GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

"For your safety, my lord, I advise against this," Ser Jorah said with a troubled look.

"Why?"

"Because the prisoner can use magic."

Jorah's voice was hoarse and slightly trembling, as if he were remembering something truly terrifying.

Seeing the fear in his castellan's face—fear that did not seem feigned—Domeric fell into a moment of heavy thought.

Magic.

Not like the hocus-pocus of medieval witches, who dressed in strange garb, tossed odd herbs into pots, and claimed to foresee the future or decide life and death—tricks that amounted to little more than chemical reactions and colored flames.

But in Westeros, magic was real.

It was a power widely accepted and believed in, though so rare that many still doubted its existence.

The maesters of the Citadel generally held that true magic had disappeared after the Doom of Valyria. Since that cataclysm, there had been no confirmed records of successful spellcasting.

However, Domeric had recently heard whispers. The glass candles of the Citadel had once again begun to burn with strange flames.

It was said to be a sign that magic had returned to Westeros. Lost arts—once thought no more than miracles—were reappearing.

Signs of the red comet's approach. The magic tide was rising once more.

In the original tale, warlocks in Qarth tried to have Samwell Tarly bathe in bull's blood to make him brave.

The shadowbinder Mirri sacrificed Khal Drogo's horse in an attempt to revive him. When he died, Daenerys burned Mirri alive on his pyre and, in exchange, received her dragons.

Even the Alchemists' Guild claimed their wildfire spells had become increasingly effective in recent days.

In Qarth's House of the Undying, warlocks boasted of great powers. In the shadowed lands near Asshai and along the Jade Sea, mages, witches, shadowbinders, and seers practiced their arts openly.

Domeric hadn't expected to encounter such a terrifying and uncontrollable force so soon.

"Are you certain it was magic, Ser Jorah?"

"Yes." The castellan was firm.

"What kind of magic?"

"Fire magic. It looked like an ordinary flame… but once it touched a man, he melted. His head and upper body spread across the ground like a candle burned down to the wick."

Jorah shuddered at the memory, his body visibly trembling.

"You wouldn't want to see such a thing, my lord."

Flames?

Domeric's first thought was wildfire. But wildfire was green, and its effects—though dangerous—weren't so dramatic. It was more like an enhanced version of oil, not something that could instantly melt a man.

Could it really be magic?

As that thought took root in Domeric's mind, he made a decision.

"If bringing the prisoner here is too dangerous, then we'll go to him."

"But my lord—this person can use magic. Are you certain?"

"What's the alternative? Sit here and guess endlessly? I want answers. I want to know why he—or she—attacked my mines."

Domeric kept his tone calm.

A lord's composure was the best weapon for keeping order.

Seeing his master so unflinching, Jorah too calmed down. He no longer tried to stop him and simply said, "Then we need to take safety precautions."

So Domeric donned a thick cloak stitched from the hide of some unknown beast and soaked in a pungent solution. It reeked terribly, but it was said to be flame-resistant.

...

Lonely Mountain had only one dungeon, built primarily for unruly miners. It wasn't large.

Accompanying Domeric into the depths were Ser Jorah, Ser Wendel, and a contingent of fully armored guards.

The dungeon was crude—little more than a tunnel dug into the mountain, with iron doors mounted along stone walls. The granite all around made escape nearly impossible.

Domeric had been here before. As they went deeper, the corridor narrowed, and the number of cells dwindled. But the cells grew larger, designed for more dangerous criminals.

The prisoner was held at the very end. With each step inward, the scent of lime and damp stone grew stronger.

"My lord, this is far too dangerous," said Ser Wendel. "Even chained up, we can't predict when this one might use magic."

The portly knight, second son of the Lord of White Harbor, had rushed over the moment he heard Domeric intended to conduct a direct interrogation. He hadn't stopped protesting since.

"Relax. I'm not gambling with my life," Domeric said, half-joking. "After all, I need to stay alive if I'm to marry your precious niece, Wylfryd."

"Truly?"

Wendel's eyes lit up. Ever since he heard Lady Catelyn might marry her daughter Sansa to Domeric, he'd been gloomy.

His future hinged on the success of the Lonely Mountain alliance. Only a marriage between House Manderly and House Bolton could secure his position.

Compared to the Stark girl, Domeric's interest in Wyelfyde was far more promising.

Perhaps…

Wendel began calculating. He needed to write to his father immediately and get the betrothal settled before House Stark made their move.

While he schemed, the group reached the final cell.

This chamber was far larger than the others. Two stone pillars, each nearly four meters tall, supported a wooden beam that spanned the width of the ceiling. Chains hung from it in heavy bundles.

The prisoner was bound in them, her arms tied behind her back.

Her once-elegant dress was now as filthy as a rag.

Wait.

A dress?

Domeric only now realized that the one who had used magic, who had attacked his mines and thrown his holdings into chaos—

Was a girl.

A young woman.

Despite the filth, the white dress clung tightly to her body, revealing a graceful, curving form.

Intricate golden hairpieces, a jewel-studded necklace across her chest—everything about her screamed high nobility and obscene wealth.

And yet, she looked at them now with wide, innocent eyes.

"This is the criminal you captured? The one who can use magic?" Domeric covered his face with one hand.

"Yes, Lord Domeric," Jorah affirmed beside him.

"Don't be fooled by her appearance. I saw it with my own eyes—she used that terrifying magic!"

"Alright."

With a group of guards, Domeric slowly approached the girl, shielded by reinforced shields and fireproof cloaks. Step by step, he closed the distance and then asked,

"What is your name?"

The girl looked at them all with curious eyes.

In the depths of her clear pupils, Domeric saw a reflection—of himself, bound and helpless.

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