Benfred and Robett were smug, convinced their little scheme had worked. This was exactly what they wanted—Domeric humiliating himself in front of everyone, losing the title of "the finest swordsman in the North"…
Domeric slowly took up the longbow. His movements were lazy, unhurried—completely unlike his usual style.
"Hurry up," Benfred urged, holding the winecup, eager to see Domeric embarrass himself onstage. "Everyone's getting impatient!"
Under countless gazes—
Domeric suddenly drew a deep breath. Every ounce of strength in his body gathered. The longbow in his hand felt almost like an extension of flesh and blood.
Most people only knew his swordsmanship. His archery was "unknown" simply because no one had ever seen him loose an arrow himself.
He nocked the arrow, set the bow, and drew—full moon.
He pulled the heavy warbow completely open.
Tendons bulged along his long, steady fingers. The string sang with a tight "creak-creak," like it might snap. The sheer torque made an ugly, living sound—enough to make the people around him tense for reasons they couldn't name.
Jon couldn't help casting him a worried look. The commotion had already drawn his attention, but as a bastard he had no standing to interrupt or step in and smooth things over.
When your lord is shamed, the sworn man shares it—he was Domeric's knight.
Domeric's fingers shifted minutely, adjusting the angle.
A bow wasn't a crossbow, and it wasn't a firearm. You could "aim," sure, but reliability was a joke.
Whether you hit or missed came down to feel.
From the moment you set your feet to the moment you drew, every motion was part of aiming—part of finding the target in your bones.
That feeling—hand, instinct—was forged across countless hits and misses.
It left no tracks, yet it was real.
In that instant, Domeric forgot he stood in the dark medieval world of Westeros.
There was only the arrow.
"May the honor of the North endure forever!" Domeric shouted.
Thrum!
A brutal string-snap, sharp as a blade, and the arrow screamed out.
Like a streak of lightning—so fast it barely seemed like an arrow at all.
Benfred stood close to Domeric. The moment the shot went, he felt something go wrong—like he'd taken a hammer to the chest. He froze, standing there, unable to even breathe.
This was "can't hit armor at a hundred paces"?
Bullshit.
Only then did Benfred understand—Domeric's earlier weakness had been an act. A noose he'd happily put his own head into.
His face went crimson. His stomach twisted.
Across from him, Robett's expression was ugly too—because at a hundred and fifty paces, Domeric still hit.
The arrow punched straight through the candle and sank deep into the stone pillar. The fletching vibrated with a low, angry buzz.
For a heartbeat, the hall was silent.
Then the cheers exploded—deafening.
"No wonder he's the finest swordsman in the North!"
Cley Cerwyn yelled it out. He'd wagered a hundred gold dragons himself, but after seeing a shot like that, he didn't even feel robbed.
The crowd surged with excitement. A few noble girls rushed forward with flower crowns, as if Domeric had just won the champion's wreath at a tourney.
Domeric took one crown and placed it on Sansa's head.
Then, amid a sea of envious looks, he strode away like it was nothing.
Only Benfred remained where he was—hollow-eyed, winecup in hand, unmoving—like he really had been nothing more than a servant meant to pour and carry.
"Anyone else want to try?" Robb shouted, unable to help himself. He'd put a hundred gold dragons down too, and whatever competitiveness he'd had was completely crushed by Domeric's single arrow.
Silence.
"Then that's that. Everyone disperse."
No one else had even attempted it, but Robb's words made it clear: the rest of them weren't worth the embarrassment.
It was meant to save face.
But the blunt dismissal only made it sting more.
…
After the crowd scattered, Domeric circled back—now with a few thick-necked, hard-faced guards at his side.
"Men—strip Ser Benfred of his armor."
Before anyone could react, Domeric kicked Benfred's long face hard, sending him sprawling—and Robett Glover went down too in the scramble.
In moments, Benfred's leather armor was ripped away. He collapsed on the floor, while Robett just stood there, stunned and stiff.
Domeric looked down at their ash-gray faces, then strolled off again.
They were never going to be his people anyway. When you get a chance, you press them into the dirt—because if you show mercy here, no one thanks you for it.
Westeros wasn't a place that rewarded humility. Yielding only made people think you were weak—someone to hit without consequences.
You had to break them until they learned how to spell fear.
The feast at Winterfell continued—three days of celebration. Night deepened.
Benfred Tallhart, still shaken, wore a borrowed set of formal clothes as he walked the streets outside the castle.
The town was bright with torchlight—peddlers calling from the roadside, shops and inns, and brothels.
Benfred entered the busiest one.
After a bout of heavy, animal "hmph-hmph" motion, he rose, bored and empty, ready to pay and leave.
Then he saw the bill and nearly jumped—two gold dragons.
"What the hell? Are your girls gilded?" Benfred cursed. "In Torrhen's Square this costs one silver stag!"
"This is Winterfell, not Torrhen's Square, my lord."
The man didn't care about Benfred's noble blood. A sack went over Benfred's head, and a club came down.
Benfred blacked out.
…
Much later, in an underground back room—
Benfred woke.
There wasn't even an oil lamp. Darkness pressed in like night.
Two torches flickered, throwing the shapes of various instruments into half-light—tools that looked worse because his imagination filled in the gaps.
Worst of all was the masked man in front of him.
The mask held a smiling face, but it looked vicious—wrong.
Benfred's skin crawled.
He was completely confused. So what if he'd gone whoring without enough coin?
Was this really that serious?
"Good ser, spare me! I'm the heir to House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square! Let me go—take me to my father, Lord Tallhart, he'll pay!"
"My noble lord, this isn't about coin. Under the eyes of the gods, confess your sins."
"Sins? What sins? What did I do? I don't know what you're talking about!" Benfred protested.
The masked man's eyes turned dangerous. He licked his lips.
"You're sure?"
Then an iron brush scraped flesh.
White bone showed through.
…
Half a quarter-hour later—
A miserable scream tore the room apart.
"When I was seven I peeked at a serving girl bathing! When I was eight I stole my father's short sword! When I was nine I… I touched my little sister Ada's horse on the ass—"
"Old gods above, I am guilty! I'll confess beneath the weirwood!"
Benfred's eyes rolled back, and he passed out.
The masked man plucked a hair.
[Secret-Digging System Triggered!]
Benfred Tallhart
Identity: Heir to House Tallhart of Torrhen's Square
Title: None
Strength: 33
Agility: 28
Spirit: 25
Combat Index: 86
Note: The target is in fear. You may freely窥探 his secrets.
Fragments of memory flashed before Domeric's eyes…
After a long moment, he let out a soft sigh.
"Looks like it wasn't House Tallhart."
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort has 30 chapters ahead available on Patreon! 🐺🩸
Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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