Winter Town.
The Smoked Log Tavern.
A group of adventurers drank in great gulps, loudly bragging to one another about their exploits, the atmosphere roaring with heat.
"There was this one time I got caught in a blizzard cold enough to freeze a man solid. I knew I was dead for sure before it cleared up—lucky for me, I stumbled across a giantess who was asleep.
So I crawled in there. Warm as you like, though the stench near killed me.
Worst part was, she woke up and thought I was her baby.
Before I managed to get away, she fed me milk for three whole months.
Heh. Sometimes I still miss the taste of giant's milk.
Praise the gods her mood was good. Not like her husband—if a bad-tempered male giant had seen me, he'd have torn me in two."
"Oh, come off it. A giant? Why didn't it eat you?"
"Aye, he's right. You must've passed out from hunger and dreamed you were back in your mother's arms, suckling like a babe."
…
His companions all shot him down, and the adventurer couldn't sit still anymore. It felt miserable to be telling the truth and still not be believed.
"You have to believe me! Not only are there giants—beyond the Wall there are White Walkers that can't be killed."
"White Walkers." Someone snorted. "That's just a scare tale for children. It's been thousands of years—who's actually seen a White Walker?"
"Y-you, you—!"
The adventurer suddenly gaped, eyes wide as saucers, pointing at the tavern door as though he'd seen something unnatural.
Everyone turned—and was left stunned by the sight.
A giant nearly four meters tall stood in the doorway, clad head to toe in metal plate, like a walking iron tower, every step clanging.
The giant's bare head tilted slightly, as if he were trying to fit inside.
But the tavern door was only a little over three meters high, and it caught him.
The giant, enraged, smashed a fist into the lintel, blowing a great hole through it—and only then forced his way in.
With a single shhk the tavern erupted—men yanked out iron swords. The giant's presence was sheer intimidation made flesh.
"Everyone, don't be alarmed. We're only here to take lodging."
Only then did they notice a noble youth entering beneath the escort of a cluster of men in plate and mail.
Plainly, the giant was one of his guards.
By the time Domeric walked in, his attendants had already completed their preparations:
They cleared a patch of space, set down a clean round table, and formed a tight, protective ring around Domeric.
The giant did not sit on a chair—no chair could hold him. He had to sit on a table instead, and even seated, he still stood three meters tall.
The tavern's patrons stared—first at the giant, then at the young noble.
Everyone was curious: what sort of lord used a giant as a bodyguard?
Domeric was tall and well-built—befitting a son of the infamous "Flayer" house, House Bolton, the line once called the Red Kings.
He wore a handsome formal doublet, even the collar and cuffs trimmed with lace that proclaimed his station.
If not for those deep, sharply cutting eyes, Domeric would have seemed more scholarly than dangerous.
Pale-faced, long-limbed, fair and silent—he even held a book in his hand.
His attendants were already hauling in their luggage. The innkeep, seeing a noble, dared not neglect him—he quickly cleared several clean rooms and set men to feeding the horses, and so forth.
And now, around Domeric, all manner of strange looks gathered.
"Look! A lordling."
"Gods, what's a lord doing in a backwater like this?"
"Master, you ought to keep the chair the lord sat on—might fetch a good price!"
After the initial hush, their awe of nobility slowly ebbed, and the Smoked Log Tavern returned to its noise.
People talked about Domeric with undisguised interest. In a small place like Winter Town, the appearance of a noble was rare indeed.
A few young women, faces heavy with paint, dressed in revealing cuts that bared shoulders and breasts, fancied themselves pretty enough to squeeze in and flirt with Domeric.
Under Domeric's amused gaze, their movements grew bolder.
But with Ser Wendel—the chief knight—performing his duty with strict vigilance, the whores were driven off.
In the shoving, the prettiest of them couldn't help but curse the chief knight.
Those rustic, filthy insults meant nothing to Ser Wendel. What truly worried him was something else entirely.
"Lord Domeric."
Wendel spoke to the young man at his side. His voice was loud and rough, his face round, his head bald, his beard thick.
"I'm listening, Ser Wendel." Domeric's expression remained calm as he quietly drank a cup of ale.
In a place thick with cheap drink and powdered perfume, he tasted a warmth of common life he hadn't felt in a long time. Compared to the cold stone of the Dreadfort, this nameless tavern was—strangely—more comfortable.
Unnoticed, a flicker of loneliness and wistfulness passed through Domeric's eyes.
It had been three full years since he came to this world, and he had gradually grown used to his identity.
This world was Westeros—Game of Thrones made real—and he was the trueborn son of Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort. He also had a bastard younger brother known as the "Bastard of Bolton," the so-called "Little Flayer."
He was the brother Ramsay would poison—the one who died and was diagnosed by Maester Uthor as having succumbed to a "stomach illness."
Domeric understood perfectly: in the original course of events, he would soon be poisoned by Ramsay, and then neatly explained away.
So Domeric struck first. He found any excuse at all, snapped his bastard brother's legs, and threw him into a lightless cell to keep company with a bitch.
By the story to come, once Eddard Stark went south to King's Landing to serve as Hand of the King, the North would be dragged—inevitably—into war: the War of the Five Kings.
The northern houses would be reshuffled. House Bolton would briefly seize the North—and then be destroyed, wiped out entirely.
That was not the ending Domeric wanted.
So he had to change things.
Fortunately, the original Domeric was talented in many arts: well-versed in histories, skilled in music and horsemanship, even praised by Lord Rodrik Ryswell of the Rills as having the makings of a tourney champion.
Domeric pushed himself harder, drilled his swordwork relentlessly, and soon achieved respectable results.
After that, he persuaded his father, Lord Roose Bolton, to grant him land—carved out along the reaches of Bolton influence—around the Lonely Hills.
The Lonely Hills lay on the border between Bolton and Karstark strength: true badlands—poor mountains and foul waters—where bandits and river-thieves ran rampant, mountain clans held fast, and wildlings who had slipped south of the Wall lived mixed among them.
Most men avoided the place like the Stranger himself.
Domeric, however, went toward it with hunger.
Because there were countless open-pit coal seams there—and iron of excellent quality.
Westerosi smelting was serviceable by their standards, but compared to his former life it was pitiful: low yield, poor quality, and that limited how many fine weapons and suits of armor could ever exist.
And by sheer chance, in his previous life Domeric had been a graduate student in materials science—specializing in metallurgy.
The Lonely Hills were, for Domeric, a gift from the gods.
Armed with his knowledge of the plot, he already held the greatest stake at the table as the "game of thrones" prepared to begin.
Yet he believed even more firmly that in the face of all schemes and intrigues, only absolute strength was the true king's road to victory.
Domeric understood well the art of building land and raising men. He smelted high-quality steel in the Lonely Hills, forged it into weapons and farm tools, and shipped it to the Riverlands, the Vale, the Crownlands, even far Dorne—and across the Narrow Sea to Braavos…
In exchange he drew in immense wealth, grain, and daily necessities.
At the same time, Domeric suppressed local mountain clans and wildling bands, absorbing more labor.
In just three short years, the Lonely Hills' domain grew steadily stronger. Not only did it take in large numbers of mountain folk and wildlings, even smallfolk from Karhold under House Karstark fled into Domeric's lands.
The reason was simple: they could eat their fill, eat well—and earn wages.
After all, the North's natural conditions were among the harshest in Westeros—comparable to the Iron Islands and Dorne in their own grim ways.
In a true winter after a long summer, a lord could freeze to death in his own castle, and the elderly in a household would sometimes walk out into the cold to die, saving food for those left behind.
Domeric's steel trade drove the economy of the Lonely Hills and enriched his own power—but it also earned him the hatred of House Karstark of Karhold.
Because smallfolk were a lord's lifeblood.
Karstark lands were bleeding people too quickly. At this rate, within ten years Karhold would become an empty castle.
And then—war broke out.
Old Lord Karstark marched and struck at the Lonely Hills.
The outcome held no suspense. Domeric's lands produced iron; he lacked neither weapons nor armor. Add the backing of House Bolton—and House Karstark was defeated.
Now Old Lord Karstark and his whole household, unable to pay a full ransom, were shut in the Lonely Hills' mine tunnels and put to work digging ore.
But wars between nobles were not decided by strength alone. Politics mattered.
So Lord Karstark's youngest son, Torrhen Karstark, sent a written complaint—placing Domeric before the judgment of the Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.
That was why Domeric's party had come to Winter Town: Winterfell lay only half a day's travel away.
…
"What do you think the lord of Winterfell has called us here for?" Wendel asked cautiously.
"Obviously to settle the dispute between us and House Karstark," Domeric said as though it needed no stating.
"Just as I feared—Lord Eddard means to judge us. We shouldn't have gone so far back then…"
Ser Wendel's face tightened with regret, but he did not continue. After all, it was he who had led the assault that broke Karhold, captured Old Lord Karstark's entire household—and seized no small number of gold dragons from the castle besides.
"There's no need to fret over this 'judgment.' This time, Lord Eddard will stand with us."
"Gods be good." Ser Wendel plainly found the claim unconvincing.
House Karstark was an important cadet branch of House Stark. Old Lord Rickard Karstark was known as one of Eddard Stark's staunchest loyalists.
And House Bolton?
House Bolton—once called the Red Kings—had for thousands of years been House Stark's greatest enemy. More than once the Boltons had beaten the Starks, flayed the skin from Stark lords, and displayed it in the Dreadfort.
So—
Why would Eddard Stark ever stand on your side?
Ser Wendel very nearly wanted to seize the boy by the collar and demand an answer, but the moment he met Domeric's deep, piercing eyes, he dared not.
Like his father, Lord Roose, the heir to the Dreadfort possessed eyes that could seize a man's soul.
"Why did you chase that woman off just now?" Domeric asked, chewing slowly on a piece of roast meat. "I meant to speak with her a while longer."
"That sort of trash?" Wendel took a long pull of ale. "I thought you'd have no taste for it, Dommy!"
Then he set aside the worry gnawing at him and spoke of his own niece:
"But you're at the age where you'll be thinking of women. My brother, Ser Willis, has a daughter—Wilfryd. You've met her. I hear you two are even pen pals."
Domeric thought of the Lord of White Harbor's granddaughter—brown hair worn long and braided into many plaits.
"That's right. We are pen pals. We write often," Domeric answered indifferently.
"So what do you think of her? Our old lord is very taken with you, you know. Says you don't seem like a Northman at all."
"He meant it as praise!" Wendel hastily added, rubbing his bald head, afraid his words might be taken the wrong way.
"He said: 'That Bolton boy—where other Northmen are cruel, vicious, and savage, he's refined and wise.' Those were my father's very words." Speaking of his own fat old father, Wendel immediately launched into a torrent.
Domeric couldn't help but frown. The Lord of White Harbor's remarks about Northmen being cruel and vicious were not wrong.
When Domeric first came to this world, he had thought the North a symbol of honor and courage. Later he discovered it was nothing of the sort.
In any age, honor and courage were exceptions—not a label for an entire people.
And this was a darkness akin to the Middle Ages.
As for why Domeric once held the mistaken impression that the North was upright and brave—naturally, it was because of Eddard Stark and his household.
But the problem was, Eddard and his family did not represent House Stark itself—let alone the whole North.
And Domeric's father, the "Flayer"—Roose Bolton—was what a normal northern lord looked like. Eddard and his kind were the oddity.
After all, Eddard had been fostered in the Vale from childhood. As a second son, he was not expected to inherit, so he had learned the ways of a Vale knight—not the hard style of northern brutes.
"So," Wendel asked, wearing a grin like an eager auntie, patting Domeric on the shoulder, "have you thought it over?"
It was as though Domeric only needed to nod, and Wendel's niece—Wilfryd, the trueborn granddaughter of the Lord of White Harbor—would become his future wife.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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