GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

"From this moment on, you're my personal bodyguard."

"As you command, my lord."

And just like that, Benita's role shifted—from handmaiden to Domeric's close-protect bodyguard.

With the surprise "attack" by the mysterious mage behind them, peace gradually returned to the lands of Lonely Mountain. Life settled into rhythm, and Domeric's daily affairs returned to order.

.....

Lonely Mountain, the forge grounds.

Domeric, accompanied by Benita and a group of guards, made his way through the winding stone corridors toward the most blazing part of the mountain.

The forge grounds radiated heat as if the very air were baked by flame. Steam and heat poured from every open window and door.

Built into the mountainside, the forge was a noisy, smoky warren of interconnected stone rooms—like one giant smithy filled with clanging metal and shouting men.

A single blacksmith required up to eight or nine apprentices to assist with stoking the furnace, preparing materials, shaping the clay mold, hammering, quenching, grinding...

Each process had to flow seamlessly into the next, and the timing of heating and cooling was critical.

A moment's delay could ruin the work.

Domeric braced himself against the wave of heat in the air and made his way through the twisting halls until he reached the deepest forge chamber.

The guards pushed open the heavy iron door, and the noise of hammering metal and crackling coals became crystal clear.

"Seven hells! Which bastard opened the door? You're letting all the heat out!"

"Who the hell do you think—"

A bare-chested apprentice spun around, ready to snap, but froze mid-sentence when he saw who had arrived. "Lord Domeric?"

"I'm here to inspect your work. No need for formalities," Domeric said with a gentle tone.

But despite his words, the apprentices immediately dropped what they were doing and swarmed forward, falling to their knees before him.

Some were former refugees, others had fled from brutal mountain clans, and many were once wildlings barely surviving in the wilderness.

It was Domeric who gave them new lives—food, warmth, and protection from beasts and winter alike.

On a continent like Westeros, where productivity was painfully low, even eating one's fill was no small matter.

Outside the castle walls, the streets teemed with ragged beggars, many dying of hunger. So much so that an entire profession existed just to clean up the dead—the corpse collectors.

Even in the capital city of King's Landing, corpse collectors were an essential and busy trade.

"Thank you, Lord Domeric, for giving us work and food!"

"Lord Domeric is a living god!"

"Without Lord Domeric, there would be no light in all of Westeros."

The praise came pouring out, each more creative than the last. Domeric grinned as he listened, handing out copper coins in response.

"What's all this noise? You lot forget the rules of the forge?"

A harsh voice rang out, silencing the apprentices immediately. None dared speak as an old man emerged.

He was Donal Noye, Lonely Mountain's master of arms and chief blacksmith.

Noye's nose was wide and flat, his chin covered in a thick beard. His left sleeve was pinned at the shoulder—he had only one arm, having lost the other at the shoulder.

His gait leaned to one side due to the imbalance, giving him a crooked posture.

Once the blacksmith of the Night's Watch, Noye's skills remained unparalleled. Even with just one arm, he could swing a hundred-pound hammer with ease.

"Seven hells, you useless lot deserve to starve!" Noye bellowed, furious that his apprentices would waste time flattering the lord instead of forging weapons.

They lowered their heads under his scolding, not daring to reply.

After a moment of glaring at them, Noye turned and roared, "Get back to work! I'll be inspecting every blade myself. Anyone who messes up, say goodbye to your balls!"

The apprentices scattered like frightened mice.

At that moment, Domeric took out a letter from his coat. "A message for you—from Lord Commander Mormont."

Noye glanced at it, then grunted. He couldn't read much himself and would have someone read it aloud to him later.

Before joining the Night's Watch, Noye had served House Baratheon.

He was a master smith who had forged King Robert's warhammer and Stannis's first sword.

He once gave a now-famous description of the Baratheon brothers:

"If Robert is true steel, then Stannis is pure iron—black, hard, unbending, but brittle. He'll break before he bends. And Renly... he's bright copper, pretty to look at, but worthless underneath."

....

"Lord Domeric, looking sharp lately," Noye drawled, placing a hand on his hip, his words coming out through his nose.

"Word is, you've got yourself a pretty girl guarding your side these days. So tell me, Lord Domeric—when you're not buried in paperwork, do you let her rub your feet? Warm your bed?"

His chuckle was filled with mockery and defiance.

Benita's face flushed red. The guards scowled, clearly offended. Even Wendel, who was usually foul-mouthed himself, frowned.

"Noye, that's no way to speak to Lord Domeric."

"No harm done," Domeric said, waving it off. "That's just Lord Noye's personality. He enjoys teasing lords… Here, a small token of appreciation."

He handed Noye an iron flask.

Noye gave it a quick sniff, then raised an eyebrow. "Milk of the poppy?"

Domeric smiled. "Top-grade, from Oldtown. Use it sparingly. If you run out, come see me."

Milk of the poppy—a milky white liquid brewed by maesters from poppy flowers. It was used across Westeros as a painkiller or sedative, capable of easing the worst of aches and sending the drinker into deep sleep.

Once a soldier in service to House Baratheon, Noye had fought in many battles. During the siege of Storm's End, a wound from an axe led to infection and the eventual loss of his arm.

Now in his later years, he suffered from severe rheumatism. Rainy nights brought him sleepless pain.

Noye tucked the flask into his coat, his narrow eyes softening and voice warming. "You're a thoughtful one, lad. But you didn't come all the way here just to bring me medicine, did you?"

"Not only that. There's official business too."

"Then let's not waste time—"

Noye turned and kicked an apprentice who was standing nearby. "Go fetch the samples! Let Lord Domeric see our latest designs."

________________

Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-

patreon.com/LorePirate