Winterfell, the great hall.
The hall blazed with light—more than a hundred torches burned in wall sconces.
"Young man—are you certain you want a trial by combat?"
King Robert stared at Domeric, expressionless, a blade-bright glint hidden in his eyes.
"To let the gods decide that wolf's fate?"
Trial by combat was an ancient Westerosi form of judgment.
It had come with the Andals—along with their Faith of the Seven—when they invaded Westeros.
The logic was simple:
If the accuser or the accused truly clung to their justice or innocence, then the Seven would surely bless them, letting them defeat their foe in the lists and prove the righteousness of their cause.
In plain terms, Joffrey accused Arya, the butcher's apprentice Mycah, and the direwolf of attacking him first.
Arya insisted it was self-defense.
When the facts were muddy, both sides swore they spoke the truth, and no one could easily determine what really happened—then a trial by combat could be invoked.
If Arya's side won, it meant the gods judged them innocent, and the direwolf Lady would not die.
If they lost, then guilt was confirmed.
At first glance it seemed "absurd," but in practice it was effective—often ending disputes cleanly.
The lords of Westeros had neither the time nor the capacity to investigate every case in detail, so letting religion settle conflicts became the cheapest, quickest solution.
It looked like barbaric jungle law, a crude instrument of rule—but it functioned as a workable arbitration tool.
Society rarely has the ability to deliver perfect justice for everyone; it can only use limited means to produce a verdict people will accept, even if it isn't ideal.
Of course, trial by combat could not be invoked at whim. It required the consent of the authority judging the case—typically a great lord: a king like Robert, a lord paramount like Eddard Stark, or a great bannerman like Roose Bolton.
And it had limits: it was generally only used when the truth was hard to establish.
If the evidence was ironclad, you didn't get to demand it.
A brute like Gregor Clegane couldn't simply rape and pillage and then ask for trial by combat—most rulers wouldn't allow it.
Kings and great lords had to respect the Faith's enormous influence among the people.
One more thing: trial by combat occurred between social equals—it was not something peasants and nobles did against each other.
Even so, the "rules" were flexible. The true power lay with the judge; kings and great lords could adjust conditions as they saw fit.
For example, when Eddard Stark's father—Rickard Stark—was accused of treason by the Mad King, he demanded a trial by combat.
The Mad King answered with a more vicious trick:
He named wildfire as his champion—and burned Rickard Stark alive in his armor.
Tyrion Lannister himself used trial by combat twice to escape conviction—first, by sheer luck, he survived the Eyrie.
The second time, he nearly won again, only to lose it all to Oberyn Martell's "spearman attribute"—
Spearmen have always been cursed with luck E: too much talking in battle, miserable ends.
…
Night pressed low. The silver moon hung like a knife.
Pale moonlight cut through the windows into the hall. Outside, distant oaks swayed in the wind like clawing ghosts.
Cersei and the Lannisters wore shifting expressions—they clearly hadn't expected this.
Eddard, Robb, and Catelyn looked worried.
Arya's face was still filthy. Sansa's gaze on Domeric grew even more devoted.
"I'm certain," Domeric said.
"Then who is your champion?" Robert demanded.
"Myself."
"Good lad." Robert's tone sharpened with interest. Then he turned aside and barked impatiently, "And you, foolish woman?"
"I name the Hound—Sandor Clegane," Cersei said without hesitation. If someone wanted to challenge her authority with a trial by combat, she had no reason to refuse.
"No."
Robert's refusal cracked across the hall.
"Why?" Cersei's voice went razor-sharp.
Robert lifted his cup, took a hard swallow, and snarled, "Because you're blind, woman. Their stations aren't equal.
Your guard isn't a noble—he isn't even a knight. Domeric is a great lord of the North, heir to the Dreadfort…
How am I supposed to make such a ridiculous ruling and call that a proper combat?"
Sandor Clegane had long since earned the right to be knighted—but he had always refused the spurs.
Robert had seized on that.
"You're showing favoritism!" Cersei snapped. "The laws of the realm don't say a knight's title is required for trial by combat."
"Shut your mouth. I'm the king. What I say is law." Robert's eyes narrowed. "But you can send your brother Jaime. His rank matches Domeric's."
"I have no need to risk Jaime," Cersei said, face hard.
"Then you're afraid," Robert boomed. "And I rule Domeric victorious. Release the wolf."
"No!"
"Then let Jaime fight," Robert laughed, crude and loud, "or I declare you've lost. Woman—if you want to wrestle with me, grow yourself a cock first!"
Cersei went white, shaking with fury.
Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, looked almost amused—golden hair, a careless smile.
He tucked his helm under one arm, lifted his sword, and said lightly, "Your Grace. As you wish."
"Be careful," Cersei warned him—though she clearly didn't believe he could lose. Still, she spat the threat like a vow:
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Domeric was momentarily stunned.
To him, Jaime Lannister was actually more dangerous than Sandor Clegane.
Robert was supposedly on Eddard's side—so why hand Domeric a stronger opponent?
Had Robert seen through him—recognized something—and wanted him to teach his "brother-in-law" a lesson?
Or was it truly about the mismatch of rank, a matter of noble dignity?
Or was it simply… that Robert wanted entertainment?
This world had no NPCs. Everyone had motives—messy, layered, and often impossible to predict.
Who could say a butcher had never dreamed of being king?
Or that a queen, in the dead of night, had never envied a whore's simple pleasures?
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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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