Wildlings might be "pathetic," but the problem was their sheer numbers.
North of the Wall there were tens of thousands—possibly even hundreds of thousands—of wildlings, split into hundreds of different cultures, tribes, clans, villages, and raiding bands.
To offset their numerical advantage, Domeric needed stronger weapons—weapons that could give him an overwhelming edge in battle.
What weapons were stronger?
Obviously—guns and cannon.
In fact, firearms and artillery were Domeric's ideal solution.
But reality didn't allow it.
He could already produce "Holy Fire"—this world's version of gunpowder.
But the formula still wasn't optimized: it burned too slowly, and stuffed into an iron tube it usually did little more than make a loud bang.
If he kept developing it for a few more years, maybe the prototype of a firearm—a matchlock—would appear…
But early firearms were cumbersome. They often required two people just to load and fire properly, and in most cases could only function as single-shot weapons.
Their rate of fire and power weren't even better than a well-trained archer.
So in the short term, pouring massive resources into firearm development was unrealistic and simply not worth it.
Since he couldn't get the best, Domeric decided to build the next-best thing: the famous Da Huang Nu.
The Da Huang Nu—one of the most vicious types of cart-mounted crossbow—had been the most lethal long-range weapon of the Han era in Domeric's previous world.
There were even records of it firing a single bolt that collapsed a section of city wall—an outright miracle of the cold-weapon age.
Westeros wasn't without crossbows: there were small hand crossbows, and large scorpion-like siege crossbows.
The former were too weak; the latter were too bulky, hard to move, and inconvenient to redeploy.
The Da Huang Nu Domeric was recreating would be mounted on a wagon—a true "cart crossbow," positioned between those two extremes. It could move with the army, support infantry, and fight in the field.
…
After working for several hours, the design blueprint—more accurately, the recreated blueprint—was finally complete.
The prod spanned several meters, the stock ran over three meters long, and the iron bow-head's wings spread half a meter wide…
The bolts were designed to be carved from whole pine trunks—like oversized javelins.
Even on paper, the weapon radiated a cold, murderous light that made the skin crawl.
A single Da Huang Nu typically required two soldiers to carry the bolts, one to aim, and another three to crank the string mechanism—rapidly drawing the bow and locking it over the bolt set in the groove.
This weapon had been tested by history. It wasn't difficult to build, and could achieve roughly one shot every three minutes.
Against wildlings—people with no real organization or discipline—that was more than enough.
At last, Domeric let out a long breath and sat back in his chair.
At the same time, he sorted through everything that had happened lately in his mind, checking for any gaps.
Less than half a month remained before the expedition beyond the Wall.
The entire Lonely Mountain domain was like a high-speed machine, making war preparations in advance.
At Domeric's level, no link in the chain could be allowed to slip.
Suddenly, a pair of soft, delicate hands reached from behind and settled on Domeric's shoulders, kneading gently.
"Is Master tired?" Benita asked softly.
"Mm…" Domeric closed his eyes, enjoying the girl's massage.
Neither of them spoke after that. The bedroom was quiet.
"Are you really planning to go beyond the Wall?" Benita asked suddenly.
"Of course. Otherwise why would I do all this prep?"
Domeric's tone was unhurried. "What—do you think I don't have the strength for it?"
"I admit I underestimated you before. You're stronger than I thought. Given time… maybe…" Benita's voice held a note of bright anticipation.
"You want me to take revenge for you—across the Narrow Sea, in Braavos?"
"Yes." Benita's eyes carried a relentless, forward-driving resolve.
No wonder the female assassin had seemed like a different person these past days—she'd seen hope for revenge in him.
Benita submitted to him for three reasons: first, to stay alive; second, to avoid the punishment for failing a Faceless Men assignment; and third, to use his hand to complete her revenge.
Domeric had always understood that.
In this world, there really was no such thing as loyalty or betrayal without a cause.
Thinking of that, Domeric cut straight to the point.
"You want me to help you take revenge—that won't be easy. I'm not Prince Rhaegar, picking a fight with Braavos just for a woman… unless you have other bargaining chips."
"I understand." Benita answered crisply. "I can guarantee that if you help me get revenge, what you gain will far exceed what you pay."
"Oh?" Domeric probed. "Miss Benita Antaryon… it sounds like you're hiding far more than I know. Care to tell me?"
Benita's expression turned a little strange. Then she smiled and shook her head—only this time, her smile carried an unreadable undertone.
"Not yet, Master. When the time is right, I'll tell you."
"If you won't say, then forget it. I'll wait and see."
Domeric closed his eyes and pretended to nap, saying no more.
Benita lifted her gaze to him in secret, then lowered her lashes again. The pressure of her hands increased slightly.
At that moment, Domeric felt his body tighten in waves—like an electric current surging up from his tailbone, racing through his spine and slamming into his brain—so good it was almost impossible to describe.
"What technique is this?"
He couldn't help letting out a low sound, staring at Benita in disbelief. Since when had she learned massage skills this advanced?
"Master… does it feel… good?" Benita asked quietly, her tone and expression carrying hesitation and uncertainty—
like she'd just tried an experiment and was anxiously waiting to be judged.
"It feels great."
Domeric turned around, laced his fingers behind his head, and leisurely admired the assassin beside him.
Fair was fair: men really were visual creatures.
By looks alone, Benita—long-legged and blonde—wasn't exceptional.
But by figure?
Flawless.
Over the past few years, Domeric had traveled widely across Westeros. In the North alone, the top-tier beauties he'd seen could be counted as roughly two:
House Stark's eldest daughter, Sansa Stark.
And White Harbor's lord's granddaughter, Wylfydd Manderly.
But compared to them—Sansa was still young, not fully developed, and Wylfydd was beautiful, yes, but somewhat delicate.
Benita, on the other hand, was an assassin. Within that soft, supple body honed by relentless training, there was an underlying toughness and coiled tension—along with the sharp edge that years of killing inevitably carved into a person.
Every part of her seemed to hide a latent killing intent, as if a concealed blade—or a poison-slick dagger—could burst out at any moment.
That imagined danger only made her more alluring in a way that was hard to put into words.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Rise in the North! 📢
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