There were less than six months left before the events of the Game of Thrones would begin.
Soon, the entire Kingdom of the North—and the whole continent of Westeros—would be plunged into catastrophe.
No one could remain untouched by what was coming.
For Domeric, there was no longer any need to keep his strength hidden.
He suddenly thought of the red comet that would streak across the sky.
If his memory served, it would appear within a year, marking the start of the Blood-Stained Star—heralding the return of dragons and the resurgence of magic.
When that day came, and the tide of magic swept across the land, swordsmanship would become almost meaningless in the face of the Old Gods, the Seven, the Lord of Light, the Children of the Forest, and the White Walkers beyond the Wall.
"When will I be as good as you with the sword?" Robb suddenly asked with admiration.
"Soon. When you're my age."
"But you're only two years older than me!" Robb exclaimed, disbelieving.
"That's right."
You'll grow stronger—maybe in less than two years.
Domeric gave Robb a deep look. From their sparring session, it was clear Robb had practiced diligently. His fundamentals were solid. All he lacked was the tempering of blood and fire.
Only through the crucible of life and death could one's potential be truly awakened.
In the war of the Five Kings that lay ahead, after countless battles, Robb would emerge as a remarkable swordsman—perhaps even stronger than Domeric was now.
"By the way," Robb said, "I heard you gave Arya a slender sword last time. What was it made of again?"
"Folded steel."
"Right, Father said that's a very high-quality material—though not as rare as Valyrian steel. To be honest, I've been in need of a good weapon myself…"
Folded steel was a technique involving repeated heating and hammering to remove impurities, refine the grain structure, and enhance performance. It produced exceptional blades, though crafting them was laborious and time-consuming.
Even with the rich iron deposits in Domeric's domain at Lonely Mountain, forging a folded steel weapon was no easy task.
"So… you're not going to ask me to just give you one, are you?" Domeric laughed.
"I wouldn't take anything for free," Robb said quickly, calling over a servant who led forth a powerful black warhorse.
The horse was glossy and tall, its hooves striking the ground with a deep, bestial growl that sounded more like a tiger than a stallion.
"This is a rare breed found only on the northern plains," Robb said with a proud smile. "They're few in number, live long lives, and are larger and stronger than normal horses. Even wolves and wildcats fear them."
"This was my father's gift for my fifteenth name day. I want to trade it for a folded steel sword."
"Deal," Domeric said. He wasn't losing out on this bargain.
"Robb," Domeric asked, "when is Lord Stark returning?"
"Father left to personally pursue a fugitive. If things go as usual, he should be back in three days."
"A fugitive? What kind of criminal?" Domeric frowned slightly.
The Stark lands held at least seven or eight hundred thousand people. If Lord Stark had to catch every criminal himself, he'd never have time for anything else.
"Deserters from the Night's Watch," Robb replied. "They broke their vows."
Ah, that made sense. Domeric nodded.
Lord Eddard Stark might be stiff and overly righteous, but he had a strong sense of the big picture.
He understood that the true enemies of the North lay beyond the Wall. That's why he enforced strict discipline among the Night's Watch.
"I'll wait a few days, then. Hopefully the trial will begin soon."
Domeric had pressing matters back at Lonely Mountain and couldn't afford to waste too much time in Winterfell.
"In the meantime, spar with me again," Robb grinned. "A good opponent is too hard to come by."
He leaned closer and whispered with a wink, "Oh, and by the way—the acting lord of Karhold is also in the castle. Want to go see him?"
"Torrhen Karstark?"
Domeric had met the youngest son of old Lord Karstark. After the father and his two elder sons were captured and imprisoned in Lonely Mountain's mines, Torrhen had become the acting Lord of Karhold.
"That's him. You won't believe what happened to him just half a month ago," Robb said, his tone filled with sympathy.
"He came all the way to Winterfell with only two servants, riding in an ox cart across hundreds of miles. Seems like he ran into bandits along the way and lost all his coin. He begged his way here."
"The guards at the gate took one look at his filthy appearance and didn't believe he was a nobleman. Now everyone in the castle secretly calls him 'the Beggar Lord of Karhold.'"
"Sounds like the poor man has lost even the last shred of his noble dignity."
Domeric sighed. Torrhen's misfortune did seem pitiful—but in truth, it had all begun with his father.
If old Lord Karstark hadn't insisted on attacking Domeric's domain at Lonely Mountain, none of this would've happened.
"I'll see him at the trial. No need to rub salt in his wounds now."
Domeric decided there was no point in mocking Torrhen's current plight. A disgraced noble with nothing left to lose was capable of anything.
"Don't worry. My father will definitely stand by your side during the trial," Robb said, clapping Domeric on the shoulder with a reassuring look.
…
It was early July in the North, and the sun was blazing. The air held a stifling heat.
This long summer had lasted for eight years. So long, in fact, that the memory and fear of winter had faded from most people's hearts.
Domeric was leading his towering steed from the training yard back to his temporary quarters in Winterfell when a voice called out behind him.
"Ser Domeric!"
It was Arya, Lord Eddard's second daughter.
"Lovely Lady Arya," Domeric greeted first with a smile.
"Did you give Sansa a white gem?" Arya asked, eyes narrowed.
White gem?
Domeric thought for a moment before realizing what she meant. She was referring to white porcelain, which in Westeros was as rare and valuable as "white gold."
While experimenting with ironwork in Lonely Mountain, Domeric had tried firing porcelain as a side project. Unfortunately, his lack of expertise—and perhaps the strange local soil and water—resulted in flawed pieces.
In the end, he had no choice but to polish the best ones and pass them off as gems.
"I suppose I did," he answered honestly.
"You said it was your mother's keepsake—and that Sansa was the most beautiful girl you've ever met?" Arya asked quickly, almost breathlessly.
"I did," Domeric nodded again. He considered such flattery harmless and routine.
"I see," Arya whispered. She stopped walking and turned away, biting her lip—but tears were already streaming down her cheeks.
She forced a shaky curtsey. "Ser Domeric, if you'll excuse me."
Then she turned and ran off without another word.
Domeric stood there, confused.
He replayed the conversation in his head. Had he said something wrong to Sansa?
No—it was just the usual lines he said to every pretty girl.
Had he accidentally offended House Stark somehow?