That day, the party followed the kingsroad and reached Darry.
The castle—and the lands around it—were plain and modest. Though ancient, it was relatively small. It lay south of the Trident, in the riverlands, only three to five days from King's Landing.
So King Robert's royal escort arrived uninvited and promptly became honored guests of Darry.
House Darry might have bent the knee to the Iron Throne now, but during Robert's Rebellion they had been die-hard Targaryen loyalists—raising Prince Rhaegar's true-dragon banner and fighting as one of the main forces rushing to the king's aid at the Trident.
The lord of Darry—Ser Raymun—had lost all three of his older brothers there.
A whole house of martyrs.
Even if the cause they died for was the previous dynasty—the Targaryens.
In the original story, Darry's fate was miserable.
In the early days of the War of the Five Kings, Darry was taken by the Lannisters. Then the North reclaimed it. Less than half a month later, Gregor Clegane "the Mountain" looted it clean, and the last male of House Darry died in the chaos.
Later, on Lord Roose's orders, House Tallhart seized the place, killed all the captives, and burned the castle.
Darry became a tug-of-war battleground between the Lannisters and the Northern host—looted twice, burned once—
a true meat grinder.
Domeric arrived with the king's party at the castle gates. Because the castle was small and had few rooms, it couldn't house many people. Only nobles and personal attendants were allowed inside; most of the soldiers and horses camped outside the walls.
Servants brought bread and salt—Westeros's sacred custom passed down for a thousand years: guest right.
Domeric pinched off a small piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and ate. Then he laid a hand to his chest and gave Ser Raymun a slight bow.
"Thank you for your generous hospitality."
Ser Raymun wore the standardized noble smile, like a mask. "Welcome to Darry."
Darry, the hall.
The place was plainly furnished. Plank tables were stacked along the walls. The rafters were smoke-blackened. Thick walls, narrow windows, dim candlelight—everything about it said it hadn't been refurbished in a long time.
House Darry hadn't been living well.
Once, the Darrys had been one of the great riverlords, powerful along the Trident. Their history reached back to the Andal invasion.
But in the Rebellion, they chose the wrong side—standing against the "fish-wolf-stag-hawk" coalition.
With the fall of House Targaryen, House Darry lost most of its lands and wealth—nearly all its armed strength as well.
That's the price of backing the wrong banner.
For a noble house, it's practically extinction.
Only a handful of people were in the hall. King Robert and Lord Eddard drank together. Domeric sat off to the side with several knights from King's Landing.
"Ned—what do you think?" Robert said as he drank, nostalgia seeping into his voice. "Just the two of us—dressed as hedge knights—roaming the realm with swords in hand. Soldiers come, we cut them down. Trouble comes, we deal with it. And at night we find some farmer's daughter or an inn maid to warm our beds…"
"Your Grace… you're joking, right?" Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. "Abandon your kingdom and become a wandering knight?"
"I'm not joking. I swear I'm serious right now." Robert grumbled. "King's Landing is far worse than you think—lies and deception everywhere. I'm sick to death of it. Sometimes I don't even want to go back. I'd rather cross the narrow sea, ride free in the Free Cities… live as a carefree hedge knight…"
"But Your Grace," Ned tried to reason with him, still polite, "you aren't the young man you were. You owe responsibility to your subjects—and to your family. Your queen, your princes, your princess…"
"Hah! Family?" Robert burst out laughing. "I remember you had a woman once. What was her name?
Black shining hair, sweet big eyes—one look and a man loses himself. You know who I mean. The mother of your bastard."
"Her name was Wylla," Ned said, formal but cold. "I don't want to discuss her. You promised me you wouldn't bring it up again."
"Right—Wylla." Robert kept chuckling. "Any girl who can make the honorable Lord Stark forget honor—forget duty and family—if only for an hour… she wasn't some ordinary woman."
Domeric glanced sideways. He hadn't expected Ned Stark to have a past like that. It was… surprising.
So the stern, heavy-browed wolf wasn't exactly pure either.
If it were private, Robert running his mouth like this might not have angered Ned so much.
But Robert was saying it in front of Ned's future son-in-law—dragging the past into the open—humiliating him.
That finally snapped it.
Ned spoke the king's name outright. "Robert. Enough. Before gods and men, I shamed myself—and I shamed Catelyn!"
"Gods be good," Robert scoffed. "Back then you'd barely even met Catelyn more than a few times."
"I married her—and swore vows beneath the weirwood!"
"Ned, you're dull as dirt." Robert waved a hand. "No woman wants a Saint Baelor. I'm done talking to you."
He slapped his knee and turned toward Domeric.
"Bolton boy—what about you? Let me guess how many women you've bedded.
Three? Five? Don't tell me it's ten or more—hah! You're a rake. Still, I'd wager I've slept with more than you!"
Domeric had no response.
What was in this king's head?
Besides wine and women?
…
Then noise erupted outside. Another party had arrived at the castle.
"The small council has sent men from King's Landing to receive us!" a freerider reported.
Moments later, two councillors entered together.
One was an old man with sad blue eyes. He was grey with age, white hair, and over his shoulders fell the pure white cloak of the Kingsguard—white silver-threaded fastenings glinting in the light.
There was no mistaking him: Ser Barristan Selmy—Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—"Barristan the Bold."
Old, but unbroken.
If you wanted a phrase for him, that was it.
It was worth noting: Barristan had served the previous dynasty too. A steadfast Targaryen loyalist.
At the Trident during the Rebellion, Barristan had been defeated and captured.
Back then, Domeric's "cheap father," Lord Roose Bolton, had advised executing him as an example.
But Robert had ultimately pardoned Barristan—and returned him to the Kingsguard.
In Barristan's heart, his greatest lifelong regret was never winning the tourney at Harrenhal. Night after night he wondered: if he'd beaten Prince Rhaegar there, would the Rebellion have been avoided?
The other councillor was dressed so lavishly it was almost absurd.
A suit of deep green armor forged of fine steel. Tall, upright. Black hair framing a clean, handsome face. Eyes that carried a faint smile.
He held a stag-antler helm in his arms—two glittering golden antlers, the royal symbol.
King Robert had two brothers. This man was young.
That meant only one person:
Renly Baratheon—Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and master of laws on the small council.
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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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