Winter's Rest Town.
The Smoked Log Tavern.
Inside the lively tavern, a group of adventurers drank heartily, laughing and boasting loudly about their wild exploits.
"One time, I got caught in a freezing blizzard. I knew if the weather didn't clear up, I'd be dead for sure. Luckily, I stumbled across a sleeping female giant.
So I crawled inside her cloak. It was warm in there, no doubt, but the stench was unbearable.
Worst part? She woke up and thought I was her baby.
I couldn't escape for three whole months. She nursed me the entire time.
Heh, I actually kinda miss the taste of giant's milk sometimes.
Thank the gods she was in a good mood. If her husband had found me, that short-tempered brute would've torn me limb from limb."
"Oh, come on. A giant? Why didn't it just eat you?"
"Exactly. You were probably just starving and hallucinated. Dreaming about suckling at your mom's breast as a kid."
The others in the group all scoffed and laughed. The adventurer couldn't sit still—being accused of lying when he was telling the truth was too much.
"I'm serious! Not just giants—there are White Walkers beyond the Wall too!"
"White Walkers?" someone sneered. "That's a story to scare kids. No one's seen a White Walker in thousands of years."
"You… you…"
The adventurer suddenly froze, mouth wide open, eyes bulging in shock, pointing toward the tavern entrance.
Everyone turned—and the room fell silent in disbelief.
A giant, nearly four meters tall, stood at the doorway. He was clad in full metal plate armor, like a walking fortress. Every step he took rang out with metallic clinks and clanks.
He tilted his bare head slightly, trying to enter, but the tavern's entrance was only just over three meters high—it blocked his way.
With a growl of frustration, the giant smashed his fist into the top of the doorway, blasting a huge hole through the wooden frame. Then he stepped inside.
Steel scraped. Swords hissed free from scabbards. The patrons stood, trembling—this giant radiated raw power.
"Do not be alarmed. We're only here for lodging," a calm voice rang out.
Only then did the crowd notice a noble-looking youth walking in, flanked by armored guards.
Clearly, the giant was one of his escorts.
As Domeric entered, his attendants swiftly cleared out a space, set up a clean round table, and formed a protective circle around him.
The giant didn't even attempt to use a chair—there wasn't one big enough. He simply sat on a sturdy table. Even seated, he remained three meters tall.
Eyes in the tavern flicked between the massive bodyguard and the young nobleman, full of curiosity.
Who was this noble, to have a giant as a guard?
Domeric had a tall, slender build, characteristic of his infamous house—the Flayed Lords of House Bolton, the "Red Kings" of the North.
He wore an elegant outfit, with frilled sleeves and collar, a clear display of noble status. His pale skin, sharp eyes, and silent demeanor made him seem frail and bookish.
A book rested in his hand as he sipped his drink, looking strangely at ease in a place filled with the stink of ale and cheap perfume. Compared to the cold halls of the Dreadfort, this nameless tavern felt almost homely.
Unnoticed by others, a flicker of melancholy passed through Domeric's eyes.
He had lived in this world for three years now—this strange place that turned out to be Westeros, the land of A Song of Ice and Fire. His identity: the only legitimate son of Lord Roose Bolton, with a bastard brother known as the "Bastard of Bolton."
He was Domeric Bolton—the true heir of the Dreadfort, and the one who, in the original tale, would be poisoned by his bastard brother Ramsay and declared dead of "stomach illness" by Maester Uthor.
But Domeric had struck first. On a fabricated excuse, he crippled Ramsay and locked him in a dungeon with a bitch as his only companion.
Now, with the War of the Five Kings looming, and House Stark preparing for battle under Eddard's summons to King's Landing, the North would soon fall into chaos.
House Bolton once seized power but was later destroyed completely.
That was not the fate Domeric wanted.
Fortunately, his predecessor had many talents—skilled in history, music, and horsemanship. He had once been praised by Lord Redfort of the Vale for his potential in tournaments.
Domeric pushed further, honing his swordsmanship, and soon gained remarkable prowess.
Then he persuaded his father Roose Bolton to let him establish a new domain on the edge of the Dreadfort's territory, in a desolate area called Lonely Mountain.
That region, bordering House Karstark's lands, was filled with bandits, mountain clans, and wildlings from beyond the Wall—inhospitable to most.
But Domeric saw opportunity.
The land was rich in open coal and high-quality iron ore.
Westerosi metallurgy, while passable, was still leagues behind his past life's knowledge. Production was low, quality inconsistent—limiting the supply of good weapons and armor.
And as fate would have it, Domeric had been a graduate student in materials engineering, specializing in metallurgy.
The Lonely Mountain was a gift from the heavens.
Using his knowledge and understanding of Westerosi politics, Domeric turned this barren land into a steel and trade powerhouse.
He built forges and made weapons and tools that were distributed across the Riverlands, the Vale, the Crownlands, even Dorne and Braavos across the sea.
In return, he gained gold, food, and supplies.
At the same time, he subdued local mountain tribes and recruited wildlings as laborers.
In just three short years, his territory flourished. The Lonely Mountain attracted even the common folk of House Karstark's territory, who fled to Domeric's lands for better food and paid work.
After all, the North had one of the harshest climates in Westeros—rivaling the Iron Islands and Dorne.
In the long winters, even lords froze to death in their castles, and the elderly would walk into the snow to die, sparing their families the burden.
But with Domeric's steel trade, the economy of the Lonely Mountain bloomed, angering House Karstark, whose population dwindled dangerously.
Eventually, war broke out.
Lord Karstark led troops to attack the Lonely Mountain.
The outcome was inevitable. Domeric's forces, equipped with steel weapons and reinforced by House Bolton, crushed the Karstarks.
Now, Lord Karstark and his entire family languished in a mine, digging for ore to pay their ransom.
But wars between nobles weren't just about strength. Politics mattered too.
The youngest Karstark son, Torrhen, petitioned Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, for justice.
That was why Domeric and his party had come to Winter's Rest—just half a day's ride from Winterfell.
"What do you think Lord Stark summoned us for?" asked Ser Wendell, the chief knight.
"Obviously to mediate our dispute with the Karstarks," Domeric replied calmly.
"So it's a trial. We were probably too harsh back then…"
Wendell looked regretful, but didn't speak further. After all, he had led the raid on Karhold, capturing the entire Karstark family and looting gold dragons from their keep.
"Don't worry about the so-called trial. This time, Lord Stark will side with us."
"I hope you're right," Wendell said, unconvinced.
After all, the Karstarks were a branch of House Stark. Lord Rickard Karstark was fiercely loyal to Eddard.
And House Bolton? Known as the "Red Kings," they had been Stark's bitter rivals for millennia—famously flaying Stark lords and hanging their skins in the Dreadfort.
Why would Eddard Stark ever side with them?
Wendell wanted to grab this boy and shake some sense into him. But he met Domeric's gaze and hesitated.
Those eyes—deep and piercing—reminded him of Lord Roose himself.
"Why'd you send that woman away?" Domeric asked, chewing a piece of roast meat.
"I thought you'd have no interest in that kind of wench!" Wendell grunted, taking a swig of ale and switching topics. "But you're a young man—of course you're thinking about women."
He chuckled and added, "My brother, Ser Willis, has a daughter—Wylfied. You've met her, right? You two are pen pals, I hear."
Domeric recalled the granddaughter of Lord Manderly of White Harbor—brown hair in many long braids.
"Yes, we write to each other often," he replied casually.
"What do you think of her? Our old lord thinks highly of you. Says you don't act like a northerner at all."
"He meant that as a compliment!" Wendell clarified quickly, rubbing his bald head.
"He said: that Bolton boy's not cruel, savage, or brutish like most Northerners. He's refined and clever. That's a rare thing."
Domeric frowned slightly.
The description of Northerners as cruel and barbaric was… unfortunately accurate.
When he first arrived in this world, he'd believed the Northerners were paragons of honor and bravery.
But he'd quickly learned that those virtues were exceptions, not rules.
Especially in this dark medieval world like Westeros.
His misconception stemmed from the Stark family—Eddard and his kin.
But Eddard was no typical Northerner.
He'd grown up in the Vale, trained in southern customs, and had never been meant to inherit Winterfell.
The real Northerners were like Roose Bolton—cold, calculating, ruthless.
Eddard Stark was the outlier.
"So, have you thought about it?"
Wendell grinned, slapping Domeric's shoulder.
It was clear—if Domeric nodded, the granddaughter of Lord Manderly, Wylfied, would be his bride.