It had been a full month since Domeric returned from the mage Ise's wizard's tower.
On the hillside behind the foundry, he had built a new workshop for producing "Godfire"—that is, gunpowder.
The white rat Ise had given Domeric a formula for a powder called Godfire.
Its effect was similar to black powder: a powdery compound that burned rapidly, produced a large volume of gas, and then detonated…
The recipe included all manner of strange ingredients—plant roots and stems, seeds, certain ores, even animal bones…
Fortunately, the composition was not overly complex. The raw materials were simple and easy to obtain, and the formula was suitable for large-scale production.
Domeric was in an excellent mood. Without meaning to, he had unlocked an entirely new branch on the technology tree.
…
The workshop covered several hundred square meters, with only a single entrance and exit—and the strictest security protocols.
A dozen guards stood at the door. Other than Lord Domeric and the castellan, Ser Jorah Mormont, no one was allowed in or out at will.
"My lord—this is the new weapon you spoke of?" Ser Jorah Mormont pinched a bit of black powder between his fingers and brought it to his nose, sniffing. "Some kind of medicinal powder?"
"It's called Godfire. A mage's name for it," Domeric explained. "For now, it can't serve as a weapon. This workshop's purpose is to refine it."
Gunpowder was practically the essential farming tool of any transmigrator.
But Godfire burned too slowly and produced too little gas. It did not come close to true black powder.
Domeric could only keep experimenting—adjusting the ratios within the existing recipe—until he produced a form of Godfire that more closely matched standard black powder.
As for building firearms and cannon… with Westeros's current level of weapons craftsmanship, that was not worth dreaming about.
Yet many people overlooked a key point: even without guns, gunpowder itself was a terrifying weapon—provided you used enough of it.
Domeric fell silent, thinking. In the history of his former world, after gunpowder was invented, it took more than a thousand years before it fully replaced cold steel.
It seemed this Godfire "tech tree" still had a long, difficult road ahead.
"No one enters here besides the craftsmen, you, and me," Domeric said, meaningfully. "Not even Ser Wendel, and not even the master smith Noye. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Ser Jorah said heavily, nodding.
It was not that Domeric distrusted White Harbor's Manderlys—or the Night's Watch at Castle Black—overmuch.
It was simply that whatever the matter, keeping a card in reserve was always wise. Just in case.
…
The Lonely Mountain holdings had changed entirely. Everywhere, there was the bustle of feverish construction and production.
A month earlier, Domeric had reached a new trade agreement with House Manderly of White Harbor: the iron trade would rise by thirty percent above market price.
Not only did this double Domeric's profits from iron goods—he made a fortune.
The realm's greatest fiscal crisis was gone, completely.
So more grain and living supplies poured in.
And once he had enough food and materials… Domeric could go right back to raising troops without restraint.
At Domeric's instruction, his chief knight, Ser Wendel, immediately began mass recruitment among the homeless, the mountain clansmen, and the wildlings.
The terms were lavish:
Food, shelter, and a wife provided—support for wife and children, and even care for one's mother.
Meat at every meal, bellies filled, and generous compensation for the fallen.
Under such temptation, more and more people flocked to the Lonely Mountain.
The population across the region surged from the original one hundred thousand to nearly one hundred fifty thousand.
Development jumped from the "fast lane" into the "passing lane."
…
"This is what you brought me?"
Domeric stared at the ragged, stunted, skinny smallfolk before him, fighting the urge to turn around and leave.
"My lord, they were selected exactly according to your requirements," Ser Wendel said, counting on his fingers. "Men who've lived in the city can't be used. Men who like fancy flourishes can't be used. Over forty can't be used. Boasters and loud talkers can't be used. Cowards can't be used. Men who are too pale can't be used. Men with extreme temperaments can't be used…
Strong arms, solid muscle, clear eyes, looks honest, long limbs, and—importantly—afraid of their lord…
I checked carefully!"
In summary, Domeric wanted:
Strong-limbed, obedient, hard-working men—law-abiding, compliant, capable of enduring hardship, willing to fight hard and charge without fear of death.
It was straight out of General Qi Jiguang's recruiting doctrine.
But this batch truly was worse than the previous intakes. Domeric shook his head.
Fine. In a world with productivity this low, even eating one's fill was difficult; poor growth was common.
"Do we have two thousand?" Domeric asked.
"Apologies, my lord. Only about one thousand. I did everything I could."
"Then it will have to do," Domeric said, forcing a nod.
It also made him realize something:
The Lonely Mountain's recruiting potential was already exhausted. He would need a new source of manpower—such as beyond the Wall, among the unruly wildlings.
"My lord, now that we've raised another thousand… aren't we supporting too many soldiers?" Ser Jorah advised from the side.
Even with the iron trade bringing in enormous wealth, there was no need to squander it on this many men.
Domeric's shameless troop expansion made Ser Jorah—always frugal by habit—visibly uneasy.
More importantly, the Lonely Mountain simply did not need so many soldiers.
Typically, when a lord chose to wage war, he summoned his bannermen. Those bannermen summoned their own lesser bannermen, and so on.
To give a simple example: if Lord Eddard meant to go to war, he would call House Bolton, and House Bolton would call its lesser lords, who would call their knights and retainers…
Most nobles kept a core of knights and sellswords as their direct household force—the main striking power, well-armored and well-armed.
At the same time, they would levy smallfolk and farmers to support the campaign—hauling provisions, and, when necessary, filling holes in the line as fodder.
House Bolton could mobilize more than six thousand men.
That included Lord Roose's own direct force of about a thousand, and some five thousand more drawn from bannermen and knights.
Yet Domeric, on his own wealth and supplies, directly maintained three thousand soldiers—now with the newly levied thousand, it made four thousand…
Before, the mountain clans had been a threat. Now every mountain clan in the Lonely Mountain region had sworn fealty.
Ser Jorah had assumed Domeric would cut troops immediately. Instead, this "unfathomable" young lord expanded again.
Ser Jorah could not make sense of it.
"Do as I say. There's no need for further reasons," Domeric said.
He could not explain that he knew what was coming.
In a few months, the story would begin.
And the War of the Five Kings—the conflict that would reshuffle all power across Westeros—would erupt.
If he did not raise troops now, then when war came, it would already be too late.
"But we're severely lacking junior officers," Ser Jorah pressed.
"These men have strength, yes—but they're ignorant. They can't read dispatches, can't understand orders, and they've had no professional training. How are they supposed to help us command soldiers?"
Domeric nodded. "That is a problem."
Then he said, "Write to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Have him select some officers from the Night's Watch to send us.
In exchange, I'll supply them with large quantities of provisions—bread, cheese, prawns, caviar, wine, and foods they never get to taste…"
The Night's Watch was the order sworn to defend the Wall.
Once, service at the Wall was considered an honor, proof of selfless duty. Many knights and men of birth had willingly taken the black.
But in the present day, most recruits came from the Watch's recruiters—wandering crows—who took men from dungeons…
Joining the Watch had gradually become a way to escape the king's law.
Disgraced nobles, cast-off lordlings, bastards, criminals—many were "encouraged" to take the black.
The membership was mixed, but there were always men of real talent among them.
"But they've sworn vows. They can't leave the Wall. And the Watch is already desperately undermanned—and the wildlings beyond the Wall are growing in number…"
Ser Jorah looked conflicted. Though he had sworn fealty to Domeric, the Lord Commander at Castle Black was his own father, and he could not help but consider him.
Domeric smiled faintly. "Vows exist to be broken.
And it won't be the first time.
As for the wildlings—tell the Lord Commander not to worry."
He looked at the knight without expression, cold light like drawn steel hidden in his eyes.
"In one month, I will personally lead every soldier of the Lonely Mountain to reinforce the Wall, wipe out the wildling threat beyond it, and take the King-Beyond-the-Wall—Mance Rayder—alive."
…
"Th-that…"
"As you command, my lord," Ser Jorah said, bowing his head deeply.
He had thought Domeric's promise to help his father deal with wildlings was merely polite talk.
After all, across all Westeros, no noble wanted to do such thankless work.
What did wildlings have to do with them?
Until the Wall truly fell, no one believed it ever could.
But this young lord was serious.
To lead an army beyond the Wall, fight wildlings, and capture the "King-Beyond-the-Wall" alive—none of that would be easy.
Ser Jorah Mormont suddenly felt his blood surge.
It had been a long time since he had felt that.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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