"From this day forward, you are my personal bodyguard."
"As you command, my lord."
Just like that, Benita's role changed—from handmaid to Domeric's sworn shadow, always at his side.
With the unexpected "mage incident" behind them, life in the Hornwood Hills returned to routine. Domeric's days fell back into order.
…
The Hornwood Hills, the Foundry Complex.
Domeric took Benita and a file of guards down a long corridor carved through the rock, heading for the busiest, loudest place in all of the Hornwood Hills.
The foundry's stonework seemed to trap heat itself; even the air felt warm and baked, and hot breath rolled out through every crack in the doors and shutters.
The entire complex had been built into the mountain. The surrounding rock had been cut through and opened up, linking countless sword-forges into one sprawling, roaring workshop.
When a smith lit a furnace, it took eight or nine apprentices working beside him—drawing the fire, feeding fuel, packing clay, hammering, quenching, grinding…
Every stage had to flow into the next, and timing mattered. Miss the window, and you ruined the best moment for heating or cooling.
Domeric walked into the blistering air, followed the winding passage deeper, and stopped at a forge-room near the very back.
At a signal, his guards shoved open the heavy door. At once, the hammering of hot metal and the sharp crackle of red coals became deafeningly clear.
"Seven hells! Which bastard opened that door? Don't you know you're letting the heat out?"
"And who in the—"
A half-naked apprentice turned with a snarl—then his eyes went wide. "My lord?"
"I'm here to inspect your work," Domeric said mildly. "No need for ceremony."
Even so, the apprentices dropped what they were doing and surged forward as one, kneeling in a tight cluster before him.
Some were homeless refugees. Some were mountain clansmen who had been bled dry by brutal levies. Some had been wildlings living on the edge of survival.
Domeric had given them new lives—warm beds, full bellies, and days that did not demand they stare down beasts and winter with bare hands.
In Westeros, productivity was so low that for common folk, eating their fill was not a small thing.
Step outside the castles of the great houses and you could find refugees with rags for clothing, starving to death in the streets—so many that a grim trade had become common: corpse-collectors.
Their work was simple: every day, drag away the dead who collapsed roadside and burn the bodies.
Even King's Landing had plenty of them.
"Thank you, my lord, for work and bread!"
"My lord is the living image of the gods!"
"Without my lord, there'd be no light in Westeros!"
"Westeros had my lord before the sky was ever born!"
…
One after another they sang his praises, each boast more outrageous than the last. Domeric chuckled and had coins handed out.
"Quiet! Do you lot not know the rules of a forge?"
A sudden bark snapped through the room. The apprentices fell silent at once, standing stiffly with their heads bowed.
A stout old man stepped out, hands clasped behind his back.
He was the Hornwood Hills' master smith—Donal Noye.
Noye's nose was wide and flattened, his chin heavy with black beard. His left sleeve was pinned up at the shoulder—he had only one arm, severed at the shoulder. To keep his balance, his body leaned slightly to one side when he walked.
He had once been the Night's Watch's smith. He still worked iron—and worked it extremely well. Even with one arm, he was powerfully built, able to lift a massive hammer with ease.
"Seven save me… you bastards deserve to starve!"
Noye cursed the apprentices for flattering a lord instead of focusing on the steel.
They took the abuse without a word, none daring to answer.
Noye looked them up and down, still not satisfied, and bellowed again, "Back to work! I'll inspect every blade you've made—any bastard who fails my measure, I'll take it out of his hide!"
The apprentices scattered like men reprieved from the gallows.
Then Domeric drew a letter from his cloak. "A message for you—Commander Mormont's seal."
Noye glanced at it, grunted, and said only, "Hmph." Truth be told, he could barely read. Later he would have someone literate speak the words aloud.
Before he took the black, Noye had served House Baratheon.
He was the smith who forged King Robert's warhammer—and Stannis's first sword.
Noye had once spoken a famous line about the Baratheon brothers:
"If Robert is true steel, then Stannis is pure iron—black, hard, and strong, but brittle too. Like iron, he'll snap before he bends. And Renly… Renly is bright copper—pretty to look at, but not worth much."
…
"You've been riding high lately, Lord Domeric," Noye said, head tilted, one hand planted on his hip. Each word came out through his nose, blunt and sharp.
"I hear you've taken yourself a pretty thing for a bodyguard. Tell me—when you're not pushing parchment in the hall, are you having that lovely guard rub your feet… warm your bed… that sort of thing?"
He chuckled—mocking, insolent.
Benita flushed scarlet. Several guards bristled, glaring.
Even Wendell, normally coarse-mouthed himself, frowned. "Noye. You shouldn't speak to Lord Domeric that way."
"It's fine," Domeric said, unbothered. "That's Noye. He likes to take jabs at lords… and speaking of which—this is a small token."
He handed over an iron flask.
Noye took it, studied it, then twisted the lid and sniffed. His expression shifted. "Milk of the poppy?"
Domeric smiled faintly. "Oldtown stock. Use it sparingly. If you run short, come to me."
Milk of the poppy—an opaque, milky draught.
Maesters distilled it from poppy sap; its color was pure white, hence the name.
In Westeros it was used to dull pain—or to put a man under. Even those suffering terrible agony could drink it and fall asleep quickly.
Noye had once been a soldier. He had fought in many battles for House Baratheon. During the siege of Storm's End, an axe-wound festered in his arm until it rotted—so they took the arm at the shoulder.
In old age, Noye had developed crippling rheumatism. When rain or wind rolled in, the nights became torment.
Noye tucked the flask into his clothes. The hard edge in his eyes softened; his tone warmed.
"You've got some sense in you, boy. You didn't come all this way just to hand me medicine, did you?"
"Not solely. There's business."
"Then don't waste my time—"
Noye called an apprentice over. Before the boy could even open his mouth, Noye drove a boot into him.
"Go fetch the samples! Let the lord see what we've been working on—our newest results!"
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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