Thaddues didn't quite know what to do next. It wasn't panic. Not quite. Panic implied chaos—thrashing thoughts, racing heart, the kind of disorder that stripped a person of control.
What he felt instead was something far more… contained.
Like arriving exactly on time for something important—only to realize you had shown up at the wrong place entirely.
Worse, it wasn't even the wrong stop.
It was the wrong route.
No—scratch that. It was like confidently boarding a bus, settling in, even complimenting yourself for being early… only to discover hours later that you had booked a ticket to an entirely different destination.
A destination that, quite frankly, had no business being anywhere near your original plans.
"…Ah."
That was all he managed at first.
Just that quiet, almost polite acknowledgment of disaster.
Maybe it was the mind arts.
Yes, that had to be it.
Without his mastery over it, he suspected he might've laughed hysterically, screamed into the sea, or perhaps just laid face-down on the dock and reconsidered every decision he had ever made—across both lives.
Instead, he stood still, composed, his breathing even—coping, adapting.
Even as disbelief lingered stubbornly in his chest like an uninvited guest who refused to leave.
Because really—
This wasn't the system's fault.
That realization came with a sting.
He had assumed he was in the wizarding world. The system's name, the Harry Potter rewards—it had all pointed him in that direction.
But reality had quietly tapped him on the shoulder several times.
He just… ignored it.
Language.
That was the first and most obvious clue.
Every single person he had interacted with since arriving had spoken in a tongue that—while vaguely familiar—wasn't quite right. Not British English. Not anything he knew in his past life.
Common Tounge.
So that was it. He knew it now.
"Accent," he had thought. "Ancient words spoken by old people."
Idiot.
"It was a damn clue," he muttered under his breath.
Several of them, in fact.
And he had missed every single one.
So now here he was.
After weeks—no, months—of relentless effort. Practicing magic. Refining control. Grinding like his life depended on it.
Only to discover that he had not, in fact, arrived in a world full of wizards.
But Planetos.
A world where people thought bathing too often was suspicious, where political disputes were settled with knives, and where "education" for most meant knowing which end of the sword not to grab.
"…Fantastic."
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.
Still.
He wasn't completely doomed.
That much he could admit.
Unlike a complete outsider, he wasn't stepping into the unknown. He knew this world—not perfectly, not obsessively, but enough.
He had read the books and watched the shows, enough to understand the broad strokes, the key players, the general… madness. And more importantly, he understood the rules.
This wasn't a place without magic. Far from it. It was just inconsistent—wild, and unreliable.
Gods existed here—whether silent or not. Old powers stirred beneath the surface. Dragons once ruled the skies. Ice and fire weren't just poetic opposites; they were forces that shaped history itself.
And somewhere beyond a very large wall of ice, something ancient and patient waited.
"…Right."
So not exactly safe, but also not entirely primitive, which raised an important question—just how powerful was he, really?
In the wizarding world, he had a clear trajectory. Systems, spells, progression—it all made sense. There were benchmarks, comparisons, standards.
Here?
Nothing.
No Hogwarts.
No Ministry.
No structured magical society to measure himself against.
Just scattered legends, dying bloodlines, and whatever fragments of power still lingered in the world.
He could be overpowered or he could be just another curiosity waiting to be stabbed.
"…Preferably the former."
His thoughts snapped back to the present when someone stepped into his path.
A dock worker.
Rough hands, sun-darkened skin, posture slightly bent from years of labor. The man said something quickly, gesturing toward the ship behind Thaddeus.
The words washed over him—familiar sounds, unfamiliar meaning.
Right.
Language.
The same language he had heard aboard the ship he'd saved earlier. That alone should've confirmed it. Common Tounge.
He hadn't bothered with it then.
Because, again—idiot.
With a small exhale, Thaddeus activated the universal language package.
The effect was immediate.
A faint pressure bloomed behind his eyes, sharp but fleeting. Not painful enough to be concerning, but noticeable. Like a sudden shift in mental gears.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to tilt, then settle.
The dock worker's words clicked—not translated, not exactly, but understood.
"…asking where their pay is for helping you, my lord."
Ah.
Efficient.
Thaddues blinked once, then nodded slightly, adjusting to the sensation.
"Thank you, wait a moment."The words came naturally.
Fluently, as if he had spoken the common tounge his entire life.
The dock workers hesitated behind him, unsure whether to press the matter or step back. The man who had spoken earlier now regarded Thaddeus differently—carefully, respectfully. The way he had addressed him as "my lord" while guiding the ship into dock wasn't casual; it was instinct. No ordinary youth owned a vessel like that unless he was of noble birth.
Thaddues didn't let him wait to long. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch.
Gold glinted in the sunlight as he drew a few coins into his palm—gold galleons, wizarding currency, utterly out of place here. And yet, gold was gold. Value didn't care about origin.
He placed the coins into the porter's hands.
The reaction was immediate. Eyes widened. Breath caught. The man nearly dropped them.
"M-My lord…" he stammered, staring at the coins as if they might vanish. "This is too much."
Thaddues offered a small, easy smile.
"It's fine," he said. "Consider it a gesture."
A gesture of arriving in the wrong world.
But no need to explain that part.
The porter looked torn—between gratitude and outright panic—but eventually bowed his head.
"T-Then… we welcome you, my lord."
A few others nearby had noticed. Dockworkers paused mid-task, conversations fading as eyes drifted toward him.
Gold had a way of doing that—especially when there was a lot of it.
Thaddues, however, was already moving. No pause. No second glance.
Their last words followed him.
"We welcome you to Dorne, my lord."
Dorne.
Thaddues had not stopped walking, but the realization had settled in with quiet weight.
Geography.
He was in the southernmost reaches of Westeros.
Hot. Dry. Politically… distinct.
Not ruled in the same manner as the other realms, nor ever truly broken into submission by conquest. A land that had endured where others bent, and entered the Seven Kingdoms on its own terms.
So this was Dorne.
Not what he had intended when he set out—when "west" had been only a direction, and assumption had done the rest.
The land was harsh, but enduring. Its people shaped by desert, mountain, and coast, known in the chronicles for their difference as much as their defiance.
Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.
And if the histories were to be believed, they also remembered.
"Of all places, " He murmured.
Thaddeus exhaled slowly as he moved further from the port, taking in his surroundings with a more critical eye now.
Architecture—sun-baked stone, low structures built to endure heat rather than cold. Clothing—looser, lighter, practical. Weapons—visible. Always visible. Good to know.
His gaze flicked across faces, movements, posture. He noted who watched him, who avoided his gaze, who lingered just a moment too long. Awareness settled into him like a second skin.
So. He was in Dorne.
Now the real question—when was he in Dorne?
That mattered far more than location. Because the difference between timelines here wasn't just years. It was survival.
Was this during the Targaryen civil wars? The era of dragons tearing each other from the sky? Fire and blood, quite literally?
Or had he arrived later—in a time where dragons were gone, magic faded, and the game of thrones was played with whispers and knives instead of fire?
"…Timing," he muttered. "Always the timing."
He needed information, carefully gathered. No reckless questions, no obvious ignorance—because nothing marked an outsider faster than asking the wrong thing in the wrong way. And in a place like this, exposure came before danger ever did.
Still, a faint, almost amused smile tugged at his lips as he kept walking.
Because for all the inconvenience… all the miscalculations… all the very unfortunate misunderstandings, there was something undeniably exciting about it.
A different world, dangerous and unpredictable, without structure or clear paths forward. No safety nets.
Just him, his magic, and whatever chaos this place decided to throw at him.
"…Alright," Thaddues said quietly. His eyes lifted, sharp and focused now.
"Let's see what you've got."
Just like that, the confusion settled. The frustration faded, replaced by something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
TBC
Want to stay 12-13+ chapters ahead? Join me on Patr*on.
Patr*on.com/Rabbinwriter.
Be a Chapter Seeker!
Bea Chronicle Reader!
Be a Lore Archivist!
Or buy me a coffee ~~~
NEXT FREE CHAPTER 50 PS!