Skyrim System In Westeros

On the ship docked in Myr's harbor, the Magister they had captured was already packed into a crate by Nymeria and Tyene.

wright threw the warlock into the ship's cabin and cast a healing spell on him. The voyage to King's Landing would take one or two months. With four fractured bones, the warlock wouldn't survive the trip without treatment and would certainly die midway.

Nymeria approached and shackled the warlock with iron chains, while Tyene ran over holding a small vial. She uncorked it and attempted to pour its contents into the warlock's mouth. The warlock, captured and facing an unknown concoction, resisted fiercely, clamping his mouth shut and struggling against them.

Nymeria grabbed one of the iron shackles and struck the warlock twice on the head, leaving him bloodied. She then kicked him to the ground and shoved the tip of her spear into his mouth.

"Still struggling? Tyene!"

Hearing her sister, Tyene mimicked her by forcing the entire vial into the warlock's mouth. Exhausted and out of options, the warlock resigned himself and swallowed the poison.

The crate holding the Magister had several air holes drilled into it for ventilation and feeding. Wright illuminated the interior with a magical light and peered inside through one of the holes.

"Tyene! Why has the Magister's face turned yellow?"

Having just finished dosing the warlock, Tyene hurried over, crouched beside Wright, and pointed at the Magister inside the crate.

"The poison is more stable and longer-lasting than the one used by the Mountain. It paralyzes without turning the skin blue. When I tested it on chickens before, they turned yellow too. At least this one still looks human."

"The yellow chicken we ate at the magic academy — was that from your poison tests?" Wright recalled, thinking at the time it was simply seasoned like salt-baked chicken.

Tyene looked a bit aggrieved. "Cooking neutralizes the poison. It's safe to eat."

Wright pulled her into his arms and patted her head. "Fine, yellow it is. As long as the poison works, I'll accept it. Once we're aboard the ship to Braavos, I'll teach you a few more alchemical recipes."

Tyene's interest piqued. "What kind of recipes?"

"Alchemy isn't just about making poisons. There are potions for underwater breathing, healing, magicka restoration, enhancing alchemical effects, and more. But many ingredients are hard to find or requiring substitutes."

Wright had little interest in studying alchemy himself. Now that Tyene was dedicated to it, he could analyze and deconstruct her creations to improve his skill level, saving time on early progression. However, since Tyene lacked the systematic alchemical skill tree from Wright's game system, her progress relied entirely on practical learning. For high-tier alchemical items, Wright would eventually need to intervene personally.

Turning to the warlock, Wright observed him closely. The spells he had used earlier were crude but aligned with the illusion magic system from Wright's game. The magic academy had not disseminated such spells, and if Thoros had leaked anything, it would have been to the followers of R'hllor, not to these warlocks. That left one possibility: their magic might have been stolen from the Valyrian Freehold.

After finishing their preparations, the warlock was packed into a crate as well. With both targets secured, the three prepared to return to Magister Meyer's estate.

As they passed by the children stationed near the ship, one of them discreetly handed Wright another crumpled piece of paper. Wright said to them:

"Tell Varys that I'm not pleased with him adding someone to the deal at the last minute! The balance of the arrangement has already been disrupted!"

---

Back in the room at the Magister's estate, Wright dispelled all the magical wards he had set and unfolded the crumpled paper to read its contents: two Targaryen heirs were in Braavos.

The next day, Magister Meyer took Wright to visit the glass workshop in Myr's eastern district.

"Lord Wright, there's a rumor spreading this morning — apparently, a Magister went mad last night and was seen running wildly through the streets. No one knows where he ended up, and his family has been searching for him everywhere without success."

"Oh, that's unfortunate for him. If he's truly lost his mind, wouldn't that leave a Magister's seat vacant?"

Magister Meyer smiled knowingly. "I happen to have a noble friend who is well-qualified to step into that position."

"Then you should give him your full support. If he becomes Magister, perhaps the two of you could work together on business ventures." Wright knew Meyer was fishing for financial backing, but the Magisters of Myr weren't significant enough for Wright to invest directly. Once his noble friend ascended to the position, collaboration with Storm's End might be an option. With the Stepstones yet to be fully conquered, the realm didn't have the resources or attention to spare for Myr's affairs just yet.

Meyer chuckled, recognizing the subtle deflection. He had hoped for more but wasn't surprised by Wright's response. Both men were feeling out the other's intentions.

At this juncture, they tacitly avoided continuing the subject and instead focused on the glass workshop.

The workshop bore little resemblance to modern factories. Everything was handmade, overseen by supervisors wielding whips to command a large force of slaves. If a finished product was flawed, the responsible slave would be mercilessly beaten until they were covered in wounds and incapacitated for days. In the meantime, the other slaves were forced to take on the injured one's workload, a system of collective punishment.

Wright visited the glass-melting workshop, grabbing a handful of raw quartz sand. This material was indeed unavailable in Westeros. The glassmaking techniques brought over by the Valyrian Freehold had existed in the Nine Free Cities for millennia, yet the people of Westeros had never mastered them. The only issue was the raw material — sand from rivers or the Dornish desert didn't have the right composition. This world truly had its peculiarities.

No wonder Magister Meyer was so generous in allowing free visits to the workshops. Even if others had the technique, they couldn't produce glass without the raw materials. With slave labor being so cheap, the options were either to trade with Myr or conquer it outright.

After finishing the tour of the glass workshop, Wright's business in Myr was concluded. Nymeria and a few Dornish guards had already loaded their luggage onto Oberyn's ship.

Wright made his way to the office of the Royal Navy stationed at Myr's port — a small, three-story white house with a flag outside displaying three gold stripes in the top right corner on a white field. It was a private office, which was good, as it minimized potential disputes.

Inside, about a dozen young men with weapons at their waists were chatting around a table. One of them, noticing the finely dressed newcomer, stood up and asked, "Is there something we can assist you with?"

Wright ignited five magical orbs that circled behind him briefly before vanishing. "Wright Baratheon. I need to discuss something. Are you from House Celtigar?"

Recognizing the magic orbs as a sign of identity, the group, though they hadn't seen Wright in person before, confirmed who he was and immediately stood at attention. "Lord Wright, greetings! I'm Lukos Celtigar — just call me Little Lukos."

Wright walked to the table and sat down, tapping it with his hand. A flash of magical light marked the casting of a silencing spell. "Gather around and sit."

The group approached the table but remained standing straight rather than sitting, waiting for Wright's orders.

Unbothered by such formalities, Wright observed Little Lukos. He resembled his father, Lord Celtigar, whom Wright had met before. The others also bore features distinctly Westerosi, standing out sharply against the locals of the Free Cities.

After confirming their identities, Wright asked, "How often are you rotated here?"

These were second sons from minor noble families, assigned to serve in the Royal Fleet under Stannis. Maintaining the navy's supply station in Myr was a cushy post, far better than enduring harsh conditions at sea. It also offered opportunities for personal profit, making it a position Stannis entrusted only to reliable men.

Little Lukos, however, was an exception — a sole heir with a family inheritance. Only slightly younger than Wright, his status made him the highest-ranking officer among the group, so he spoke on their behalf.

"Lord Wright, we are replaced when the next naval fleet escorts merchant ships here. Once relieved, we return to King's Landing, and the new arrivals take over."

Wright pulled an envelope sealed with his personal wax sigil from his cloak and handed it to Lukos.

"This letter must be delivered in person by someone from your station aboard the returning fleet. It's to be handed directly to the king at the Red Keep."

Hearing the instructions, Lukos understood the significance of the letter. He accepted it with both hands, placing one fist to his chest. "I swear on my life that this letter will reach the king's hands!"

The other young men followed suit, placing fists to their chests. "We will ensure the safe delivery of the letter to King's Landing!"

Wright patted Lukos on the shoulder in encouragement.