"Bang!"
At that moment, the door of the Smoked Log Tavern was shoved open with a heavy slam.
A band of sellswords strode in—and the one leading them was, astonishingly, a young girl.
Nearly every gaze in the tavern fixed on her at once.
She looked eighteen or nineteen, with features touched by an exotic cast.
Long golden hair, violet eyes, a face so alluring it was—by any measure—a poison to most male creatures.
She wore a tight-fitting suit of leather armor, a well-cut cloak clasped at her shoulders. Her fine figure was impossible to conceal; her snow-white, full, long legs were completely bare, as though she feared neither the North's cold nor its winds.
A breathtaking face, revealing dress, and a feral, untamed stare.
Those aggressively provocative elements made her the instant center of attention in the Smoked Log Tavern.
Even Domeric—who prided himself on being steady and cold-blooded—could not help but work his throat and swallow.
The girl bent over without thinking, instantly exposing a pale, tender cleavage. A drunk close by bulged his eyes; the cup in his hand slipped and shattered on the floor.
"What are you staring at?" the girl snorted.
A mug of black beer exploded against the drunk's forehead.
The dark liquid sprayed everywhere—splattering even onto Domeric, staining his expensive noble attire in an instant.
Yet the girl did not apologize. Instead, she slanted Domeric—clearly dressed as a highborn—an openly disdainful look.
"Want to try it too?"
"Oh?" Domeric paused, genuinely surprised.
A mere sellsword… daring to provoke a noble on her own initiative?
In the world of Westeros, that was plainly against all sense.
After all, sellswords—those who lived in the gray—feared nothing more than entanglement with great lords.
Domeric immediately examined her more carefully. Her exquisite face and provocative attire stood in jarring contrast to her companions' dirty, drab, ragged look.
Like a single brilliant flower blooming amid a patch of withered yellow weeds.
Something that unnatural had to mean something.
Domeric silently raised his guard.
In this world, kings could be poisoned to death in public. Even the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands had been shot dead on a privy…
In a world where dark magic existed, any absurdity might become real.
Domeric took a measured sip of ale. His instincts told him a show was about to begin.
And sure enough—
As Domeric's chief knight, Ser Wendel—the thick-browed, wide-eyed fat man—felt duty-bound to uphold noble dignity. He bellowed:
"Woman! You dare insult a noble? Kneel at once and beg Lord Domeric's pardon!"
The girl said nothing.
Her sellsword companions drew blades with a harsh scrape of steel.
The tension spiked.
Words failed—steel answered—and in the blink of an eye, a tavern brawl erupted into outright battle.
Domeric's guards surged in to assist, while the slow-witted giant—under Domeric's command—stood obediently in front of him like a wall.
The Smoked Log Tavern dissolved into chaos. Weapons clashed and threw sparks; men shouted; bread and cheese flew; ale splashed in sheets; even three-legged stools were snatched up and hurled like missiles.
The fight ended almost as quickly as it began—fast in coming, fast in leaving.
The sellswords looked hard enough, but they were no match for Domeric's trained guards.
One by one, the girl's companions were knocked flat to the floor. Even she herself was bound tight with rope.
Domeric had remained outside the thick of it, protected by the giant. Still, more spilled ale had splashed onto his sleeves—his formal outfit was now utterly ruined.
Ser Wendel, leading the charge, had been caught by a cheap strike: a fist to the nose. Blood poured; the bridge snapped on the spot.
Yet his expression was oddly exhilarated, as if he did not care in the least.
In a sense, a tavern was a man's battlefield.
"Here." Domeric drew a gold dragon from his purse and flicked it to the innkeep.
The brawl had smashed the tavern to pieces. From the innkeep's pained look, one could see how fierce it had been.
"How do we deal with them?" Wendel asked, rubbing his bald head.
"Beat them. Throw them outside. Don't soil this place any further."
Wendel nodded, then shouted loudly, "You see that? That's what happens when you provoke a noble!"
"Hit them hard. Teach them a lesson they'll remember!"
Domeric watched in silence.
This was Westeros: nobles forever above, and common folk forever trampled and humiliated.
When he first arrived in this world, Domeric had tried to change such things—only to realize that with his station, he could not, unless he sat on the chair that symbolized the highest power of all: the Iron Throne.
At last, Domeric's gaze settled on the girl with the dangerously enticing figure. She had been tied apart from the others.
"That woman—I'll have someone put her in your room later, Dommy. But be careful. Don't undo her ropes. She's got skill. I nearly broke my back catching her."
Wendel wore the grin all men understood—his face plainly saying: Brother, I've done you a solid. I saved the best for you.
Domeric nodded. He ate a little bread and cheese at his leisure, then turned and left.
…
In a cheap tavern like this there would be no sumptuous suites—but the room prepared for him had clearly been arranged with care, and it was clean enough.
Inside, the girl knelt on a strangely shaped chair.
A thick, tough ox-sinew rope bound her in an unusual way.
The rope had been doubled, looped around her neck, then tied in sequence at the collarbone, the breasts, the pubic bone—before the cord ran down between her legs…
It was plainly the legendary "tortoise-shell binding."
So Ser Wendel the fat man had hidden talents.
Domeric could not help but laugh.
The scene felt oddly familiar. If the girl's earlier behavior had not been so abnormal—if it had not raised Domeric's suspicions—then everything about this would have felt perfectly "reasonable," perfectly "natural."
"What's your name?" Domeric kept a safe distance and asked quietly.
"Benita. My name is Benita. My lord, I shouldn't have offended you."
Benita lifted her head with effort; the posture made it difficult for her to exert strength—but that was not the problem.
The true problem was this:
How could she make the target in front of her lower his guard completely?
Benita's mind raced.
Should she play the chaste, unyielding maiden—feeding his desire to conquer? Or act pitiful and fragile to win his sympathy?
Or be as gentle and obedient as possible?
Weighing the options in her heart, Benita finally chose the most lethal route: innocent purity.
Yes—this.
A hint of shy embarrassment, eyes edged with fear, an innocent, spotless gaze…
For nobles who fancied themselves paragons of chivalry, who could resist a young girl's tender softness?
Benita began to perform.
She closed her eyes, parted her lips slightly. Beneath her bright eyes, long lashes trembled softly. She made herself look like a pure little rabbit—timid, fearful—highlighting the vulnerable, pitiable look of youth.
"I preferred you the way you were at the start—so proud and unbroken."
A strange sentence drifted through the air.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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