Domeric steadied his mind. No matter who the opponent was, he had to go all out.
He was almost impatient to find the limit of his strength—and the "Kingslayer," Jaime, was undeniably the best possible test.
"By the laws of the realm, under the witness of the gods—trial by combat begins!"
The onlookers backed away to either side, leaving a wide space between four massive marble pillars to serve as the fighting ground.
A biting wind swept through the hall. Torches flickered like banners in a gale—one after another sputtering out, then flaring again.
For a heartbeat, the firelight flashed, illuminating Domeric's chiseled, indifferent face—those deep sea eyes erupting with a hard, dazzling glare.
The nobles around him felt the pressure and instinctively retreated.
Jaime didn't move—because he was locked in place.
Locked by the young man's killing intent, sharp enough to feel solid.
No one saw Domeric draw.
The blade at his waist was simply out.
Clang—like a dragon's cry.
The edge shone clear as water.
Shock and disbelief slammed across Jaime's face. He swung his knightly longsword up at full speed, rising into the block.
Clang!
Steel met steel.
Before everyone's eyes, Domeric drove with his arm, his saber pinning Jaime's longsword—forcing Jaime's head back, inch by inch, crushing his stance lower and lower.
This boy… what monstrous strength!
"But that's more like it," Jaime spat, exhilaration bleeding into his voice. "Now this is a fight worth having."
He broke the bind and sprang back.
At the same time, he ripped off his cloak and flung it aside, rolling his neck until his bones cracked in a chain of pops.
He'd been in King's Landing too long. His body had started to rust. Now it finally woke.
Jaime roared and charged.
With every swing, his force climbed. The sword's wind-splitting howl grew louder and harsher.
Figures blurred. Blade-pressure screamed. The air felt compressed—each strike like a breath pulled from the world.
If some impossible high-speed lens could capture it, this brutal, artistic violence would freeze into a masterpiece.
To the crowd, both men moved at the edge of human limit.
In the dimness, sparks burst—steel colliding.
Boom!
The spot where Domeric had been standing cratered in the floor.
His saber carved a long gouge through stone. Brick and gravel exploded backward—then the wind arrived a half-beat late, whipping a storm of debris.
He didn't flinch. He surged straight back into the Kingslayer's edge.
In that cramped space, they vanished and reappeared in rapid turns—too fast for any eye to track.
Only the ring of steel and the sudden flare of sparks marked where they were.
In the rush of motion, Domeric and Jaime met eyes more than once—each seeing the other's disbelief, the same impossibility reflected back.
Their speed and power kept climbing, ghostlike in the torchlight.
Soon Jaime had pushed himself to his peak—
and Domeric still hadn't reached his.
Jaime attacked again.
Domeric caught the pressure, shifted, bled it off, feet sliding and pivoting—cracks spiderwebbing through the stones beneath him.
Jaime's brow tightened.
This opponent was far more terrifying than he'd imagined. But this kind of intensity couldn't last forever.
They traded relentlessly, move after move. It felt long—
but it hadn't even been thirty seconds.
When masters clash, you rarely get three-day duels. You rarely get three minutes.
Because battle is lethal. One mistake decides life or death.
The better the swordsman, the more he must detonate his stamina and will in a single instant—crush the opponent in one sustained surge.
Domeric's pressure began to overwhelm Jaime.
Blade over body—one cut dropped toward Jaime's chest.
At the last possible moment, Jaime hauled his sword back to save himself, catching the savage edge.
The saber skated, throwing a blinding spray of sparks.
Jaime snapped into counterattack—his White Cloak's honor wouldn't be trampled.
He hammered swing after swing—
and still couldn't even graze the man's sleeve.
In the moment the firelight flared, Jaime saw it clearly:
the cold, fatal killing intent on Domeric's face—tinted with a thin streak of bloodlusted madness.
That sudden acceleration caught him wrong-footed.
Damn it.
Jaime felt it in his bones.
A fraction of distraction—
and Domeric came straight in.
In that sliver of time, Jaime saw the sweat-darkened arm, the muscles rising like cords beneath skin—
a vast, crushing force pouring down.
Kesa-giri.
A strong hand locked on the hilt, the razor edge angled forward.
In that blink of a moment—
Domeric cut like thunder from high left to low right across Jaime's front,
the path running from shoulder toward the opposite waist, like the diagonal fold of a monk's robe.
For an instant it looked like the Kingslayer would be split in two.
At the last breath, Jaime twisted with everything he had—
and threw his left hand, the closest thing to the blade, into the cut.
Flesh for time.
Blood bloomed in a brilliant spray.
A slash—blood flick.
Domeric's saber slid back into its scabbard.
The torrent of blood couldn't keep pace with that phantom cut.
A severed arm spun up into the air.
"I lost."
Jaime dropped to one knee. His longsword fell from his grip.
His face went corpse-white as he pressed his cheek to the floor, clutching the stump where his left arm had been cut clean at the forearm—cut surface smooth as glass.
The wind died.
The hall's torches steadied again.
The king, the queen, the lords and ladies—
every face wore a different mask:
joy, worship, awe, reverence… or stunned, unbelieving fear.
"No!"
Cersei screamed, unable to accept what she was seeing.
Domeric stepped forward and looked down at the Kingslayer sprawled on the stones, thinking coldly:
Look at you—betraying everything for love.
…
"Good!" Robert boomed, slamming his bear-paw hand on the table. "North's finest swordsman indeed! I'll reward you!"
"Your Grace," someone reminded him, "this is trial by combat, not a tourney."
"So what?" Robert barked. "I enjoyed it. That was better than any bloody tourney!"
…
"I won."
Domeric walked past the Hound, Sandor Clegane, signaling him to step aside.
"I saw," the Hound said quietly.
"Domeric!" Sansa flew into his arms, certain she'd climbed straight into a dream.
She stared up at him in worship, remembering how he'd saved Lady—
just like the songs: like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield slaying the giant to rescue Princess Daeryssa… like Prince Aemon the Dragonknight defending Queen Naerys in his duel against the vile Ser Morgil…
Winterfell, a broken tower.
"Sit," Domeric said, gesturing.
His shadowguard Benita—gone for hours—was back. And so were the core men of House Bolton's rising machine.
Ser Wendell, the fat bald chief knight and castellan.
Ser Jorah, the steward of governance.
Ser Jon Snow, newly knighted.
And Ser Harrion Karstark—who'd distinguished himself in the wildling war and now served as captain of Domeric's guards.
"When I go south with Lord Eddard to King's Landing, all governance of the Lonely Hill falls under Ser Jorah's authority."
"As you command, my lord," Jorah Mormont rose and bowed.
"Ser Harrion will be responsible for the Lonely Hill's defense."
"Yes, my lord." Harrion struck hammer to chest in a knight's salute.
"As for the march—Ser Wendell will take fifteen hundred men. Ser Jon will take a thousand wildling soldiers. I'll bring a three-hundred-man personal guard."
After the campaign beyond the Wall—nearly a hundred thousand wildlings taken—Lonely Hill's population had surged past two hundred fifty thousand. The iron trade had expanded by half. The standing army had grown from four thousand to six thousand five hundred—fifteen hundred of them wildlings.
The strategic value of King's Landing was enormous. Domeric was willing to move nearly three thousand troops for it. Without the profits from iron, no ordinary lord could fund this.
"Do we take the Kingsroad?" someone asked.
"No. Too conspicuous."
"You'll follow the White Knife down to the coast. White Harbor's fleet will be waiting—I've already spoken to Wylla. Then across the Bite and down the Narrow Sea straight into the harbor of King's Landing.
Remember—never too many at once. Move in waves. Disguise yourselves as merchant caravans. Don't draw the City Watch's attention.
You'll have contacts. I've prepared multiple camps outside King's Landing—supplies stocked. Dig in there and wait for my orders."
"Understood?"
"Yes, my lord," they answered in unison, standing and bowing.
"And what about me?" Benita pouted, clearly offended she hadn't been assigned. "Do I ride with you, master? Because your 'North's flower' fiancée is petty—she'll get jealous."
"You have your own task."
Domeric smiled like a man keeping a secret. "You go alone. King's Landing. Deliver a letter. Fast."
"To whom?"
"A fat bald man," Domeric said, amused. "Reeking of perfume and powder."
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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! 📢
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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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