"My lord, the cost of recruiting soldiers has been… considerable. This has already drained all the profit from our ironwork sales for the first half of the year.
If this continues, I'm afraid the domain's finances won't hold out until next spring."
The finance officer held a thick stack of parchment as he reported the recent accounts to Domeric.
The Hornwood Hills domain's income was extremely simple—there was only one stream: the iron trade.
They took the Hornwood Hills' coal and iron ore, forged it into high-quality iron goods, and sold them across the Seven Kingdoms and to the Free Cities across the narrow sea.
In plain terms: mine ore, work iron, sell for coin.
With open-pit deposits, extraction costs were low. Labor costs were lower still—refugees, hill clansmen, wildlings…
Of the domain's hundred thousand residents, more than half served the mines and the forges.
Beyond paying smiths wages, most miners simply needed food and shelter.
In truth, once those modest costs were deducted, the revenue from iron trade alone was astonishing.
The Hornwood Hills had been developed for less than three years, yet its income already rivaled that of many great castles.
The major expense was the army—who would have imagined a domain of under one hundred thousand sustaining a force of three thousand?
And the force was treated lavishly: bellies filled at every meal, meat on the table, with housing, coin, and even women distributed—children supported, elders provided for.
In Westeros, such treatment was rare.
No lord treated his soldiers so well.
Yet despite that, the lord still intended to expand—adding two thousand more men.
A small domain like the Hornwood Hills sustaining five thousand troops?
To the finance officer, it was almost inconceivable.
The crushing fiscal pressure weighed on Domeric.
But he still insisted on the expansion. If there was no money, then he would find money. Halting recruitment was not an option.
Feed the people, drill the men—expand the host, prepare for war.
That was Domeric's guiding line at this stage. For the sake of long-term survival, it could not be shaken.
Domeric understood this clearly: if he could not seize the initiative in the coming War of the Five Kings, then no matter how well the Hornwood Hills prospered, he would simply be sewing a wedding dress for someone else.
While Domeric studied the parchments, visitors from downriver had already come ashore.
…
"This place is… this shabby? Not even a castle."
As Horas Redwyne stepped out onto the deck, the stink of rotting timber hit him in the face.
The air was damp and heavy, the sort that made a man feel unclean in his own skin.
He sniffed, looked up, and found the sky a dull, ashen smear—as if a storm were gathering.
Horas was an ordinary-looking man, with orange hair and a square face freckled thickly. He was the heir of Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, and twin brother to Hobber Redwyne.
"The Hornwood Hills is a new holding—opened by House Bolton three years ago," his attendant explained as he draped a wool cloak over Horas's shoulders. "Naturally it's crude. They haven't even had time to raise a castle. They say there's only an administrative hall. There's little here, save stone and iron."
"The iron goods are exceptional," Horas corrected. "By report, Hornwood Hills iron accounts for nearly half the continent's market—selling briskly throughout the Seven Kingdoms and even across the narrow sea to Essos."
"What?" The attendant stared, bewildered.
He did not understand commerce, but he understood what "half the market" meant.
And the Hornwood Hills hadn't existed for long at all.
Horas only shook his head. He stepped over the gunwale and onto a broad, solid pier.
The domain was new, most things still rough—but the dockworks were enormous, built with an almost arrogant confidence.
"We're going to the administrative hall to meet Ser Domeric."
"My lord… will you not wait for their welcoming officer? We're guests, and we've come a long way," the attendant reminded him.
"There is only business here," Horas thought, but did not say it aloud. "Come. We'll hire horses first."
House Redwyne's seat lay on the Arbor—an island south of Whispering Sound.
The Redwynes possessed one of the three greatest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms—the other two being the Iron Fleet of the Iron Islands and the royal fleet of the Iron Throne.
The Arbor fleet was the largest in Westeros: two hundred warships, and five times as many merchant greatsails, wine-cogs, trading galleys, and whalers besides.
Horas rode with his guards along the riverside stone road on horses provided freely at the docks.
He knew horses. These were fine northern stock, coats bright, builds strong.
Why was the Hornwood Hills keeping so many good mounts?
It did not look like haulage.
"Ser Horas—look. Is that a White Harbor ship?"
At his attendant's call, Horas turned.
A single-masted sailboat slipped from the docks down the White Knife, flying a banner of sea-green and blue: a white merman bearing a black trident.
House Manderly of White Harbor.
The ship sat deep in the water—heavy with cargo.
Horas nodded without expression, but his stomach sank. The Manderly ships were larger than they used to be.
The Manderly fleet was not even a quarter the size of the Arbor's—yet its carrying volume had reached half.
All of it was driven by one thing: the Hornwood Hills iron trade. It fed White Harbor's fleet like grain feeds a horse.
As Lord Paxter had put it: If that iron trade continues, White Harbor will become the fourth great fleet of the Seven Kingdoms within ten years—perhaps even a rival to the Arbor.
Horas had no desire to see that day.
That was why he had come—because of the iron trade.
His father intended to buy all Hornwood Hills iron output—at a price thirty percent above the prevailing rate.
Thirty percent was the absolute ceiling.
Even so, there would still be profit—provided the market could be tightly controlled.
Hornwood Hills goods were simply too good; demand outstripped supply. Often a cargo sold out the moment it reached shore.
In a world of steel and blood, where lords feuded and the roads were never safe, there was never a shortage of buyers for quality iron.
But the Arbor could not easily monopolize this trade.
Horas needed only to glance at the dockside yards—piles of goods stacked like hills—to see that Hornwood Hills had no difficulty finding customers.
And there were rumors besides: Lord Manderly's granddaughter and heir, Wylla Fenn… no—Wylfyd Manderly, was said to be close to Ser Domeric. There were even persistent whispers of marriage.
For the Arbor to wedge itself into this trade would be to snatch meat from a wolf's jaws.
Horas rode into the town center and halted before the administrative hall.
The guards saw his sigils and hurried to announce him.
Soon, when Horas was shown into the receiving chamber, Domeric was already waiting in the high seat.
"Ser Domeric. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Ser Horas. Please—sit."
Domeric clapped his hands, and attendants brought in a generous spread.
Men were iron, and meals were steel: miss one and you went hungry.
The moment he heard the Redwyne heir had arrived, Domeric had ordered a full table: braised beef, smoked salmon, baked snails, steak in red wine, rich cheeses, caviar, roasted turkey…
And a fragrant meat broth besides.
Some of the dishes Horas had never seen in his life.
In this bleak new land, such delicacies were deeply strange.
Horas did not pretend reluctance.
From the Arbor—far in the south—sailing around the Summer Sea to reach the Hornwood Hills by water took him half a month even with favorable winds.
For a heavier cargo ship, it was slower still—twenty days at least.
There was no real galley aboard. Most meals were salted strips of dried meat or hard wheat cakes, and the water was never clean.
Looking at steaming platters, Horas felt saliva rise in his throat.
Years of noble training kept his table manners immaculate—whereas Domeric, opposite him, looked far more relaxed.
"We're young men," Domeric said amiably. "No need for the performance you put on before old men. Ser Horas—eat your fill."
"My thanks."
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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