long now," Corlys said quietly.
Beside him stood his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen Who Never Was rested one hand against the railing while staring toward the distant waters.
"He ruled the realm for many years," she replied softly. "Perhaps it is finally time for my grandfather to rest."
Corlys drank from his goblet before speaking again.
"Unfortunately, after all our efforts, he never once considered us his true heirs."
There was bitterness beneath his calm voice.
Years of wealth, influence, political alliances, and naval power had all been spent in pursuit of the Iron Throne. Yet in the end, King Jaehaerys had chosen Viserys.
Not Rhaenys.
Not Laenor.
Viserys.
"My cousin will become a decent king," Rhaenys said quietly, though even Corlys could hear the lack of conviction in her tone.
He understood his wife better than anyone.
Rhaenys rarely voiced resentment openly, but the wound left by the Great Council still remained deep within her heart. She had possessed the stronger claim, yet the realm chose a man over her.
Corlys himself had never forgiven that decision.
"I fear things will change once Viserys ascends the throne," Corlys admitted.
"It will," Rhaenys replied honestly. "I know Viserys. He remembers slights."
Her gaze slowly shifted toward the coastline below where rows of tents stretched near the shores. Refugees and commoners stood in organized lines while guards maintained order.
Among them walked Vaemond Velaryon himself.
Vaemond personally distributed sacks of grain among the people.
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Your brother truly has changed."
Corlys nearly rolled his eyes before drinking from his goblet again.
"It is fortunate he survived that voyage," he muttered.
Rhaenys glanced toward him. "So you believe his story?"
Vaemond Velaryon had long been known for his severity. Proud and ambitious, he had little patience for anyone—highborn or lowborn—who he deemed a stain on the honor of House Velaryon. Yet weeks earlier, he had returned from a voyage changed.
Of the three hundred men who sailed with him, barely more than seventy came back.
At first, it was said pirates had struck them at sea. Vaemond, however, told another story: they had encountered a monstrous creature in the Smoking Sea, and survived only because a mysterious great being had appeared to save them.
Corlys had thought his brother mad. Yet too many survivors told the same account.
The Smoking Sea was steeped in ancient legend.
Since his return, Vaemond had changed. He now fed the poor, sheltered refugees, and poured his wealth into the smallfolk of Driftmark.
It was absurd.
Yet it was true.
"He is still my brother," Corlys said at last. "So yes, I believe him."
Rhaenys fell into thought. Her family rode dragons; for Targaryens, the impossible was never entirely beyond belief.
"The world is vast," she murmured. "Perhaps there are beings beyond our understanding."
Yet concern lingered in her gaze.
"I only worry he will bankrupt himself doing this."
Corlys let out a quiet chuckle.
"If that happens, he still has a brother who is the wealthiest man in Westeros."
At that moment, a servant hurried into the chamber.
"My lord," he said with a quick bow. "A letter has arrived from King's Landing."
Corlys took the parchment.
He read it in silence.
His expression changed.
Rhaenys noticed at once.
"What is it?"
Slowly, Corlys lowered the letter.
His eyes met hers.
"The king is dead."
TBC
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