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Domeric sat at the head of the long table, cloak off, gloves discarded, sleeves rolled back. A large book lay before him, its pages already half-filled with cramped writing.
He had not slept properly since returning from his touring a week ago, and it was evident in his eyes.
Steelshanks Walton stood by his left, arms crossed, preferring to stand rather than sit like the other gathered men.
Maester Coleman, also on the left, hovered at the table's edge, ink-stained fingers scrummaging as he arranged the parchment Domeric had previously demanded. The Essosi, starting with four of the seven Braavosi, sat to Domeric's right, followed by the Pentoshi brothers, the Summer Islander, and the dismissed maester from Oldtown—a man in his fifties called Maester Rigmont.
The remaining Essosi retinue sat on the left alongside Coleman with the other stewards of the Dreadfort.
A strange council for any Northern hall.
And Domeric liked it that way.
He was watching them—every twitch, every look, their demeanors—as they conversed among themselves. He didn't disparage discussions in his presence, even when they were amongst each other, so long as they were constructive. Which they mostly were. But he gestured to Walton to have them quiet down.
"His Lord is ready to start this meeting!" Walton gravelled loudly.
Their attention turned to Domeric, and silence reigned.
"We've now seen every village, town, holdfast, hamlet, piece of infrastructure—everything of value or potential value under Bolton rule," he began.
"And what I saw was a disgusting truth."
He drummed his fingers across the ledger.
"I am ruling a dying domain."
Coleman flinched at the bluntness.Thinking: there he goes again.
The Essosi listened keenly, not saying a word.
Domeric continued.
"Kale Marsh: fields salted by flood, barely enough goats to survive the remainder of this winter, a smithy with tools older than Robert's Rebellion—and perhaps older than that."
One of the Pentoshi murmured, "A drainage plan is sound for some of these areas, my lord. But it will take labor. Much labor."
"I know," Domeric said. "But it will, and shall, happen no matter the cost."
He turned the book's page.
"Heatherfields: blight-struck. Soil stripped. Sheep lost. A windmill rotting on its post, one of many rotting throughout this land."
"If I may, my lord: you and I, among a few others here, have discussed the wonders of crop rotation and planting suitable foods for harsh climates like this heavily back in the Eyrie. We even tested its practicality. I know we are limited in tools and proper farming materials for now, but I believe the agricultural needs must be put as priority above all else. By your order, I propose we begin immediately with this reform: ash-based soil recovery and proper composting….yes, even dung. By then, the Heatherfields and all like it can produce again within two or three harvests."
"A sound plan, Scholar Rigmont. But once we have fully reviewed and properly calibrated the resources necessary and the manpower needed, not only for agriculture but for construction, finances, and infrastructural development, among other categories….then we'll dive all in. That I can assure you."
Big words, foreign words to some.
The man nodded, easing back.
Some would wonder why he called Rigmont scholar, but Domeric saw the older man as one…., by academia and by merit. It wasn't much of a title, but Domeric always addressed him as such, and the former maester appreciated it.
"One thing I will also say is that the people are willing," Domeric agreed. "But will alone doesn't raise timber or rebuild gears. We need more stonemasons, more learned men, carpenters, metalsmiths, millwrights— as many as possible."
The Lysene banker, Treygar Caro, cleared his throat.
"With coin, anything can be arranged. More skilled men from the East could be ferried across. Braavos, being closest, has hundreds willing, if the coin is right."
Domeric shot him a smile.
Caro read his mind perfectly.
"Then we shall see that done as well. Make plans to see it happen, Master Caro."
"And on the matter of coin, that was the next topic. We are not limited in it, at least not anymore. For those of you here who don't know, during my absence and tenure in the Eyrie. I made investments south and across the narrow sea. These investments have increased my wealth to heights I thought previously impossible. And with this, most if not all of it will be reinvested into my lands and its people."
A many nodded in approval that statement.
"So, going forward, coin will not— and shall not—be an issue. Master Caro here is in charge of the Dreadfort's treasury. Its coffers and all major financial decisions and transactions shall go through him. Those who have worked in the coffers will be reassigned under his guidance. Anyone who has an issue with this may speak now or forever hold their peace."
No one spoke, though a few grumbles rippled quietly.
"Good."
"Now, back to the matter at hand. The North lacks an industry. It brings in more than it exports. And worse: we, here in this domain, have hardly anything noteworthy to export. For that, we need industry. Structure. Production. Something dependable. Like the Arbor's wine, like the Tyrells' grain and foodstuffs."
"We need our own."
"We have a large amount of natural resources. It is now up to us to turn this into a , highly desired, easy to supply, and highly exported products . From food to steel, furs, meats, lumber, liquor—perhaps even ice. Recommendations have been made by some here, and to see these industries come to fruition, the repair of our.…. common folk's infrastructure, our financial system, and standard of living comes first."
He nodded to the Pentoshi brothers.
"Your report on the river villages?"
"Of course my lord"
The older brother stepped forward.
"The Weeping Water is underused. Half a dozen fishing hamlets operate without coordination. Poor nets. Poor boats. No preservation methods. No smokehouses. They catch barely enough to feed themselves, let alone sell in profitable numbers."
The younger added, "But if organized, fish could be salted, traded upriver, sent to Winterfell, Barrowton, even White Harbor in excess."
Domeric nodded slowly.
"A proper fishing industry, then."
"Yes my lord"
He scribbled a note.
"Smokehouses, cooperages for barrels, salt reserves, cold pits. And boats, simple to build, if we provide the timber."
"We've plenty of timber," another said.
"And waste half of it," Domeric shot back.
"Using Frostholt's practices as example, the regular lumberyards likely destroy more timber than they use. With proper cutting angles and drying sheds, we can double their output."
Edric Pike's expression from last week returned vividly to Domeric's mind.
"We will standardize timber processing," he declared. "A uniform method across the domain."
"A wise move, my lord," one of the Braavosi said approvingly.
"There is also the matter of the iron pits at Hardbarrow," Domeric said.
Coleman blinked in surprise.
"My lord—those pits have not been touched in… several years."
"Exactly," Domeric said. "They're flooded, the scaffolding collapsed, and the old foremen have died."
Another Braavosi stepped forward—Marlo Horan, an engineer and geologist by modern standards, if he could be called that.
"I inspected the stone, my lord. The ore is still good. Not a rich vein, but steady—enough to refine into nails, hinges, tools, plows. Useful things. And I have explored other areas where larger iron veins lie, which would be a great boon. Better yet, we've found traces of silver. We should find the vein itself in the coming days."
This was all good, Domeric thought, rubbing his chin then his hands in optimism.
'And with his plan to develop six large water-powered bloomeries on the Weeping Water. Not only would this meet the iron and steel needs of the bolton lands, but he could also export the necessary tools, equipment, and materials for profit enough to improve this drab land out of the mud, steel scythes, plows, hammers, anvils, hooks, precision tools, beams, rods, weapons, and more.
Coleman stared wide-eyed at this discussion.
"My lord… this is ambitious."
"As it should be. I will not settle for less," Domeric replied.
Moving on, he turned another page.
"The fur villages, Deepwood Trail, Mossreath, and the hunter cabins near the Bolton borders. What are the findings?"
One of the Summer Islanders stood. A tall, handsome, ebony-skinned man called Xillan. A former hunter and merchant, Xillan had been part of the fur trade for over fifteen years, traveling to places most wouldn't dare to roam. It was through his trip to Gulltown that he first met Domeric. He was a smart man, a skilled sailor, and passionate about his trade.
"This land has some excellent trappers, my lord. Great hunters. But they have terrible preservation methods. Some furs rot in storage. They lack proper tanning racks, oil mixtures, and ,worse….. proper trade links."
The dismissed maester added, "But if taught better curing methods, their output could double, no doubt?"
"Of course. That is an uncontested outcome," the Summer Islander answered.
Domeric's eyes gleamed like moonlight on a lake.
"And fur," Xillan added, "is one of the few Northern goods Essosi traders value highly."
"And I have contacts in Braavos, my lord. Buyers who would pay handsomely to establish a proper trade route," the Lysene banker interjected.
"Then add fur processing to the list," Domeric said. "With proper salt, oils, drying sheds, and tanners."
He looked around the room.
Faces once wary were now eager. Talk of money had them invested.
Good.
He intended to change many things. A Bolton domain not feared for cruelty… but respected for power.
A domain that produced, traded, built, exported.
A domain that grew richer every year.
Domeric closed the ledger.
"Now," he said, "we come to the question that decides everything."
His cold grey eyes swept the room.
Labor.
Coin.
Time.
"Which should we tackle first?"
Many shifted at the question.
"You're not thinking to do all of this at once…" Coleman said, half-gasping.
"I am," Domeric replied, making the man pale.
Silence fell.
He rose smoothly, pushing back his chair.
"We will begin with three pillars. Everything else follows from them."
He raised a hand, counting off each one.
"One — Infrastructure:
More farms and developed farmland, glasshouses, drains, roads, messenger offices, mills, forts, mines, bridges, aqueducts, bloomeries, timber camps, fishing operations, smokehouses, smithies—both private and public—carpentry workshops, alehouses, bathhouses, fletchers' shops, markets, sick houses, domestic and social housing, etc."
He drew a deep breath afterward.
It was a mouthful—and he had still left a few things unspoken.
"Two — Production:
Tools, lumber, fish, fur, cured hides, grain, liquor, steel, weapons and armor, ice, oil, butter, salted meats, iron, copper, tin, silver, salt, flour, gems, all valuable metals and minerals, peat, and coal."
"Three — Finance."
He looked straight at the Lysene banker.
"You will design a system of accounts, ledgers, proper administrations across all tenets, fair taxation for all, and controlled investments. No more scattered coins. No more disappearing tithes. No wastage. We record everything. We track everything."
The banker bowed deeply.
"It will be done."
"Then we shall begin."
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