GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

The abnormally large mosquito didn't draw much thought from Domeric. After all, it was just a mosquito.

He touched his face and decided to activate the Secret-Digging System on himself. He wanted to see how much he had improved recently.

[Secret-Digging System Activated!]

Lines of blocky text appeared across his retina:

[Domeric Bolton]

[Identity: Lord of Lonely Mountain, heir of House Bolton, rightful successor to the Dreadfort.

Regarded by Eddard Stark as "the greatest swordsman in the North," the chosen lord of Ser Wendel Manderly and Ser Jorah Mormont. Secretly admired by Sansa Stark and Wyelthyr Manderly.

Seen by mountain clans and wildlings as a "demon of the abyss."]

[Titles: Little Flayer, Northern Swordmaster]

[Strength: 70]

[Agility: 80]

[Spirit: 75]

[Combat Rating: 225]

[Note: The secrets in your heart, you already know. Why ask me?]

Domeric stared at the combat rating—225—and sighed. It hadn't changed.

The average man on Westeros had a combat rating of around 30. A trained knight might reach 60. Even Eddard Stark, who once bested the legendary Sword of the Morning, rated only at 170.

Anyone else would have been proud of 225.

But Domeric knew better. His future opponents weren't ordinary men. They were monsters—Jaime the Kingslayer, Gregor Clegane the Mountain, Oberyn Martell the Red Viper...

Each of them was a terrifying foe.

For three years, Domeric had trained relentlessly. Yet in the last six months, he had hit a bottleneck. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't seem to break through.

It was just as he had always believed—mastery of any craft became harder the further one climbed. Swordsmanship was no exception.

He calmed his thoughts, letting his mind drift deeper and deeper, sinking into a vast, cold abyss.

From all sides, icy sensations closed in. He searched for light, for an exit—yet found nothing.

Just as Domeric immersed himself in that trance of sword meditation—

A sudden jolt of warning shot through him.

It was the alarm ward he had placed around his bed—a magical boundary with a radius of twenty feet. If anyone entered its range, Domeric would sense it instantly, awake or asleep.

Wendel?

No—it couldn't be. His chief knight never visited this late. And he was surely snoring beside some plump barmaid by now.

Domeric's grip on his sword tightened. Dozens of combat scenarios rushed through his mind, each one rehearsed. He was ready to strike first at any sign of danger.

With a combat rating of 225, no assassin stood a chance against him.

He held his breath and focused.

But the room was empty.

How?

Someone had definitely entered the ward's range—he was certain of it. Yet the doors and windows remained shut, untouched. No one else was in the room.

Was the Qarthian warlock's "alarm ward" malfunctioning?

To a lord, this was no minor issue.

An error during peacetime was one thing—but in the event of an assassination, a missed signal could mean his death.

He thought of King Joffrey, poisoned in public during a feast, and Tywin Lannister, shot by his own son on the privy.

A cold sweat broke across Domeric's back.

Just as he was about to call for his guards, a crisp, cheerful voice echoed from a shadowed corner:

"Hello there! My name is Ixi Orz. Pleased to meet you!"

.....

It was deep into the night. In Westeros, where there was no electricity, illumination came only from candles.

Their flickering glow cast deep shadows across the room.

And now, those shadows began to twist and shift unnaturally.

It was clearly magic.

Magic had vanished for over a thousand years. The people of Westeros had long forgotten just how powerful—and terrifying—it could be.

Take, for example, what happened to Renly Baratheon—the youngest of the Baratheon brothers and once the most promising contender for the Iron Throne after King Robert's death.

On the eve of battle against his brother Stannis, Renly was slain by a shadow born of Melisandre's black magic.

Domeric's eyes were fixed on the shifting shadows before him.

Then something stepped forth.

No—not a person.

It was a white rat. More precisely, a rat riding a cat.

The rat wore leather armor, a tiny crown atop its head, and a flowing cape on its shoulders.

Perched on the cat's back, it rode out of the twisting darkness.

Despite his calm mind and hardened nerves, sweat dripped from Domeric's brow. He had never seen anything like this before.

.....

"Hello! I'm Ixi Orz, a mage from Asshai. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Domeric!"

So it was the rat that had spoken earlier!

Its eyes shimmered with uncanny brightness. Perhaps sensing Domeric's doubt, it leapt off the cat's back and landed before him with surprising grace, tilting its head up to meet his gaze.

Domeric narrowed his eyes.

A mage from Asshai?

Asshai—the furthest known city in the world. A city steeped in shadow and bathed in magic.

In Asshai, nothing was forbidden.

Sorcerers, alchemists, moon-singers, red priests, necromancers, cloud-walkers, blood mages, torturers, night-walkers, shapeshifters...

They held demonic rites, communed with monsters. At night, they performed unspeakable rituals.

It was said that spellbinders, warlocks, and dreamers roamed openly through the streets. Shadowbinders and blood mages practiced their art under cover of darkness.

Domeric steadied himself. Whoever this creature was, it wasn't here to kill him—not with such fanfare.

"You're human?" Domeric asked cautiously.

"Of course!" the white rat said, placing tiny hands on its hips and pouting. "And I'm a girl, thank you very much!"

"Then what's with the current form?"

The rat's ears drooped slightly as she sighed. "A magical experiment went wrong. I swapped bodies with my pet... That bumbling fool—who you locked up, by the way."

"Oh? So that's why you've come, Mage?"

Domeric's expression turned cold as he stared at the uninvited guest before him.

________________

Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-

patreon.com/LorePirate