Half a month later.
The Lonely Mountain.
Following the Last River toward the Lonely Mountain, the scenery along both banks had changed completely.
Dozens of crude wooden sheds had been thrown up, and countless wildlings were bustling about, constantly patching, reinforcing, and expanding their new shelters.
"Lord Domeric—twenty accounting apprentices worked for three straight nights to compile the full roster of wildlings. The total is ninety-eight thousand, six hundred and fifty-four. Of those, sixty-three thousand nine hundred are the elderly, the weak, women, and children. The rest are able-bodied. If we send all of them into the mines or the smelteries, the Lonely Mountain's labor capacity can double."
Jorah Mormont pulled a rolled parchment from his pocket, spread it across the table in front of Domeric, and began his report.
He looked tired, but the smile overflowing from his face was impossible to hide.
Not yet forty, "the Great Bear" already had threads of gray at his temples, and his skin had darkened considerably—but his voice was strong and steady.
Two years ago, Jorah Mormont—fleeing to Essos—had still been a wanted man, cautious to the point of paranoia, doing everything he could to conceal who he was.
Now not only had he been pardoned, he'd been placed in a position of real authority by Domeric. In the way he carried himself, that old air of a man born to command had returned.
The Lonely Mountain's growth had accelerated again—its population surging from roughly one hundred and fifty thousand to more than two hundred and fifty thousand.
But Domeric's administration was desperately short on high-level talent. So he promoted Jorah to Chief Administrator of the Lonely Mountain. The former castellan's post went to the bald, fat Wendel.
Which meant the Great Bear's workload got even heavier. Poor bastard—ever since his second wife of House Hightower ran off, he'd been alone.
As lord, Domeric figured it was his responsibility to help his people get their households in order, so they could focus on their work.
But Jorah wasn't young anymore, he was bald, he'd been married twice, he'd been stripped of Bear Island, and now he was only a knight in Domeric's service—what noble girl would look twice at him?
Domeric's thoughts drifted, while Jorah continued his meticulous report.
"However, with so many new mouths, our housing stock is no longer sufficient, and we're beginning to see shortages in daily supplies… I recommend expanding the residential districts and adding more warehouses so we can store larger reserves."
"Do it," Domeric said, nodding. "I trust your judgment."
As he spoke, he produced a town plan he'd just finished sketching. In his design, the entire Lonely Mountain settlement would be rebuilt from the ground up.
Thatch huts, wooden shacks, and mud-brick hovels would all be replaced by stone structures. The Lonely Mountain had no shortage of stone—mountains were all it was.
At the same time, the streets would be widened—wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast.
Now the Lonely Mountain had money. It had people. The bottlenecks that had strangled growth were gone. Domeric could finally do what he'd always wanted—shape his territory into something he could be proud of. What lord didn't dream of forging his own domain with his own hands?
There was one thing he'd wanted for a long time.
Toilets.
Before, Domeric had been consumed with mining and ironwork, expansion, and the threats posed by refugees, mountain clans, and wildlings. He simply hadn't had the bandwidth. Now he couldn't stand it anymore.
A world where you could take a walk without stepping on a landmine of shit—what a beautiful thing.
Anyone who hadn't lived it couldn't truly understand.
Westerosi nobles weren't as polished as the dramas pretended. Some went years without bathing or even wiping their skin clean.
Take the Red Keep in King's Landing—the political heart of the Seven Kingdoms.
And yet when kings, courtiers, ladies, and ministers needed to relieve themselves, they often just found a less obvious corner and did it there.
Worse, the Red Keep had no proper sewerage at all. It was a massive public latrine—human and animal waste everywhere, the air thick with a gagging stench.
That was why Reach rose oils sold so well in King's Landing—nobles needed something to mask their own smell.
If even the capital was like that, what did you think the remote lords were like? Some even openly demanded people bathe less "to strengthen the body."
And under the teachings of the Faith of the Seven, bathing wasn't considered virtuous. Devout followers preached that "bathing only tempts men into indulgence of the flesh, causing them to neglect the holy body the gods bestowed upon them."
The High Septon—the "High Sparrow"—was famously a man who rarely bathed.
If the nobility lived like that, the smallfolk followed suit. Pissing and shitting in the street barely registered as a problem.
This level of public filth made Domeric's scalp prickle.
If the Others didn't come first, Westeros might well get its own version of the Black Death.
"Lord Domeric, every room in the hall has a chamber pot," Jorah said, baffled. "The servants clean them regularly. As for the smallfolk—they don't need anything like that. They just do it on the ground, or into buckets, and dump it into the Last River. The current carries the filth away."
"Which is exactly why there isn't a single fish left along this riverbank," Domeric said flatly, "only shit floating on the surface."
He didn't bother explaining further. He simply ordered Jorah to gather craftsmen and start building proper latrines.
On this, he would not compromise.
After Jorah left, Domeric began drafting a management and promotion system for the wildling laborers. The population boom was a gift—but if these wildlings weren't managed properly, it would become an endless source of trouble.
…
Along the banks of the Last River.
A temporary wildling settlement.
Near dusk, Domeric lit a bonfire on the riverbank and had all the wildlings gathered.
This camp held more than five thousand wildling laborers—one of over twenty such settlements.
There were Thenns, Hornfoots, cave-dwellers, walrus-men, cannibal clans… their old tribes had been broken apart and reshuffled.
Cauldrons of stew were hauled in and set atop newly built mud stoves. Flames leapt, and the scent of simmering meat spread through the cold air.
The wildling laborers stared at their lord—his back to the fire, his shadow stretching long across the ground—and lowered their heads in fear.
A few bolder ones edged toward the pots, breathing in the scent with greedy, desperate gulps, as if the smell alone could fill their bellies.
Domeric stood on a crude platform raised beside the bonfire and announced his rules.
"I am the heir of the Dreadfort, the lord of the Lonely Mountain—and your master!"
"I gathered you here to tell you this: I don't care what tribe you came from. Here, if you work hard, you can shed the status of slave labor!"
"Yes. I'm giving you a chance to cast off slavery—and win back your freedom!"
A wave of noise rippled through the crowd. They'd expected endless oppression, endless labor, and cruelty without limit.
Instead, they were hearing something else.
Domeric waited until the camp quieted, then continued.
"Starting tomorrow, each of you will be assigned work. You'll also be taught how to do it properly.
Those who complete their work will receive monthly pay. And when you've saved enough, you'll be able to buy back your freedom with it!"
Silence fell so hard it felt physical. Only breathing remained.
A tall wildling stepped forward and shouted, "Lord Domeric—are you telling the truth?"
"Of course," Domeric said, each word deliberate. "Do you really think I need to lie to you?"
"Gods above!"
"Great and merciful lord!"
"I'll carry the lord's washbasin!"
"I'll wipe the lord's—"
"I'll bear the lord's children!"
The front ranks dropped to their knees—and then the back ranks followed—until the ground was a black sea of kneeling bodies.
The shouting rose again, louder and louder, one wave stacking atop the next.
On the platform, Domeric swept his hand.
"Feed the fire. Make it burn hotter—and give them the stew!"
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🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
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🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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