Domeric led his guard retinue, entering Winterfell at an unhurried pace.
This time he had come at the summons of the Warden of the North—Lord Stark himself—arriving at Winterfell to face judgment regarding his "dispute with House Karstark."
Calling it a judgment was not quite accurate. It was closer to mediation.
After all, House Bolton and House Karstark were both bannermen of Lord Eddard Stark, and it was his duty to settle quarrels among his sworn vassals.
On either side of the gate clustered beggars, wandering whores, and shouting peddlers.
In the morning air, hammer blows rang out. A mass of illegal shanties clung tight to the castle wall—
like barnacles stuck to a ship's hull: granaries, mess halls, storerooms, shops, taverns, and cheap brothels.
Domeric remembered the last time he'd seen Winterfell.
It was not absurdly vast like Harrenhal, nor unbreakable like Storm's End, yet within its stone walls there was a contained power that made those inside feel safe.
And there was House Stark's godswood: tall sentinel pines armored in gray-green needles, alongside great oaks, hawthorns, ironwoods, ashes, and soldier pines.
At the heart stood the heart tree, upright as a white giant frozen in time.
Even by day, that grove was dim.
…
Outside the castle.
The one who came to greet them was Lord Stark's eldest son—Robb Stark.
Blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, broad and strong. Though only fourteen, he already carried something of the Young Wolf about him.
Behind Robb, his attendants brought out bread and salt.
It was an ancient sacred covenant on the continent of Westeros—guest right.
When a guest came beneath a host's roof, and accepted the bread and salt offered by that host, guest right took effect at once:
Neither party might harm the other. Any violator would be condemned by the Old Gods and the New.
According to the old tales, a cook at the Nightfort—seeking vengeance upon a king—baked the king's son into a great meat pie and served it to the king.
The gods punished the cook by turning him into a white rat as large as a sow, cursed to eat his own children.
From then on, the Rat Cook wandered the Nightfort, devouring his descendants—yet never able to satisfy his hunger.
"A man may have the right to vengeance," the tale taught, "but to murder a guest beneath one's own roof—to trample guest right—the gods will never forgive."
That was a point of agreement among all the nobility of Westeros.
Domeric pinched off a small piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and put it into his mouth. Then he placed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly.
"Ser Robb, thank you for your warm welcome."
Robb's face lit with an utterly sincere smile.
"Dommy—welcome to Winterfell!"
…
Arya's needle went crooked again.
She frowned in frustration, staring at the tangled mess in her hands, then stole a glance at her sister, Sansa.
Everyone said Sansa's needlework was flawless.
"Everything Sansa stitches is as pretty as she is—her hands are so slender, so clever."
Arya looked down at her own work, searching for some way to salvage it. In the end, she sighed. The septa would scold her later—there was no avoiding it.
She watched Sansa gloomily. Sansa stitched with nimble fingers while whispering secrets to the steward's daughter.
"What are you talking about?" Arya leaned over to ask.
The steward's daughter giggled.
Sansa looked shy, her cheeks and ears turning red.
"We're talking about Ser Domeric," Sansa said, her voice so light it felt like the wind might carry it away. "He's come to Winterfell."
Arya, of course, knew who Domeric was—the heir to the Dreadfort. Not long ago, he had given Arya a slender blade of castle-forged steel.
"Ser Domeric just gave your sister a white gemstone," the steward's daughter added, pride dripping from her tone, as if she were the heroine herself. "He said it was his mother's keepsake—and he only gives it to the girl he likes best…"
"Really?" Arya did not want to believe it.
"Mm." Sansa blushed politely.
Arya felt unhappy.
The gods were unfair. Why did Sansa get everything?
When Arya had been born, Sansa was already two.
Sansa excelled at needlework and embroidery, could sing and dance. She could recite poetry and compose verses, knew how to dress, how to wear her hair; she played the high harp with gentle, winding notes and rang little bells with bright, pleasing chimes.
Worse—
she was beautiful.
Sansa had inherited the Tully cheekbones and that thick auburn hair.
Arya took after their father, Lord Stark: dark brown hair, a long face.
The steward's daughter loved calling her "Horseface Arya," and every time she saw Arya she'd whinny like a horse.
And now even Ser Domeric only brought gifts for her sister and forgot Arya entirely. Thinking of it made her feel worse.
"Where is Ser Domeric now?" Arya asked. She wanted to confront him—demand to know why he hadn't given her a gemstone.
"They're in the training yard. Your brother Robb wants to have a bout with Ser Domeric."
"Then… shall we go watch?"
"Now."
…
Winterfell, the training yard.
It was a sparring match.
Robb, wearing padded protection, held a blunted wooden sword in both hands. He lowered his stance, his breathing long, steady, calm.
His opponent, Domeric, wore no protective gear at all. He merely held a wooden sword, eyes quiet, gaze fixed forward.
A crowd watched from not far away: a tall, imposing master-at-arms with a snow-white beard; Theon Greyjoy in a tight black tunic; Ser Wendel of White Harbor's household… and knights the girls did not recognize.
All of them held their breath, afraid that a blink would make them miss something.
Even in high summer, the North carried a trace of chill. From the godswood nearby drifted a clean, heart-soothing scent, lending the scene a solemn air.
If one did not know this was only a match—and that both men held wooden swords—the mood could have passed for two knights meeting on a battlefield.
A contest of swordsmanship was not like brawling, blow for blow. Often the outcome was decided in an instant—like spring thunder, sudden and final.
At last, the stalemate broke.
The young "Young Wolf" Robb could not hold back any longer. He let out a fierce roar and charged Domeric.
That roar was not only for courage and intimidation—it could rattle an enemy into a mistake, then let the attacker seize the opening and crush the fight in one breath, much like a barbarian's "war cry" in a game.
It was an extremely useful tactic in real combat.
But his opponent was no ordinary man.
In his previous life, Domeric had been an enthusiast of historical martial arts. In the three years since coming to this world, he had fought wildlings, crushed mountain clans, and traded hard blows with Old Lord Karstark of Karhold more than once.
This kind of "small scene" was nothing to him.
He shifted his feet slightly—tiny adjustments within inches—settling into the most suitable posture to receive and answer the oncoming attack.
The wooden blades tore through the air. The next moment came the dull, heavy sound of impact.
Crack!
The wooden sword snapped.
A figure flew backward.
If Robb had not been wrapped in thick protection—or if Domeric had not held a wooden sword—the scene would not have been so "peaceful." It would have been drenched in blood.
A fight that had held for more than ten minutes ended in less than a breath.
Thunderous applause rose from the onlookers, along with the cheering of… children.
By Domeric's true mental age, the few around him were indeed children.
"Ser Domeric—please."
Sansa quietly offered him a towel. Her auburn hair, lit by sunlight, seemed almost pale at the edges; her fair, delicate face wore a light touch of makeup.
"Thank you, lovely Lady Sansa."
Domeric looked at her directly. Sansa's face flushed scarlet, and she darted away at once.
Domeric smiled helplessly. When this "little bird" was alone with him, she was bold and endlessly talkative—yet in front of others, she could not say a single word without turning red.
"Father was right," Robb said as he approached, removing his protective gear. "You truly are the strongest swordsman in the North."
Robb did not like to admit defeat—but as an opponent, he could feel Domeric's mastery.
At the instant the wooden swords met, Robb felt as though he had slammed into a mountain. A force like the sky collapsing poured into him; his blade snapped—and in the next heartbeat his chest tightened and he was thrown back.
And Robb could tell: in the final moment, Domeric had clearly held back. Otherwise, Robb would not have merely been knocked flying.
Even with thick protection, he would have been badly injured—broken ribs would have been unavoidable.
"Lord Eddard flatters me," Domeric said modestly. "There are plenty across Westeros stronger than I."
"But if you have such strength," Robb pressed, "why have you hidden it all this time?"
To Robb, becoming a man like the White Bull Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, or Barristan the Bold—was the highest honor any knight could pursue.
If Robb had possessed such strength, he would have run to King's Landing long ago, challenging men across the realm and winning fame. Why hide it?
"Perhaps I'm simply a low-key man," Domeric said with a smile. "I don't like drawing attention."
"Then why did you agree to spar with me—so easily revealing your strength?" Robb was not yet fifteen, but his sharpness was beyond his years.
"Because winter is coming," Domeric said softly.
-
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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