Arya spent an entire day working and still couldn't find any of the rubies that had fallen from Prince Rhaegar's armor along the banks of the Trident.
And Sansa—pouting angrily—was still stewing. The kiss she'd been building up to for half a day never happened, and it left her full of regret.
By the time Domeric brought both girls back to camp, it was deep into the night…
The next day.
Camp.
Wagons and servants poured out of tents in a constant stream. The ground was chaos—shouting everywhere—air thick with the raw stink of wet earth, horse sweat, and the salty bite of dried perspiration.
King Robert's court escort, Lord Eddard's guards, and Domeric's men set out again.
They moved through mountains and wasteland like a massive serpent winding across the land.
Ever since the "trial by combat" at Winterfell, the Lannisters had marched at the very front of the column, keeping their distance from Lord Eddard in the rear—clear lines drawn between them.
Lion and wolf had never truly gotten along. After Domeric cut off Jaime's arm, the tension between the two sides had sharpened into naked hostility.
In contrast, King Robert's mood only grew brighter. He laughed day and night, as if he'd convinced himself that using Eddard Stark to suppress the Lannisters was a brilliant, flawless decision.
Every time they made camp, Robert dragged Ned out hunting—then found some farmer's daughter and took his pleasure like a rutting boar.
Westeros's productivity was low, closer to a true dark-age world than anything civilized.
Most farm girls never bathed. Even if they wanted to, they rarely had the means. And their looks… were nothing to sing about.
But King Robert never cared. He wasn't picky—meat was meat.
Perhaps after too much "seafood," he simply enjoyed changing flavors.
Meanwhile, inside the queen's wheelhouse…
A towering two-level carriage built from glossy oak and gilded metalwork, pulled by ten fine horses.
Since his injury, "the Kingslayer" Jaime Lannister had remained inside recovering.
"How is Jaime's wound?" Queen Cersei asked, and her concern didn't seem fake.
"We've used the finest medicines…" A maester from a nearby castle was changing Jaime's bandages.
"You will heal him. You will!" Cersei shrieked, tears streaking her face. "Do you hear me?!"
"Ser Jaime's body is stable, Your Grace… but this hand…" The maester hesitated.
"Can't you fix it?" Cersei's eyes brightened with desperate hope.
"I… I'm powerless." The maester couldn't endure her stare and turned to flee.
"Get back here!" Cersei snapped, eyes wide, fury on her face.
"Enough." Jaime forced himself upright with his remaining right hand. His pale face flushed with a sickly red. "I'm fine. It's nothing."
The air grew heavy and oppressive. Only Cersei's quiet sobbing remained.
Losing an arm… for Jaime Lannister, it truly was "nothing."
He'd been coasting through life for years. One hand more or less—what did it change?
Jaime was Lord Tywin Lannister's eldest son—heir of Casterly Rock, once the youngest Kingsguard knight in living memory.
Tall, golden, magnificent—green eyes, a blade-sharp smile—an elite swordsman with birth and talent that looked almost perfect.
And then, in the final stage of Robert's Rebellion, he killed the king he'd sworn to protect: Aerys Targaryen.
And the world branded him "Kingslayer."
Once a man is given a nickname, it never leaves him—especially a poisonous one.
No one asked why he'd done it.
No one cared that he'd saved King's Landing from wildfire.
No one listened—not even Tywin Lannister.
People believe what they want to believe.
"A Kingslayer" is better gossip than "a savior."
So the curse followed Jaime all his life.
Whenever anyone wanted to sneer at him, they dragged out that iron collar—Kingslayer—and tightened it.
After more than a decade, Jaime had stopped resisting. He stopped caring. Aside from Cersei, he felt nothing for anything around him.
Cersei clung to him, as if holding herself together by force. "Jaime… we can't let this go. That Bolton boy—revenge. Revenge!"
"Revenge?" Jaime kept his eyes shut, voice controlled. "How? Ride straight up and kill him?"
"Why not?" Cersei's eyes flashed. Her voice turned urgent.
"Do you know how many men he brought?" Jaime opened his eyes and actually laughed. "Three hundred guards. Fully armored. Fully equipped. One man, three horses.
Most minor lords could bankrupt themselves and still struggle to field a retinue like that. This Bolton heir… is deep water."
Cersei fell silent, teeth biting into her lip.
Jaime continued. "More importantly, he knows Robert brought Stark here to hold the Lannisters down. So he has no reason to restrain himself against us."
"Everyone knows that," Cersei snapped. "Any fool can see it."
"Maybe. But Eddard Stark himself might not see it—otherwise why bring only fifty guards? Or maybe he hasn't understood how much deeper the clash between stag and lion runs in King's Landing than he imagines…" Jaime rubbed his chin.
"Is Eddard Stark really that stupid?"
"Who knows?"
…
Riding ahead with his men, Domeric was already thinking through his plan to seize King's Landing.
And inevitably, his thoughts turned to Cersei.
He'd cut off Jaime Lannister's arm. That vengeful queen wouldn't let it rest.
Cersei was beautiful—face, figure, everything. Easily one of the most stunning women in the saga.
But brains and strategy?
None to speak of.
What she had instead was petty cleverness: jealousy, malice, spite, cruelty.
She had no sense of the larger board. No patience for layering moves. No grasp of true balance-of-power politics.
Her favorite move was flipping the table.
When things didn't go her way—or when they slipped beyond her control—she didn't scheme and counterbalance.
She flipped the table.
And because she was queen, backed by House Lannister, she often flipped it successfully, spectacularly, at exactly the worst possible moment for everyone else.
A "fool" who hard-counters experts.
That was the truly dangerous type.
Domeric felt a prick of unease for his own safety.
If Cersei lost her mind and simply threw soldiers at him—no regard for cost—catching him off guard and hacking him down in a rush…
That would be a tragedy.
He immediately summoned his guard captain and increased his close escort from twenty men to fifty.
Then he ordered heavy crossbows and shields kept ready at all times, for any sudden crisis.
Because life was the foundation.
If you died, every grand ambition turned to foam in an instant—
moonlight in water, flowers in a mirror.
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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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