The cave had fallen silent after the battle. The scent of blood lingered heavily in the cold air, mixing with smoke and the faint smell of burnt flesh from the shadowcats scattered across the stone floor. Their twisted corpses remained motionless beneath the dim firelight, black fur stained with blood and ash.
Everyone inside the cave had seen it.
They had seen how effortlessly Thaddues killed the creatures that had nearly killed them all.
The sellswords stood frozen in place, exhaustion visible on their battered faces. Some still gripped their swords tightly despite the danger already passing, while others stared at Thaddues with emotions they could not properly hide.
Fear.
Awe.
Confusion.
Before tonight, most of them believed his magic amounted to little more than unusual tricks. Useful perhaps, but harmless. Something fit for healing wounds, conjuring light, or entertaining noble courts.
None of them had imagined he could wield magic capable of such destruction.
None of them had imagined death could come so swiftly from his hands.
Thaddues remained standing near the center of the cave, silent as his gaze drifted toward the two fallen sellswords near the entrance.
Both men had died defending the others while they slept.
A heaviness settled in his chest.
He slowly released a breath before raising his hand. The shimmering protection charm surrounding the camp dissolved instantly, the translucent barrier breaking apart into countless silver fragments that faded into the darkness.
"Burn them," Thaddues said quietly. "Give them a proper farewell before we leave."
His voice remained calm, but the weight behind it made the entire cavern feel colder.
Esteban immediately lowered his head.
"Yes, my lord."
He quickly turned toward the remaining mercenaries and began issuing commands. Some gathered wood while others dragged the corpses of the shadowcats farther from the camp. No one complained. No one hesitated.
Not after what they had witnessed tonight.
Thaddues looked away from the dead guards and studied the wounded men scattered throughout the cavern. Torn flesh, deep claw marks, broken armor—many of them had barely survived.
Slowly, he reached into his pouch and withdrew several small glass vials filled with glowing blue liquid.
Healing potions.
The mercenaries instinctively stiffened as he approached, though whether from respect or fear, even they likely did not know.
"Take these," Thaddues said while handing the potions to the injured men one by one. "They will heal your wounds."
The men accepted the vials carefully.
One sellsword stared at the potion in his trembling hand before speaking quietly.
"Thank you… my lord."
Thaddues only nodded faintly.
Despite the calm expression on his face, guilt remained visible within his eyes. Fortunately, his mastery of Mind Arts allowed him to keep his emotions restrained beneath a composed exterior.
Otherwise, perhaps the others would have seen just how disturbed he truly was.
"Esteban," he called softly.
The old man stepped forward immediately.
"My lord?"
"Follow me."
Without another word, Thaddues turned and walked deeper into the cave toward his tent, passing Lily and Isolde, both visibly shaken.
Inside the tent, the interior was dimly illuminated by a single arc lamp resting atop a wooden table. Shadows flickered against the canvas walls as the distant sounds of activity outside became muted.
For several moments, silence lingered between them.
Then Thaddues finally spoke.
"Grant the families of those two sellswords one thousand gold dragons each."
Esteban's eyes widened instantly.
"A thousand?" he repeated in disbelief.
Even among nobles, such wealth was not given lightly. A thousand gold dragons could buy land. Homes. Comfort for generations.
For common sellswords, it was an unimaginable sum.
"My lord," Esteban said carefully, "a thousand gold dragons is too much."
The moment the words left his mouth, the atmosphere inside the tent shifted.
Thaddues slowly lifted his eyes toward him.
For the first time since the attack, the calm and refined persona he always maintained cracked slightly.
"Too much?" he asked quietly.
The pressure in his voice made Esteban fall silent.
"Those men died protecting us while we slept," Thaddues continued. "Protecting me."
His jaw tightened.
"A life is priceless, Esteban."
The lantern flame flickered softly, casting shadows across his face.
"If gold is the only thing I can offer their families, then I will offer it gladly."
His voice lowered further.
"So do not deny me the one thing that may lessen this guilt."
Silence filled the tent.
Esteban had served nobles throughout his life. From the House of Martell itself to minor nobles. Cruel ones. Greedy ones. Arrogant ones.
But never had he seen a noble react this way over the deaths of mercenaries. Most lords viewed sellswords as disposable. Replaceable.
Yet Thaddues looked genuinely burdened by their deaths.
The older man lowered his head.
"As you command, my lord."
The tension slowly faded afterward, though the heaviness within the tent remained.
Esteban hesitated briefly before speaking again.
"This was not your fault."
Thaddues let out a quiet breath. "In this world," he said softly, "fault means little to the dead."
The words lingered heavily in the air.
Because he understood the truth already.
Westeros was cruel.
People died every day for causes far smaller than this. War, hunger, greed, politics—death existed everywhere in this world so thoroughly that most people had long since become numb to it.
But understanding that reality did not make it easier.
He hoped this would be the last time someone died because of him.
His thoughts drifted back to the events of the night.
The dream.
The familiar trace of magic he had sensed within the shadowcats.
His expression darkened slightly.
Shadowcats traveling in packs was unnatural enough, but the magical presence within them disturbed him far more.
It resembled the same energy he had felt in the dream.
Thaddues frowned.
Could his arrival in this world be causing changes?
Anomalies?
The thought sounded absurd, like something taken from the stories and webnovels of his previous life.
Yet he could not dismiss the possibility.
Echoes of ancient history haunted his dreams, and now creatures touched by strange, familiar magic had appeared where they should not exist.
Coincidence no longer felt convincing.
But no matter how much he turned the matter over in his mind, he found no answers.
Only unease.
At last, Thaddues reached into his pouch again and placed several heavy bags of gold dragons onto the table.
"Compensate the remaining sellswords as well," he said quietly.
Esteban nodded immediately.
"Yes, my lord."
After the steward departed, silence returned once more.
Thaddues sat alone for a long time.
Sleep was impossible now.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood splashing across stone and heard the dying shrieks of beasts echoing through the cavern.
Worse still, he remembered the dream.
The drowning cries.
The song they sang.
That suffocating presence beneath the earth and the horrifying realization that he had nearly been consumed by it entirely.
Had the two guards not fought the shadowcats, everyone inside the cave might have died before he awakened.
Including him.
The thought unsettled him deeply.
He was powerful by the standards of this world.
Yet tonight had reminded him of something important.
Power meant nothing if one became careless.
So instead of resting, Thaddues busied himself.
Throughout the remaining hours of the night, he layered protection charms around the cavern entrance. Silver runes flickered briefly across the stone walls before fading into invisibility.
The surviving sellswords watched silently from afar.
None dared interrupt him.
Near dawn, the funeral pyre was finally lit.
Orange flames rose slowly into the darkness, illuminating the cavern walls as the bodies of the fallen guards were consumed by fire.
Thaddues stood nearby in silence while smoke drifted upward and embers danced through the cold air.
Despite everything, gratitude remained within him.
Tonight had proven a harsh lesson.
The realization settled heavily within his heart.
Never become complacent.
Never lower his guard.
Never assume his current strength was enough.
Because this world contained mysteries and magic far beyond his understanding.
As the first rays of sunlight appeared beyond the cave entrance, the caravan prepared to depart.
No one spoke much that morning.
The sellswords no longer looked at Thaddues with casual respect.
Now there was caution in their eyes. Reverence. Fear.
Yet Thaddues paid little attention to any of it.
As the caravan resumed its journey toward Salt Shore beneath the rising Dornish sun, only one thought remained in his mind.
He needed to become stronger.
Strong enough that no one beside him would ever need to die protecting him again.
TBC
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