Less than half a year remained before the "main plot" of this world would begin.
Soon, the entire Kingdom of the North—indeed all of Westeros—would face a catastrophe.
No one would be able to stand aside.
Domeric truly had no need to keep hiding his strength any longer.
He suddenly thought of the red comet that would tear across the sky.
By his reckoning, less than a year remained until the red comet appeared over Westeros.
When the "bleeding star" came, the tide of magic in this world would formally awaken again.
And when that happened—dragons would return, and sorcery would bloom once more.
Before the Old Gods, the Seven, the Lord of Light, the children of the forest, and the White Walkers beyond the Wall… mere swordsmanship would count for very little.
"When will I ever have swordsmanship as high as yours?" Robb suddenly sighed.
"Soon. When you're my age."
"But you're only two years older than me!" Robb could hardly believe it.
"Yes."
You will become strong. Perhaps it would not even take two years.
Domeric looked at Robb deeply. From their earlier bout, it was clear Robb trained hard—his fundamentals were exceptionally solid. What he lacked was only the tempering of blood and fire.
Only trials of life and death could draw out a man's potential to its fullest.
In the coming War of the Five Kings, after enduring battle after battle, Robb would grow into an outstanding swordsman—perhaps even stronger than Domeric was now.
"By the way," Robb said, "I heard you gave Arya a slender sword last time, made from some kind of steel?"
"Pattern-welded steel."
"That's it. Father said it's an excellent material, though still not equal to Valyrian steel. To be honest, I'm short a proper weapon at the moment…"
Pattern-welded steel was a method of making steel: repeatedly heating and folding, hammering again and again, driving out impurities so the material became more uniform, denser in structure, with finer grain and improved performance.
The result was good—but the making was difficult.
Even though Domeric's Lonely Hills lands produced fine iron, forging a pattern-welded weapon was not easy.
"So…" Domeric smiled. "You're not about to ask me to give you a pattern-welded blade, are you?"
"I'm not asking for it for free." Robb quickly called for a servant, who led in an exceptionally powerful warhorse.
The horse was glossy black from head to hoof. It stamped, snorted low—and let out a sound like a beast's growl, hrrr, as though it were roaring.
It was plainly only a horse, yet it carried the presence of a tiger.
"This is a rare breed found only on the northern plains," Robb said. "Few in number, long-lived, taller and stronger than ordinary horses. When it turns vicious, even tigers and wolves fear it."
Robb grinned. "Father prepared it as my fifteenth name day gift. I want to trade it for a weapon of pattern-welded steel!"
"Done." Domeric judged he would not lose on that bargain.
"Robb—when will Lord Eddard return?"
"Father went himself to seize a criminal. By custom, he should be back in three days."
"Seize a criminal? What criminal?" Domeric frowned.
House Stark's lands held no fewer than seven or eight hundred thousand people. If Lord Eddard had to personally seize every criminal, he'd do nothing else all day.
"It's a man of the Night's Watch who fled from the Wall. He broke his vows!"
So that was it. Domeric nodded.
Eddard Stark might be too upright and rigid, but his sense of the larger picture was sound.
He understood the North's true enemy lay beyond the Wall, so he kept a tight grip on discipline within the Night's Watch.
"Then I'll wait a few more days. I hope the judgment will be convened soon."
Back in the Lonely Hills, Domeric had plenty of troubles to handle. He could not waste time idling at Winterfell.
"Then spend these days sparring with me properly," Robb said eagerly. "For a swordsman, a worthy opponent is hard to come by."
Then he winked at Domeric and added in a lower tone:
"Oh—and the Karstarks' acting castellan is in the castle too. Do you want to go see him?"
"Torrhen Karstark?"
Domeric had met the youngest son of Old Lord Karstark. After Domeric captured the old man and his two elder sons and locked them in the Lonely Hills' mine tunnels, Torrhen had become the acting castellan of Karhold.
"That's him. Dommy, you don't know what happened half a month ago—it's miserable." Robb's voice held endless rue.
"He brought two servants, rode a bullock cart, traveled hundreds of miles to Winterfell. Maybe he ran into brigands on the road and lost his coin. He begged the whole way here.
The guards at the gate saw how filthy he was and wouldn't believe he was a noble. Now people in the castle all laugh behind his back, calling him 'the beggar castellan of Karhold'…"
"This…" Domeric said softly. "It seems the acting castellan has lost even the last shred of noble dignity."
He let out a low sigh. Torrhen Karstark's experience did sound tragic—and it seemed, in a way, to be Domeric's doing.
But on reflection, if Old Lord Karstark had not insisted on attacking Domeric's Lonely Hills lands, matters would never have come to this.
"No. I'll see him at the judgment."
Domeric thought a moment and decided there was no need to mock Torrhen Karstark's humiliation now. A noble driven to ruin, with his house collapsing around him, might do anything.
"Don't worry," Robb said, clapping Domeric on the shoulder. "At this judgment, Father will definitely stand on your side."
Robb gave him a look that said, Brother, relax. I've got this.
…
In early July, the North's sun burned hot, and the air carried a faint dry heat.
This long summer had lasted eight years—so long that memories and fear of winter had been worn away from men's hearts.
Domeric led the tall warhorse back from the training yard toward his temporary lodging in Winterfell.
"Ser Domeric!"
A little girl's voice called from behind—Arya, Lord Eddard's second daughter.
"Beautiful Lady Arya," Domeric greeted first.
"Did you give Sansa a white gemstone?"
A white gemstone?
Domeric took a moment before he understood: the "gemstone" Arya meant was actually white porcelain—something that, in Westeros, was as precious as "white gold."
In the Lonely Hills, besides smelting iron, Domeric had also tried firing some pottery, hoping to get lucky.
Whether because his skill was not refined enough, or because Westerosi clay and water were ill-suited, he had produced nothing but flawed pieces.
With no better option, he polished them and used them as "gems" to give as gifts.
"Yes," Domeric answered. "I did."
"And you said that gemstone was your mother's keepsake—and you said Sansa was the most beautiful girl you'd ever met?" Arya demanded, her voice quick.
"Mmm." Domeric nodded. He did not think such courtesies were meant to be taken literally.
"I understand."
Arya stopped, bit her lip, and turned away—tears already sliding down her cheeks.
She forced herself to bow slightly to Domeric.
"Ser Domeric, please forgive me. I will take my leave."
And with that, the girl hurried away—soon vanishing from sight.
Domeric was left utterly at a loss. He replayed his words to Sansa in his mind.
Nothing wrong with them.
He said the same thing to every pretty girl.
Had he somehow offended some Stark taboo?
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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