Five days had passed since their departure from Sunspear, and the six-carriage procession continued its slow journey toward Salt Shore.
The road had grown harsher with every passing league.
The heat of Dorne was relentless during the day, while the nights carried dry winds sharp enough to seep through cloth and leather alike. Rocky terrain forced the horses to move carefully, especially along the narrow paths that wound through barren hills and stretches of cracked earth.
Inside the lead carriage, Thaddues estimated their progress in silence.
At their current pace, it would take at least five more days before they finally reached Salt Shore. Not ideal, but acceptable.
It had been five days since House Gargalen formally granted House Peverell leave to settle within the lands of Salt Shore. The matter, unexpectedly, had concluded without further demands or the usual tangle of negotiation and delay.
Thaddues was fairly certain he knew why.
His lips curved faintly at the thought.
It seemed the Peace Bringer had honored her word after all.
Before leaving Sunspear, he made one final visit to House Martell. As a token of gratitude for their hospitality and assistance, he offered a few healing potions.
The potions were simple by his standards, though in this world they would be considered nothing short of miraculous. One dose could still save a life, especially if another mishap occurred like the one they had faced on the road to Sunspear.
Thaddues deliberately avoided meeting Princess Deria before his departure.
It was not out of dislike—quite the opposite.
Rather, she had a way of steering conversations into corners he would eventually agree to, even when he had no intention of doing so. For the sake of leaving without complication, he decided it was better to slip away quietly.
The caravan itself had been organized almost entirely by Esteban. Five carriages carried supplies—primarily food, tools, clothing, and other necessities needed for the future settlement. The remaining twi served as transport for the people traveling with them.
To ensure safety along the road, Esteban had also hired twelve sellswords familiar with the harsher routes of Dorne. Most looked weathered and rough around the edges, though experienced enough to know their work.
Thaddues did not particularly trust them but he trusted Esteban's judgment.
Inside the first carriage, the atmosphere was far more relaxed than outside.
Thaddues sat across from Isolde, the wizard chess resting between them like a battlefield frozen in miniature.
The pieces did not simply move—they fought for it.
Knights shoved forward with brutish determination, horses rearing and kicking as though they resented being commanded. Rooks advanced like stubborn siege engines given life, refusing to yield ground easily, while bishops glided with cold, precise intent, striking where defenses were weakest. Every capture came with violence—metal clashing, carved faces twisting in fury or alarm before a piece was forced off the board in a dramatic collapse.
Lily watched in silent fascination.
Even after seeing the wizard chess multiple times during their journey, it still felt alive in a way that ordinary magic never quite matched.
Especially when a piece was taken—when it screamed, struggled, and then shattered into motionless ruin.
Isolde exhaled softly as the position finally broke against her defenses. Her remaining pieces hesitated, as though sensing the end before she did.
"I believe I've lost, my lord," she said at last.
A moment later, her final rook was driven back and struck down, stumbling once before falling still on the board.
The battlefield quieted.
The surviving pieces returned to their idle stance, as though nothing had happened at all.
"It is understandable," Thaddues replied calmly while leaning back against his seat. "Once you understand the rhythm of the game, victory becomes little more than flipping a coin."
Despite the modest tone, there was unmistakable pride hidden beneath his words.
Isolde noticed it immediately.
So did Lily, who giggled quietly.
Thaddues cleared his throat with dignity.
"I believe I have had enough chess for today," he declared. "Let us try another game instead."
He reached toward the pouch resting at his side, likely intending to pull out yet another enchanted artifact to play with. However, before he could do so, Esteban's voice came from outside the carriage.
"My lord, night is upon us. Shall we break here and make camp?"
Thaddues glanced toward the window in surprise.
The sunlight outside had already dimmed into deep orange.
"Oh?" he muttered. "It is later than I thought."
He pushed the curtain aside slightly before nodding.
"Yes. We stop here tonight. We continue at first light tomorrow."
"As you command, my lord."
Soon the caravan gradually slowed to a halt.
Thaddues stepped down from the carriage, boots pressing against dry stone and loose sand. Above them, the evening sky stretched endlessly across Dorne, painted in fading shades of crimson and gold.
The air had finally begun to cool, and his maroon robe fluttered lightly in the breeze.
"Where are we now?" he asked while adjusting his robe.
Esteban stood nearby, studying the surrounding landscape carefully.
"The Broken Arm, my lord."
Thaddues paused slightly at the name.
"It is not safe to remain exposed here after dark," Esteban continued. "There are caves nearby where travelers sometimes shelter for the night. We should find one before full darkness falls."
Thaddeus nodded in agreement.
Though the television series had barely touched upon the place, he vaguely remembered reading of the Broken Arm in the books. In the Dawn Age, it had once connected Westeros to Essos before being shattered beneath the sea.
Even now the land carried an eerie atmosphere.
Jagged stone formations stretched across the horizon like the broken bones of some ancient beast. Sparse vegetation clung stubbornly to the harsh terrain while distant waves crashed endlessly against hidden cliffs beyond sight.
And worse still, the region had earned a dangerous reputation.
Smugglers, pirates, outlaws, and desperate men often hid within the Broken Arm's isolated passages. Travelers foolish enough to camp openly rarely enjoyed peaceful nights.
Fortunately, Esteban knew the region well. He had spent years traveling across Dorne as a horseman and caravan escort. He understood which routes were safe—and which ones led only to graves.
Under his direction, the group soon located a large cave hidden between towering rock formations. It proved spacious enough to shelter not only the travelers, but the carriages and horses as well.
Darkness greeted them inside.
Without hesitation, Thaddues reached into his coat and withdrew several arc lamps.
The sellswords watched curiously as he flicked his wand.
One by one, the lamps floated upward into the air.
Soft golden light spread throughout the cave as the enchanted lamps drifted across the ceiling like miniature suns, illuminating every corner of the cavern.
A few sellswords openly stared.
Others exchanged uneasy looks.
Even after days of witnessing strange things from their employer, magic remained deeply unsettling to ordinary men.
Only Esteban barely reacted anymore.
During the past five days alone, he had watched Thaddues perform enough impossible acts to dull his sense of shock. Compared to dragons made from goblets and self-writing contracts, floating lamps were little more than simple tricks.
"Move the horses deeper inside," Esteban ordered firmly. "Keep the supply wagons near the rear. Two guards outside the entrance at all times."
The sellswords immediately obeyed.
Meanwhile, Isolde began organizing the evening meal with practiced efficiency. She was new to her role, yet as a merchant's daughter she had grown up around the quiet discipline of keeping a household in order.
Several portable tables were unpacked while cooking supplies were arranged near the cave wall. Before long, the scent of stew and roasted meat slowly filled the air.
Thaddues, meanwhile, focused on setting up the tents.
With a casual wave of his wand, ordinary bundles of cloth transformed themselves into sturdy traveling tents large enough to comfortably fit multiple people inside. He then layered extension charms over them, making the interiors significantly larger than their outward appearance suggested.
It was a life back he had learned during his travel to Sunspear, though he had only begun to use it on the journey to Salt Shore.
Behind him, Lily clapped excitedly as another tent finished assembling itself.
Her purple eyes sparkled with admiration.
Thaddues glanced down at her and found himself smiling faintly.
Soon enough, little girl, you will learn such things yourself.
By the time everything had been prepared, night had fully settled over the Broken Arm.
Around seven in the evening, dinner was finally served.
Though Esteban insisted upon maintaining proper noble etiquette by preparing a separate table for his lord, Thaddues still allowed everyone to eat well that night—including the sellsword.
Wine was shared too, though only in moderation after repeated warnings from Esteban.
"Drunk guards become dead guards," the steward stated flatly, immediately ending all complaints.
The atmosphere gradually relaxed afterward.
Some sellswords spoke quietly among themselves while others sharpened weapons near the cave entrance. Horses rested peacefully deeper inside the cavern, occasionally snorting beneath the warm glow of the floating lamps.
By the ninth hour of the night, most of the camp had already retired to their tents.
One by one, the lights dimmed.
The cave slowly descended into silence.
To everyone present, it seemed like an ordinary night.
Unknown to Thaddues, his use of magic had disturbed something ancient beneath the Broken Arm.
TBC
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