GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

Lonely Mountain.

The administrative hall.

The fire in the hearth blazed brightly, driving away the chill that crept in through the cracks in the doors and windows.

On the wall hung the mounted head of a stag with massive antlers. Under the flickering firelight, the antlers cast long, claw-like shadows across the stone wall behind them.

Before Domeric stood a long dark red wooden desk, cluttered with scrolls of parchment and books. Most were administrative documents awaiting his signature.

This was where Domeric usually handled the affairs of his territory.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, the town stretched outward in view, ending in the shadowy outline of the mountain range—the Lonely Mountain.

"Forget it. If soldiers come, I'll meet them with soldiers; if floods rise, I'll block them with earth," Domeric muttered, scratching his head and pushing thoughts of the mage aside.

What truly demanded his attention now was the development of his domain.

Domeric understood that in the coming "War of the Five Kings" and the chaos that would follow, survival would depend on one thing—power. And power came from growth.

The land of Lonely Mountain was not well-suited for farming, but its surface was rich with exposed coal and high-quality iron. Easy to mine, low in cost, and high in return.

With the knowledge of materials science from his previous life, far beyond this world's primitive metallurgy, Domeric's forges produced ironworks sold across the Seven Kingdoms, bringing in large profits.

But it still wasn't enough.

He summoned his treasurer, who arrived holding a thick stack of reports.

Lonely Mountain's main exports were minerals and forged goods. Major imports were food and daily necessities. All goods were transported via the End River, leading straight to the Shivering Sea.

Beyond coal and iron, the mines also yielded copper, sulfur, crystals, rubies, sapphires—luxuries that brought in considerable additional income.

A lucky windfall.

But when Domeric turned to the food section, his brow furrowed.

After expenses, every gold dragon the territory earned was spent on food.

In other words, even though the mines and forges supported nearly one hundred thousand people, there wasn't a single copper coin left in surplus.

Then again, Domeric wasn't too surprised. To fend off wildlings, mountain clans, and pirates, he maintained an armed force of three thousand men.

On the continent of Westeros, a standing army of three thousand, fully armed, was no small matter. Even House Bolton of the Dreadfort, a major power, only kept around six thousand soldiers.

Raising such an army was costly, and running a deficit was understandable.

In Domeric's view, gold dragons that sat in storage were just useless stones.

There were other sources of income too, such as furs, mostly traded by the mountain clans nearby. They hunted birds and beasts in the Wolfswood, then sold the pelts to miners and blacksmiths in the town.

Since this supported the local light industry and diversified the economy, Domeric didn't tax the fur trade—a small policy to encourage industrial growth.

Most of the territory's revenue went toward supporting the people and training the army. The rest was sunk into the costly business of maritime transport.

The northern lords rarely maintained navies. The costs of building a fleet were beyond the means of most of the North's poor nobles.

Because of that, the North's coastal territories were often raided by the Ironborn with no ability to retaliate. No ships, no power at sea.

White Harbor was the exception.

A major port city, often called "the Mouth of the North," White Harbor was an ice-free port south of Winterfell and the seat of House Manderly.

It was the largest settlement north of the Neck, though still the smallest of the Five Great Cities of Westeros.

Due to its location, White Harbor had extensive contact with the southern kingdoms. That trade enabled Lonely Mountain's iron goods to flourish, thanks in no small part to the Manderly family's shipping fleet.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that White Harbor was the single biggest reason Lonely Mountain rose as quickly as it did.

And over the past three years, the Manderlys had made a fortune from the iron trade too.

But with war looming, Domeric no longer wanted to pay outrageous shipping fees. He needed that money to feed people and train troops.

Still, the trade couldn't stop. It was the beating heart of his economy.

So how could he keep the trade going without paying for transport? Would the Manderlys of White Harbor really agree to such blatant freeloading?

Domeric rubbed his chin, lost in thought.

Then he remembered Wylfryd—granddaughter of the Lord of White Harbor.

A girl with long brown hair braided into many plaits.

Perhaps… she was the key.

...

After the treasurer left, Domeric rubbed his temples and returned to reviewing the endless reports.

It was a habit of his—going through these dry documents himself. He believed the devil was in the details.

Corruption, embezzlement, fraud—all of it left traces in the numbers.

After all, Westerosi stewards lacked modern accounting skills, and their ability to forge records couldn't compare to his past life's white-collar criminals.

In addition to financials, Domeric also reviewed intelligence reports on the noble families across the Seven Kingdoms.

The more he understood about this world, the better he could adapt to it—and change it.

He worked late into the night. Only after half a month's worth of accumulated documents had been dealt with did he finally stop.

Being a competent lord was no easy task.

After dinner, he returned to his chambers to rest.

He bathed and washed up, then carefully placed protective wards around the door and bed.

These magical wards came from the warlocks of Qarth across the Narrow Sea. Domeric had paid a high price for them. They were designed to detect assassination attempts and magical intrusions.

With the red comet approaching and the tide of magic returning, Domeric knew well—magic was a force that could not be ignored.

It was still early. He couldn't sleep.

So he rose, drew his sword with a crisp metallic ring, and began to train.

He held the sword before him—a knight's two-handed longsword, forged from "refined steel." The blade and hilt were plain and without ornament. The edges had been meticulously sharpened.

He gripped the hilt, feeling its weight and balance.

As his fingers tightened around the grip, the sword seemed to become a part of him—as if it were an extension of his arm.

With a breath, he began to move.

At first, his steps were slow, weaving between furniture. His strikes were hesitant. But gradually, his pace quickened—then became a blur. He darted through the room, leaping and spinning.

The blade sang through the air, yet not a single piece of furniture was touched.

His figure weaved through the limited space, strikes flowing in a continuous rhythm, light glinting off the blade.

There were no flashy techniques—no "Slash of Annihilation " like in the manhwas of his past life. Only basic moves: slash, thrust, point, lift, twist, sweep, and flick.

But with the sword in hand, Domeric felt as if he had grown another arm. His eyes guided his hands, and his hands guided the blade.

In his previous life when he read martial arts manhwas, he thought-- Sure, training was fun, but it couldn't compare to money or women.

But now, standing on the cusp of mastering swordsmanship himself, he began to understand.

There was depth here. Endless depth.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a mosquito buzzing toward him—almost the size of a thumb.

Domeric twisted and thrust.

The annoying hum ceased immediately.

He crouched, picked up the sliced insect, and frowned.

"How strange. Since when did mosquitoes in the North grow this big?"

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