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"For your safety, my lord, I truly think it would be best not to do that," Jorah said with a grimace.
"Why?"
"Because the prisoner can use magic."
Jorah's voice came out rough and tight. It trembled slightly, as if the memory itself was enough to chill him.
Seeing the fear on his castellan's face—fear that did not look feigned—Domeric fell into thought.
Magic.
Not the "magic" of hedge-witches in tawdry tales—women dressed in strange rags, tossing odd ingredients into a pot, claiming they could foretell the future or decide life and death, when it was nothing more than tricks and chemical reactions.
But in Westeros, magic was real—believed in and acknowledged by most.
And yet true magic was also so rare that many doubted it still existed at all.
The maesters of the Citadel generally held that after the Doom of Valyria, magic had faded from the world; since then, there were no reliable records of successful sorcery in Westeros.
Lately, however, Domeric had heard whispers—of glass candles in the Citadel burning once more with strange, unnatural flame.
As though magic's power was returning to Westeros, and abilities long thought lost—once dismissed as miracles—were stirring awake again.
All of it pointed toward the coming of the red comet… and with it, the rising of the world's magic.
In other places, men spoke of wonders more openly. In Qarth, warlocks claimed vast power within the House of the Undying. In Asshai-by-the-Shadow, and along the shores of the Jade Sea, shadowbinders, witches, and seers were said to practice their arts without pretense.
Domeric had not expected to brush against such a thing so soon—something dreadful, uncontrollable.
"Ser Jorah," he asked, "are you certain it was magic?"
"Yes," the castellan said, without hesitation.
"What sort of magic?"
"Fire," Jorah said. "It looks like ordinary flame… but once it touches a man, he melts. His head and most of his body collapse onto the ground, like a candle left too close to the hearth—wax running out."
Remembering the scene, Jorah's whole frame shuddered. "My lord, you would not wish to see such a sight."
Fire?
Domeric's mind went first to wildfire—but wildfire burned green, was difficult to make, and its effect was not so immediate. Whatever this was, it was not simply a deadlier kind of lamp oil. It did not melt a man in an instant.
Could it truly be sorcery?
With that thought, Domeric seemed to settle on a decision.
"If bringing the prisoner here is too dangerous," he said, "then we'll go to the prisoner."
"My lord… she can use magic. You truly mean to go?"
"And what else should we do?" Domeric replied, forcing calm into his voice. "Stand here and guess? Better to see her ourselves—and ask why she attacked my mines."
A lord's composure was contagious. Seeing Domeric so steady, Jorah's panic eased. He stopped arguing and only said, "Then we should take precautions."
So Domeric wrapped himself in a thick cloak made from the hide of some beast, smeared with a foul-smelling paste. The stench was vile, but he was told it could resist flame.
…
There was only one dungeon in the Lonely Hills, used mainly for miners who caused trouble. It was not large.
Besides Jorah, Domeric brought Ser Wendell—and a heavy escort of soldiers in helm and mail.
The dungeon was crude: a hollow cut straight into the mountain with iron doors set in place. The walls, at least, were solid granite.
It was not Domeric's first time in such a place. The deeper they went, the narrower the passage became. There were fewer cells—but each one was larger, built for serious criminals.
The prisoner was held in the innermost chamber. With each level, the air grew sharper with the scent of lime.
"My lord Domeric," Ser Wendell said, "this is reckless. Even chained, no one can be sure when the prisoner might loose her magic."
Wendell, the White Harbor lord's second son, had heard at once that Domeric intended to pass judgment personally. He had hurried over and had not stopped trying to dissuade him.
"Rest easy," Domeric said, half amused. "I'm not in the habit of gambling away my life. I still need it—so I can marry your precious niece, Wyrrfyde. Where is she?"
"Truly?" Wendell's face lit up.
Ever since he'd heard Lady Catelyn meant to match Sansa Stark to Domeric, Wendell had been in a black mood. His future was tied to the Lonely Hills; only a marriage between House Manderly and House Bolton could truly secure his standing here.
And now, Domeric sounded far more interested in Wyrrfyde than in Sansa.
Perhaps…
Wendell began calculating at once—already thinking of a letter to his father, the Lord of White Harbor, to lock the match in before the Starks tried to steal it away.
While he was still turning it over in his mind, the party reached the final level.
This cell was far larger than the others. Two pillars stood nearly four meters tall, with a timber beam laid across them; from the center of the beam hung a mass of chains.
The prisoner was wound in those chains, her arms bound behind her back. Her fine dress was filthy—soiled like a rag.
And then Domeric noticed something.
A dress.
Why a dress?
Only now did it register that the one who had used "magic," attacked his mines, and sparked the chaos was… a girl.
Very well.
Her gown had once been pure white. Now it was smeared with grime, but her figure was still unmistakable—the close-fitting fabric traced every curve.
An ornate gold filigree headpiece, a jeweled necklace at her throat… everything about her spoke of extravagant high birth.
She looked at them with wide, innocent eyes.
"This," Domeric said, rubbing his face, "is the prisoner you caught—the one who can use magic?"
"Yes, my lord," Jorah said firmly. "Do not be deceived by her appearance. I saw her use that horror with my own eyes."
"All right," Domeric said.
With shields raised and fireproof cloaks wrapped tight, he and his guards advanced step by step toward the girl.
Then Domeric asked, "What is your name?"
The girl regarded them with open curiosity.
And in the clear reflection of her eyes, Domeric saw himself—cautious, constrained, moving like a man afraid of his own shadow.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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