The parchment contract recorded everything in meticulous detail: House Karstark had hired a Faceless Man of the House of Black and White to assassinate Domeric. The price was twenty years of Karhold's future domain income, along with a pledge from House Karstark:
Under certain conditions, they would assist the Faceless Men of the House of Black and White in hiding their identities—without charge.
At the bottom were not only Torrhen Karstark's personal signature, but also House Karstark's seal.
Domeric could not help but smile. Most people who hired killers simply paid gold dragons—coin for service, done and dusted. Who in their right mind wrote a parchment contract? That was practically handing your enemy a noose.
But when Domeric considered House Karstark's desperate finances—and the fact that Torrhen Karstark was being mocked as the "beggar castellan"—he understood.
After House Karstark's defeat, Karhold had been stripped bare by Domeric's men. Not even a single copper remained.
Torrhen Karstark could only put the family's reputation up as collateral to move a Faceless Man at all—and what he obtained was only an apprentice, not yet fully trained.
Lord Eddard skimmed the parchment swiftly and fell into thought.
"Assassinating a noble is something the king's law cannot tolerate," he said at last. "Torrhen Karstark will be left to you to deal with. Let the matter end here."
"That's it?"
Domeric thought it made no sense.
Torrhen Karstark—acting castellan of Karhold—had openly hired a killer to murder a noble.
Given Lord Eddard's reputation for upright, impartial chivalry, he should have held a public trial, announced Torrhen's crime, and ultimately stripped House Karstark of noble standing—such was the logic of Westerosi noble custom.
Instead, Lord Eddard brushed it aside. On the surface, he handed Torrhen over for Domeric to deal with as he pleased; in truth, he framed it as Torrhen's personal act, shielding House Karstark itself from broader punishment.
This was not what Domeric had expected.
"I understand the dispute between you and House Karstark," Lord Eddard continued. "Old Lord Karstark struck your lands first, but it was not without cause.
The North is not peaceful. The wildlings beyond the Wall remain a threat. I do not want my bannermen bleeding one another for absurd reasons—wasting strength. Do you understand?"
"As you command, Lord Eddard," Domeric said quietly.
"Then the prisoners you have taken—Old Lord Karstark and the rest. How do you intend to handle them?" Lord Eddard looked Domeric in the eyes; the meaning was unmistakable.
In Domeric's view, how should House Karstark be handled?
Ideally, all of them should be put to the sword.
Then House Bolton could swallow Karhold and grow stronger still.
Naturally, Domeric did not voice those thoughts.
He was not a fool.
He saw it clearly now: from Lord Eddard's perspective as Warden of the North, "fairness" and "justice" were secondary—what mattered most was balance among his bannermen's strength.
Still, Domeric found it strange. From how Lord Eddard handled this matter, it was obvious the man had a strong grasp of the bigger picture—he was not as rigidly upright as people imagined.
So why, later in King's Landing, had Eddard been played to death by Cersei and her circle?
Was he truly the political idiot the rumors claimed?
Domeric could not quite make sense of it.
"I will release all Karstark captives," Domeric said. "And if their smallfolk wish to return to Karhold, I will not stop them…"
Domeric was not about to refuse a cup of wine offered by the hand that held his throat. Lord Eddard's hint was too obvious—he would not be foolish enough to keep pressing his feud with House Karstark.
Then his tone sharpened.
"But House Karstark must compensate my lands for all losses!"
"That is acceptable," Lord Eddard said, nodding.
…
A few sentences between two men decided House Karstark's fate.
The game of thrones was no more than that.
That afternoon.
Winterfell—its judgment hall.
Torchlight blazed; fifty torches burned bright in sconces along the walls.
Lord Eddard wore black formal dress, with the direwolf of House Stark pinned over his chest.
Domeric stood below the dais and bowed deeply, using the moment to take in everyone present.
Lord Eddard had gathered his sworn swords and attendants to witness the judgment.
Several lords sat above as well—among them Lord Manderly's heavyset knight, Ser Wendel, and others; and in a place of honor beside Lord Eddard sat Lord Medger—
A lord of House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square, whose sigil was three green sentinel trees on a brown field.
There were others too.
These houses were close to Winterfell—the inner circle of bannermen by which House Stark held dominion over the North.
They had never truly shared a cup with House Bolton of the Dreadfort.
To Domeric's surprise, even Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth—the far north—had come.
Domeric had always looked down on them. It was said the Umbers—those northern brutes—had quietly revived the old "first night" right that the Targaryen kings had abolished.
Most likely, Greatjon cared about Domeric's dispute with House Karstark because Last Hearth—aside from Karhold—was one of the houses nearest Domeric's Lonely Hills lands.
Greatjon was clearly worried House Umber might follow House Karstark down the same path.
Opposite Domeric stood Torrhen Karstark, the man accusing him—now staring blankly in the hall.
His eyes were closed, his face ashen and ugly with despair.
The acting castellan of Karhold clearly understood the outcome had been decided before the "trial" began.
Pitiful—he had ridden a bullock cart, begged his way through hardship all the way to Winterfell…
From the high seat, Lord Eddard spoke first:
"Now, regarding the dispute between Ser Domeric of House Bolton and House Karstark…"
"In accordance with the king's law," Eddard declared loudly, "we hold judgment!"
Along the walls, torches flickered like banners, swaying violently; those snuffed by the wind were replaced one after another.
…
Winterfell—Domeric's temporary quarters.
A judgment that looked solemn ended quickly.
With the outcome already set, the proceeding was meaningless.
It was only a formality.
Domeric had decided to return to the Lonely Hills as soon as possible. In half a month, who knew what trouble might have erupted there.
For three years, to build his power, Domeric had expanded coal mines, iron mines, smelters, and forges—absorbing huge numbers of people from surrounding regions, and with them, hidden risks.
Wildlings, refugees, mountain clans—packed together, they were a powder keg waiting to explode.
As Domeric's thoughts turned to his domain's growth, footsteps sounded behind him.
He turned and saw Benita approaching. Once an assassin, she now wore a maidservant's dress. She bowed and said respectfully:
"Master, Lord Eddard's steward sent word. The feast will begin at six in the evening, in Winterfell's great hall for guests."
Only then did Domeric remember: today was Eddard Stark's thirty-fifth name day.
The lords had come to Winterfell not only to enjoy House Karstark's embarrassment, but also to celebrate Lord Eddard's name day.
"Understood," Domeric said, rising. "Prepare hot water. I will bathe."
"Yes, master."
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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