Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window and spilled across the desk. A squirrel scampered happily along a century-old driftwood bookshelf, running and leaping with carefree energy.
It didn't stop until it reached the far end of the desk. It lifted its little nose to sniff, its big eyes rolling around, then it hugged a finger smeared with peanut butter and began to lick at it.
The owner of that finger was a young noble.
In this leisurely afternoon, Domeric rarely allowed himself to look so languid. Half-reclining in his chair, he let his gaze fall on Horas across the long table.
"Red tea from the Reach," he said calmly. "The flavor is gentle and pure—long and lingering. When you drink it, it always makes you think of old memories."
"Ser Domeric… is there truly no room to reconsider?"
"Ser Horas, you've seen it yourself.
House Manderly of White Harbor is also willing to purchase all of Ironhearth's ironwork at thirty percent above the market price. Under those circumstances, I have no reason to abandon a partner I've worked with for so long…"
Seeing Horas's face turn ashen, Domeric found himself at a loss for what to say.
Wylfyd's reply had been delivered to Ironhearth by raven just half a day earlier.
What surprised Domeric was how cleanly the Manderlys agreed to the thirty-percent increase.
They didn't even haggle. Whatever that old fat lord of House Manderly was plotting, Domeric couldn't yet tell.
But he had no time to worry about that now.
At the end of the letter, Wylfyd invited Domeric to attend her eighteenth nameday—three months from now.
Domeric accepted without hesitation.
…
Just then, the castellan, Ser Jorah, rushed in. "My lord—your chief knight has been injured!"
"What? Wendel that fat bastard got hurt? How bad is it?"
"A light wound. Thankfully, it didn't strike anything vital."
Ser Jorah's expression was grim. "But my lord, we're facing a major crisis."
"What crisis?" Domeric asked, genuinely curious. It was rare to see "Big Bear" lose his composure.
"The mountain clans around Ironhearth have united and launched a rebellion!"
A rebellion?
The mountain clans?
Domeric's eyes narrowed slightly. "So they finally couldn't stand it anymore."
The so-called "mountain clans" shared the blood of the First Men like other Northmen, and they worshiped the old gods.
There were nearly forty mountain-clan tribes in the North, large and small—more than a dozen of them in the Ironhearth region alone.
They had lived among these mountains for thousands of years.
On paper, the clans acknowledged Bolton rule. In practice, their culture differed so sharply from that of other smallfolk that the Dreadfort could never truly impose effective governance.
Historically, House Bolton had repeatedly been forced to send troops into the mountains to mediate clan feuds—or to summon them to the Dreadfort for arbitration.
A harsh wilderness and generations of blood-feud had forged the mountaineers into a fierce, warlike people.
In battle, their warriors favored massive greatswords wielded in two hands, while others hurled stones or swung ashwood clubs.
These unbroken mountain men had long been Domeric's persistent headache.
For years, Domeric had pressured them in every way he could to extract more labor. Inevitably, that built resentment—until at last they broke.
"They've taken Greatwood Town."
Greatwood Town sat on a small plain at the foot of Ironhearth, with two small rivers looping around it.
It was a young town—born in the past three years from the boom in the iron trade.
It was not large, only a bit over three thousand people. Most lived by logging and timber processing.
At first, it existed simply to make it easier to fell trees and process lumber—feeding charcoal to Ironhearth's smelting industry.
Two days ago, townsfolk came to lodge complaints: the mountain clans had raided them.
Ser Wendel flew into a rage. He personally led a hundred soldiers into the mountains to purge those lawless clans who repeatedly violated Ironhearth's laws.
But the mountain clans were far stronger than he'd estimated. Overconfident, Wendel failed to crush the bandits—and was instead crushed by them.
His hundred soldiers walked into an ambush and took heavy losses. Wendel himself was struck by a heavy arrow.
The survivors fought like madmen just to drag him out alive, then fell back to Greatwood Town.
…
Then the unexpected happened.
Several larger mountain clans joined forces and openly raised rebellion.
Greatwood Town fell.
On the very night Wendel's battered force retreated to Greatwood Town, a clan led by the Riddle Clan surrounded the administrative hall where Wendel was staying.
With traitors inside opening the gates, most of the remaining soldiers died in the chaotic fighting. Only in the most desperate moment did Wendel manage to mount a fast horse and escape.
That victory made the "Riddle Clan" famous overnight. Other mountain clans dissatisfied with Ironhearth began streaming into Greatwood Town.
"How many have they gathered?" Domeric asked, his face calm as stone—cutting straight to the essential question.
"According to our outriders, there are already more than three thousand in Greatwood Town alone… and more are joining by the day."
"My lord," Ser Jorah pressed, "we must suppress this rebellion quickly. The longer we wait, the worse it becomes."
He wasn't wrong.
The mountaineers kept pouring into Greatwood Town. Each day, the rebel host grew.
"My lord—when do you plan to march to retake Greatwood Town?"
"Tomorrow," Domeric decided at once. "These mountain rats usually hide deep. Now they've stepped onto a stage. Good—let them all climb out and gather in one place. Then we can sweep them up in a single net. Efficient."
Ser Jorah nodded and took the opportunity to flatter. "My lord is wise. Will you require Lord Roose Bolton's assistance—shall we request troops?"
Domeric replied evenly, "No need to trouble my father for something like this. I'll lead a thousand men myself. That will be enough."
"But Greatwood Town has at least three—perhaps four thousand mountaineers now! They have a palisade to defend. My lord, should you take more men, just in case?"
Domeric understood his concern.
But he also understood the mountain clans' true strength lay in raids and guerrilla war among the hills—not in a straight-up defense behind walls.
"A rabble isn't worth fearing.
If they stayed in the mountains, they'd be difficult to deal with.
But now they've abandoned the hills and want to rely on Greatwood Town's stockade to face me head-on—this is exactly what I want."
The next day, Domeric set out to quell the rebellion with six hundred infantry, one hundred and fifty archers, and two hundred and fifty cavalry.
In truth, Greatwood Town's situation was already extremely precarious.
As rebel numbers swelled, they began talking about launching outward attacks—but with so many factions joining, they also descended into infighting over leadership.
The clan chiefs argued for days, squandering their best moment to strike.
Domeric's army advanced steadily, pausing only briefly to rest.
After a full day's march, as night fell, they raised their camp.
They were now only thirty li from Greatwood Town. At first light, they could press straight toward the rebels' stronghold.
With Ser Jorah Mormont—a veteran of war—in command of the camp's layout, everything was orderly, disciplined, watertight.
As for a night raid, Domeric had prepared for that long ago.
Late at night, silence settled over the camp and the fields beyond.
Unlike an ordinary camp, there was not a single point of light within Domeric's encampment.
When the moon reached its highest point—
that rare quiet was ripped apart by a chain of screams.
Domeric's troops kept strict discipline. Though they heard the sounds of killing and battle, without a signal they remained in their beds, continuing to rest.
They trusted their lord's methods. If anything, they pitied the fate awaiting anyone foolish enough to raid his camp.
Sure enough, the chaos and shrieks faded completely not long after—leaving behind only hundreds of corpses.
At last, the camp returned to silence.
Only this silence… was like the sea before a storm.
--
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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