Wendell and the rest of the guards arrived late. Fortunately, Domeric had never entrusted his own safety to that pot-bellied chief knight in the first place.
After handing the drunken Wynafryd over to Benita to look after, Domeric led his guards back into the chaos to continue hunting down the attackers.
But they gained little—only a dozen or so men in black were captured.
After an interrogation, Domeric learned that the masked brute now roasting over the fire had been the organizer of the assassination attempt—and the only person who actually knew the full story. The rest were just temporary hands: street trash, petty thieves, and scum-for-hire.
The trail ended there.
"Behead them."
At Domeric's order, the black-clad men kneeling in a row were decapitated on the spot. Blood gushed from their necks like fountains, splashing down in thick streams…
It was already dark, and the entire Smoke & Cinder Inn had been burned to the ground. There wasn't another inn within dozens of miles.
So Domeric and his men had no choice but to pitch tents and camp out in the open.
Night deepened.
The firepit's wood was nearly spent, leaving only a weak tongue of flame. The firelight made the surroundings waver and blur.
Inside the tent, Domeric lay with his hands behind his head, turning over and over, still unable to sleep.
He toyed with the dagger engraved with a direwolf, thinking.
He remembered how, in the canon events, Lady Catelyn had relied on a dagger left behind by an assassin—and Littlefinger's unverified words—to seize Tyrion Lannister, directly igniting the Stark–Lannister conflict and indirectly getting her husband and son killed.
Domeric wasn't about to be that stupid—waving a dagger around and storming into Winterfell to demand justice.
That would only drag northern tensions into the open. It would do nothing to uncover the truth, and it would only muddy the water.
So which house had planned this assassination?
Clearly, they didn't want House Bolton and House Stark to marry.
A few figures surfaced in Domeric's mind—Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square, House Cerwyn of Cerwyn Castle…
Any of them could be involved. Until he had enough evidence, Domeric couldn't afford to jump to conclusions.
…
The next day.
On both sides of Winterfell's gate were crowds of beggars, wandering whores, and shouting peddlers.
In the morning air, the hammering rang out. A mass of unauthorized buildings clung to the city wall like barnacles stuck to a ship's hull—granaries, mess halls, warehouses, shops, taverns, and cheap brothel stalls.
Winterfell itself looked much the same as it had the last time Domeric came.
At the gate, Jon stood together with his brothers Robb and Bran to welcome him.
"Domeric, I heard you were attacked on the road." Jon hurried over at once. He'd been sent ahead to Winterfell early to help with engagement preparations.
"How vile. I'll bring men and hunt down the killer immediately."
Honest to a fault, Robb was seething. He didn't want his future goodbrother thinking his lands couldn't keep order.
"It wasn't that. There was no attack—just an accidental fire. The innkeeper lit his own place up by mistake, and we got caught in it. That's all."
"So that's what happened!"
Hearing Domeric's tone and seeing no sign of deceit, Robb finally relaxed. He didn't want anything "ill-omened" happening right before the betrothal feast.
"Yes, yes—just the innkeeper burning down his own inn," Wendell bellowed from the side, eagerly echoing the story.
Domeric had already warned him harshly: not a word about the assassination attempt to anyone—including his fat father, Lord Wyman.
The party was quickly escorted into the castle.
Along Winterfell's walls, dark stone blocks were stacked together, heavy with history.
Time had sunk into them—perhaps every stone, every crack, hid a piece of long-forgotten years.
Domeric entered the Great Hall with the others.
Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn, and several northern nobles who had arrived early all came forward to greet him. They'd clearly been waiting.
Domeric saluted Lord Eddard as a vassal, then stepped forward and kissed Lady Catelyn's hand.
Catelyn Tully was only in her thirties—auburn hair, blue eyes, long fingers, her former beauty still very much intact.
This famous "Cat" was the key force behind the Bolton–Stark match—the one who could sway Eddard at any time.
"My lady, time has left no mark on you. You only grow more beautiful."
"You sweet boy—you really know how to talk," Lady Catelyn replied warmly, clearly already treating Domeric as family.
Ever since the marriage alliance was settled, her smile hadn't left her face—especially after hearing Domeric had brought more than ten wagons loaded with gifts. That only made her beam brighter.
House Tully's words were "Family, Duty, Honor," and in Catelyn's heart, her children's happiness was beyond price.
They say a mother looks at her future goodson and likes him more the longer she looks.
Lady Catelyn grew ever more convinced she'd been right: her eldest daughter Sansa would have a happy marriage.
The hall was lit with candles as thick as a man's arm. Courteous servants moved through the crowd. The long tables were covered in rich foods rarely seen on ordinary days.
For now, only the closest houses had arrived—Cerwyn Castle and a handful of lesser nobles.
In a few days, when the truly weighty lords of the North arrived, the grand engagement feast between House Bolton and House Stark would officially begin.
As the groom-to-be, Domeric finally escaped round after round of toasts and meaningless pleasantries. He slipped into a corner and sat down to breathe for a moment.
A man approached.
He was tall, finely dressed, his slightly graying hair combed perfectly, his expression solemn—standing out among the rough northern lords like a crane among crows.
It was Lord Medger of House Cerwyn.
House Cerwyn of Cerwyn Castle was one of House Stark's closest and strongest bannermen.
Their sigil was a sharp battle-axe on a silver field.
"Ser Domeric. It's been a long time." Lord Medger strode up. He had a decent relationship with the Boltons—and had once even tried to marry his daughter into Domeric's line, only for Lord Roose to politely refuse on the grounds that she was too old.
"You're as dignified as ever," Domeric replied politely.
Lord Medger studied him closely.
Like his father Roose, Domeric had long, narrow brows and deep eyes—calm as the sea before a storm.
The closer you stood, the more he felt like a sword kept in its sheath: quiet, restrained, and yet hiding lethal edge.
Lord Medger realized he understood this young man less and less.
A pity his daughter had been born too early.
Lord Medger raised his cup, took a slow sip, and pulled his thoughts back. "I heard you captured quite a few wildlings beyond the Wall—along with that famous King-Beyond-the-Wall. Truly impressive for one so young."
"You flatter me. It's nothing. Beyond the Wall, every wildling chieftain calls himself the King-Beyond-the-Wall…"
Domeric put on the face of a man dismissing a trifle. "For all we know, Lord Medger, if you led men north yourself, you could catch a whole dozen Kings-Beyond-the-Wall. Ha!"
"Cough—cough!"
Lord Medger choked on his wine. Bewildered, he hurriedly asked, "It's really that simple?"
"How could I lie to you?" Domeric gave him the most standard noble smile.
Maybe I'll go beyond the Wall myself one day, Lord Medger thought.
"And the wildlings? You took plenty of them too, didn't you?" he pressed. Domeric's campaign had been the talk of the North, and he wanted the first-hand truth.
"Tens of thousands. They're lazy brutes—eat like wolves and won't work. My lands can't feed them all anymore. If you want some, I can send you a batch. No wages needed—just keep them fed."
Lord Medger waved both hands at once. "No, no. My lands can't afford that many mouths."
Was he joking? If he took in wildlings who only ate and didn't work, his holdings would be eaten into poverty.
Their exchange drew a crowd. Men loved two topics above all others: women and war.
Even the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark, had been listening.
"You did well, dealing with the wildlings," Eddard said, patting Domeric's shoulder with the air of an elder. Then his tone dropped. "That should've been my duty, as Warden of the North."
Eddard fell silent, and the expressions of the nearby lords shifted at once.
The atmosphere turned dangerous.
Domeric immediately struck his right fist to his chest and gave a solemn knightly salute.
"Lord Eddard, I will always be loyal to you."
"No need for that." Eddard helped him up. "Domeric—I know you."
You don't know a damn thing.
Domeric thought it, but didn't show it. Ned always judged others by himself, forcing his Vale-knight code onto everyone around him, assuming the best—that everyone was like him.
But reality wasn't that simple.
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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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