Winterfell, the great hall.
The floor was laid with ebony so polished it could mirror a man's reflection. Whale-oil candles as thick as a forearm burned bright. More than a dozen massive statues—armored, spears in hand—stood around the hall, while chandeliers hung high from the vaulted ceiling.
Serving girls moved lightly, coming and going in an endless stream.
Rare delicacies—things most people never tasted in their lives—rested quietly on copper-and-wood tables, waiting for whoever was lucky enough to reach them.
If Domeric weren't footing the entire bill for this betrothal feast, the smiles on the Stark family's faces would have turned into pained spasms.
Before the feast began…
After Lord Eddard and Lord Roose gave their speeches, Domeric took Sansa's hand and, under the witness of the gods—a great weirwood—accepted the congratulations of the northern lords.
Then the feast began.
The nobles broke into small circles.
Well-dressed ladies and noblewomen laughed like silver bells. Lords and heirs—some in formal dress, some in fine leather armor—clustered in groups of two or three, talking in low voices.
After the first dance, Sansa—the heroine of the betrothal—was swept away by a flock of noble girls. Jon was deep in conversation with old Winterfell acquaintances. Wendell, the chief knight, was eating like a starving bear. Benita, Domeric's personal guard, had vanished. And his former pen-pal Wynafryd treated him like air.
Left with no better option, Domeric got dragged by Robb into the circle of northern heirs.
A ring of a dozen young nobles—each the heir of some northern castle, the second-generation highborn.
Cley Cerwyn, heir to House Cerwyn, a fourteen-year-old boy.
Robett Glover of Deepwood Motte—tall and lean, sharp-featured, with a tangle of gray-brown hair. A sword at his hip, and a deep red cloak clasped at the shoulder with a heavy silver brooch shaped like an iron fist. Since Lord Glover's brother had no sons, Robett was the heir.
Benfred Tallhart of Torrhen's Square—a tall young man with a thick neck.
…
"Ser Domeric—congratulations." Cley Cerwyn raised the first toast.
Domeric didn't put on airs. He returned it politely.
"Congratulations, Ser Domeric."
"Lady Sansa truly is the flower of the North…"
…
Domeric's rise among the young nobility had been too fast, too bright. It bred resentment. Aside from the Starks, he'd never really fit in with these boys.
Still, he kept to noble courtesy, and none of them dared offend him openly—he was the Dreadfort's heir and Lord Eddard's future goodson.
But among nobles, there were always those who didn't know their place.
That was when a hostile voice reached his ear.
"They say Ser Domeric's swordsmanship is unmatched, that Lord Eddard called you 'the finest swordsman in the North.' Is that true?"
The speaker was Benfred Tallhart—nineteen, broad and rough, the typical long-faced northman with a thick neck and a nasty look. His words carried a sour bite.
It was said the boy was a devoted admirer of "the flower of the North," Sansa Stark—dreaming of taking her as his wife.
Too bad House Tallhart was too small to even offer. They weren't fit to do more than carry House Stark's boots.
Jealousy curdled into spite. Benfred might as well have had I'm here to start something carved into his face.
"It's true," Domeric said.
Lord Eddard was right there in the hall speaking with Roose and other lords. If Domeric denied it, he'd be slapping Eddard's face.
"Oh." Benfred wasn't surprised. He pointed at the stone pillar outside the hall.
"Then your archery must be just as good. Can you shoot the candle on top of that pillar from here? One arrow."
Archery was a required skill for nobles, sure—but how Benfred's mind jumped from "best swordsman" to "surely a master archer" was anyone's guess.
And the distance from the hall to that pillar was long—at least a hundred and fifty paces.
Hitting a candle at that range was basically the "shoot the halberd at the gate" kind of feat.
"Sorry. I'm not much of a shot," Domeric said evenly. "At a hundred paces I might miss armor, let alone something that small at that distance."
Robett Glover drifted in with a grin. "Let it go. Lord Eddard boasting about his future goodson is normal. It's Ser Domeric's betrothal feast—don't make it ugly."
"If you won't even loose an arrow, then that 'finest swordsman' title is empty. Give it to someone else!" Benfred snarled.
Robb bristled. "What's that supposed to mean? Who can hit a candle that far?"
Domeric understood immediately.
One was playing the villain, the other the reasonable friend—working together to squeeze him.
With this kind of provocation, you either ignore it completely, or you crush it hard.
Otherwise they buzz around you like flies, circling your head until you can't stand it.
Seeing Domeric go quiet, Benfred pressed harder. "Have Lord Eddard take back his words, then. 'The finest swordsman in the North'—turns out he's a coward."
Robett laughed along. "Ha. So it's just a reputation."
Domeric looked troubled, like he was being forced. "It's not that I won't—there's just no bow worth using."
"I have one!" Benfred straightened and strode off.
When he came back, he was carrying a longbow—clearly prepared.
The bow was lacquer-black, a fine warbow, and the string held a faint reddish sheen—made from something unusual.
A good bow, no question.
"Well…" Domeric took a sip of wine and started to back away, muttering loudly enough for the heirs to hear.
"Even if I hit it, what do I gain? And if I miss, I lose face for nothing. Not worth it."
Benfred saw him edging behind a pillar like he wanted to hide, and hurried to block him.
"Ser Domeric thinks there's no prize?" Robett Glover's eyes sharpened like a shark catching blood.
"Fine. I'll stake two hundred gold dragons. If you hit it, the coin is yours. If you miss, you take off that 'finest swordsman in the North' title in front of Lord Eddard and all the lords."
At that, the other heirs perked up and moved closer.
They weren't necessarily hoping Domeric would fail—this was just the kind of spectacle you didn't miss.
"I'll put up a hundred!"
"Fifty!"
"One-fifty!"
"Two hundred!"
…
Benfred had been choking on envy since the feast began—his beloved Sansa stolen out from under him.
Now that he finally had a chance to humiliate Domeric, he wasn't letting go.
"I'll… I'll stake two—one hundred gold dragons," Benfred said after hesitating, remembering his empty purse.
"Ser Robett is staking two hundred," Domeric said, sounding oddly focused on the numbers. "You started this, and you're only putting up a hundred?"
"I only brought a hundred," Benfred snapped, neck thickening.
Domeric's gaze flicked over him. "That horse outside is decent. And that leather armor—southern work. Worth a fair bit."
"Fine!" Benfred barked. "The horse and the armor too!"
He wasn't worried. At this distance, Domeric couldn't possibly hit the candle. The wagers were just words—free pride.
Only once the stakes were set did the "trapped" Domeric finally step forward.
He handed his winecup to Benfred, speaking like he was ordering a servant.
"Hold this."
Benfred stiffened. He didn't want to—but the thought of watching Domeric embarrass himself made him swallow it.
He took the cup, without realizing he'd just been turned into a cupbearer.
The archery wager drew the whole hall.
Ladies in bright gowns, courteous lords, knights, squires—
Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, Roose, Wyman Manderly, Lady Dustin…
Even Sansa and Arya, and Wynafryd, all turned to look.
Veteran knights and men-at-arms crowded in too—men who knew what it meant to hit a candle on a pillar from that distance.
Wendell, face still shiny with grease from the feast, suddenly felt his stomach drop.
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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! 📢
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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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