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By the dim candlelight, Domeric saw the female killer from across the Narrow Sea—Benita Antaryon.
Now, her status was that of his handmaid.
Benita stood beside his bed, her entire body swallowed by a robe. A hood covered her head, hiding her face.
The candle cast her silhouette across the wall behind her, taking up most of the stone.
"Why are you dressed like that?" Domeric said. He did not like his handmaid appearing before him like a shadow.
"Habit."
"Remove the hood. From now on, you are not to hide your face in front of me."
Benita obeyed and pushed the hood back.
The moment it fell away, a cascade of golden hair spilled down like a waterfall, the candlelight scattering warm flecks of gold across it.
Her nose was straight and proud; her violet eyes were bright and alive. Unlike Sansa Stark—the so-called "most beautiful girl in the North," whose features still carried a childish softness—Benita's face carried a mature, dangerous allure.
Even in the low light, the sculpted shadows along her cheekbones were enough to prove her beauty.
"As you command, my lord."
She rose, gathered the edge of her robe, and dipped into a clean, formal noble curtsy.
Domeric crossed the room slowly and drew her hand, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed.
It was not lust that moved him. He meant only to show goodwill—though it did not seem to have the desired effect.
"You're afraid of me," Domeric observed.
"I'm not." Benita's voice trembled slightly. She lowered her head and kissed the back of his hand in submission. "It is not fear. It is awe."
Domeric coughed awkwardly. It seemed the tyrant-lord approach did not suit him.
"Are you settling in here?"
He picked up a book, sat in a chair, and asked in an offhand tone.
"I'm fine."
Benita stepped behind him and began to massage his shoulders with quiet obedience. She had clearly been trained—her pressure was neither too light nor too heavy, each movement precisely placed.
Domeric had spent the day buried in administration, then endured an entire night of "unexpected incidents." His muscles felt stiff, his blood slow and sluggish.
After a short while beneath Benita's hands, the initial soreness faded into a deep relief. He sank back into the chair, suddenly loose and light, too comfortable to move.
"That feels excellent," Domeric said, unable to stop himself. "I didn't realize you could do this."
"Of course. The House of Black and White trains its killers rigorously."
"…What does massage have to do with assassination?" Domeric blinked.
"It has everything to do with it," Benita replied. "My lord—what do you think is the most important quality of an excellent assassin?"
"A killing technique that ends a life in one strike?" Domeric guessed.
"No." The assassin's voice was calm. "Life is fragile—like a brilliant crystal that shatters easily.
"Even the finest knight dies the same way. A dagger into the heart. A short blade across the throat. That is enough.
"So the technique of 'killing in one blow' is not the first concern.
"For an assassin, what matters most is not how to kill the target… but how to place yourself in the position where you can."
"I don't think I understand that last part," Domeric admitted plainly. Different crafts, different worlds.
"In simple terms," Benita said, unhurried, "how to approach the target. How to win trust. How to make them relax—lower their guard, lose their caution, reveal openings.
"As a female assassin, I have advantages men do not. I can disguise myself as a handmaid, for instance. That is why we must master skills like massage and cooking."
"…Is that so?"
"It is. In most targets' eyes, women are weaker—less threatening. They do not inspire suspicion…"
"Go on," Domeric said, interest sharpening. "I'm becoming increasingly curious about your order. Tell me about the House of Black and White—the Faceless Men."
Through the Secret-Dredging System, Domeric could see only Benita's deepest personal secrets. But he had gained no useful fragments about the House itself, nor about the Faceless Men as an organization.
"In the House of Black and White in Braavos," Benita said, "the acolytes wear robes of black and white. They carry out religious duties in the world—such as tending to the dead.
"There is an open hall within the temple, with a fountain and many statues of the gods of death. There is no grand ceremony.
"Followers of the Many-Faced God light a candle before a statue, then drink water from a black cup.
"The acolytes poison the fountain, and those who drink from it die without pain. They call it the Many-Faced God's 'gift'…"
Benita glanced at Domeric.
"I am only an apprentice. To become a true Faceless Man, one must pass a series of trials.
"If you fail a trial… you die."
So that was it, Domeric thought.
Benita's choice to swear loyalty to him had two roots: she had tied her hope of vengeance to his power—and she feared failing her trial and being erased by her own order, so she hid beneath his protection.
In this world, every "loyalty" and every "betrayal" carried a long chain of reasons.
…
"And those who pass," Benita continued, "become true Faceless Men—and are taught a power that can change one's appearance at will…"
"A power to change your face," Domeric said. "Is that magic?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Benita thought for a moment. "It is… peculiar. And not every Faceless Man can master it."
"How many are there?" Domeric asked. "An organization like that—too active—would be a threat to every lord in Westeros."
"Not many," Benita said. "Some are well known—the Handsome Man, the Fat Man, the Sour Face, the Squint-Eye, the Lord, the Hungry One…
"The House likes to 'collect' orphans from the slums—children they believe have potential—and forge them into weapons. That is how they chose me.
"The training is brutal. The attrition is terrifying. In the end, very few truly become Faceless Men."
"And those assassins," Domeric said, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand, thinking, "how do they compare to you?"
"…Most are stronger than I am," Benita admitted, embarrassed.
"Hm." Domeric's tone remained level. "I was wondering—if I ever had to go to war with the Faceless Men, how many soldiers would be enough?"
"…No." Benita stared for a heartbeat, then shook her head hard. "It's impossible. Even if you led an army, took Braavos, and burned the House of Black and White to ash—you still wouldn't destroy them. True Faceless Men hide among ordinary people. And there are rumors they have the Free Cities behind them."
"The Free Cities?" Domeric frowned.
"Yes—rumors. That their leaders are deeply entangled with princes and magnates, and that they have acted more than once in struggles for power among the city rulers. I don't know what is true."
"I see."
A killer-order backed—at least indirectly—by the Free Cities. It sounded startling, but Domeric quickly accepted it.
It was the same old arrangement, in any world.
Power and criminals, hand in hand.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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