The song was nearing its end.
The music climbed into its final, soaring passage—then abruptly rose another step, sharper, higher.
Wynafryd spun faster and faster, like a white cloud caught in a sudden gale.
Just as the crowd's eyes began to blur, the music cut off.
Wynafryd slid one step and stopped—flawlessly returning from violent motion to perfect stillness.
The dance was over.
A soft "thud."
As if the whole performance had drained every last ounce of strength from her, Wynafryd collapsed onto the floorboards, dead drunk.
"Bravo!"
"Beautiful!"
"Hey, sweetheart, I'm coming!"
"I've got money—let me go first!"
…
The tavern snapped out of its trance and screamed, surging toward the stage in a frenzy—only to be blocked by Domeric and several guards stationed around Wynafryd.
Facing a crowd on the edge of losing its mind, Domeric's scalp prickled as he cursed inwardly.
Women really were trouble.
Suddenly—several figures used the chaos, deliberately kicking over tables and snuffing lamps. Darkness swallowed the room. People couldn't see. The riot turned into pure, blind disorder.
"Zing!"
A crossbow string snapped.
Several of Domeric's guards dropped on the spot.
Then—"crack!" Wood exploded. A wheel of cold light flashed out from beneath the stage like a thunderbolt.
In the dim moonlight, Domeric saw him clearly.
A masked giant, gripping a massive, wheel-bladed axe. Tall, broad, dense as an ox. Half-inch chest hair matted into a rug. Muscles bulged in slabs—three ordinary men tied together wouldn't match his frame.
The masked brute hit the crowd like a tiger, splinters spraying as he forced his way through.
In an instant, the tavern filled with screams. Blood ran across the floorboards like a spring. Spilled lamp oil caught and the whole place ignited—flames roaring upward.
"Ambush! Engage!" Wendell roared, his voice forcing a shred of order back into the room, but it was too late—panic had already broken the formation. The crowd scattered everyone apart.
Then came a heavy, sickening impact.
Not far from Domeric, the bard—along with his harp—was split clean in half.
Blood burst upward. In the firelight, the man dropped to his knees, his body sagging apart, entrails spilling onto the boards.
As the flames grew, all Domeric saw was a pair of eyes—red, hungry, predatory.
He realized immediately.
This man was coming for him.
Two guards rushed in.
In front of that monstrous axe, they were nothing.
Steel rang with a brutal clang. Sparks and iron filings flew.
Then the sound of an axe biting flesh, grinding bone—
A nightmare noise that nearly froze the blood in your veins.
One swing.
One guard was gone—cut through with shield, weapon, and body all at once.
Pure violence. Pure slaughter.
He's strong.
That was Domeric's first assessment.
"We can talk," Domeric said, trying the tongue first. "Tell me who hired you. I'll pay triple. You know no one in the North has more coin than I do—"
"Bring me your head," the brute rasped. Cold. Hoarse. Almost emotionless. "Then we'll talk."
"Then…" The light in Domeric's eyes dimmed slightly. He exhaled, almost tired. "I'm not interested in persuading a dead man. That's that."
The moment the words left his mouth, Domeric moved.
His speed was lightning—leaving only a smear of afterimage.
From the first step, he went all-out.
He knew a man like this didn't allow the slightest slack.
Anyone who truly knew blade work understood one basic truth: for a right-handed fighter, the hardest angle to cover is the lower right.
Grip and mechanics. Changing the line of attack costs time.
Domeric attacked from the right.
He lunged in, slipping the axe cut, and as he swept past the man's flank, he drove his sheathed blade hard toward the eye socket—
And missed.
The brute was huge, but his movement was fast—absurdly fast. He dodged clean.
People loved the illusion that big men were clumsy.
Some were. Others were even more agile.
Domeric closed again.
The masked man snapped his arms and whipped that wheel-axe around, trying to shred Domeric into meat.
Light and shadow flickered—
And Domeric vanished from his sight.
When the firelight caught him again—
A clear "clang," like a dragon's cry.
Steel slid from the scabbard, the blade bright as water.
The flames split under a gust of wind. Wood chips screamed across the floor.
Firelight ran along the sword, reflecting Domeric's face—and the killing intent in his eyes.
The brute didn't even have time to react.
In a heartbeat, his right forearm—half of it—along with the hand gripping the axe, flew into the air in a spray of blood.
A tearing agony hit.
Another slash came.
He raised his remaining left arm to block—
Too late.
The blade swept through like a storm.
He felt his throat tighten.
Then the world flipped.
He saw his own headless body kneeling on the floor.
His vision blurred.
Then everything crashed into darkness.
Domeric flicked his blade in a perfect semicircle. Blood fanned out.
He sheathed the sword.
For a moment, even the fire seemed to pause—leaving only Domeric standing there, hair disordered from the burst of movement, eyes deep as the sea.
He walked to the dying brute, plucked a single hair while there was still a breath left—
The system triggered.
Heracles
Identity: Sellsword from Essos
Title: Berserker
Strength: 95
Agility: 62
Spirit: 40
Combat Index: 197
Note: Target is dead. You cannot probe his secrets.
An Essosi sellsword with a combat index of 197?
A mercenary that strong was rare even across the Narrow Sea.
Someone had paid an obscene price to buy Domeric's life.
Domeric's eyes narrowed as he thought—then he searched the brute's clothes and found a dagger and a sealed letter.
The dagger bore a direwolf.
The letter was written in the voice of the Warden of the North—Lord Eddard Stark.
Interesting.
So the North wasn't nearly as peaceful as it liked to pretend.
Someone clearly didn't want House Bolton and House Stark to marry.
This assassination was meant to collapse the betrothal—and to frame Eddard at the same time.
If it succeeded and Domeric died, the alliance died with him, and the two houses might even turn on each other.
If it failed, the direwolf dagger and the forged letter would still point straight at Winterfell, planting suspicion and breeding conflict.
A good scheme.
In Westeros, this was first-rate work.9
Domeric pocketed both dagger and letter, smiling coldly.
He wasn't the type to wait ten years to settle a grudge.
His faith was simpler: if you have a feud, repay it tonight—otherwise you itch.
…
By now the tavern was fully ablaze, the exits clogged.
Domeric hoisted the unconscious, wine-drunk Wynafryd onto his shoulder and sprinted up the stairs. If a door blocked him, he shaved off the lock with his blade and kicked it open.
Up and up—until he reached the top floor.
Cool night wind hit his face. The dark landscape howled beneath it.
Above the sea of firelight, a clean white moon hung in the sky.
Not a full moon, but the moisture in the air made its light unusually pale.
Looking at that moon, feeling the cold wind, it was as if every irritation washed away.
Domeric felt… good.
The sudden attempt on his life already seemed like it belonged to another world.
When he climbed down by rope and landed near the tavern's front—
Two smooth, pale arms wrapped around his neck.
A light laugh breathed into his ear.
"Did you ever like me?"
Wynafryd was awake.
"What?" Domeric pretended the wind was too loud to hear.
"I'm asking a stupid question." Wynafryd lifted her head slightly and looked him in the eyes. "Did you ever like me?"
Domeric's gaze darkened.
Wynafryd found it strange—his reaction didn't make her angry.
Instead, there was something in his eyes that made her want to reach in and feel around, to find out what was hidden there.
"Why won't you lie to me?" she asked softly. "Like you used to."
"I don't know how to say it." Domeric's chin lifted a fraction, his eyes focusing into something hard and quiet. "I feel like someone like me can't ever be pure. And I'm too greedy."
"I'd like to lie to you," he admitted, "but then your eyes look like that…"
He paused.
"Besides… feelings that have to be explained usually aren't feelings. Your question is too hard."
"Even I don't know the answer."
Wynafryd gave a small, breathy laugh.
"Honestly… you could've just lied to me."
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort has 30 chapters ahead available on Patreon! 🐺🩸
Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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