"Ser Domeric, over here! I roasted you a whole leg of lamb!"
Arya called out, tearing into food at the table like she owned the place.
Tonight she was dressed casually—an unadorned linen gown, a gray shawl thrown over her shoulders, and sandals on her feet, showing off small, cute toes.
Truth be told, she was always casual. Compared to Sansa's polished, delicate beauty, Arya looked more natural and plain—something simple and honest about her, like she belonged outdoors.
"Coming!"
Before the feast, Domeric had been stuck beside King Robert and hadn't had time to properly eat. Now he was starving. He grabbed the lamb leg and tore into it.
Arya's cooking was surprisingly good—tender and slick, the meat falling apart, juices running, rich and full, the aftertaste lingering. She'd clearly spent enough time around cooks to learn a thing or two.
Just as Domeric was devouring the lamb leg with total focus—
A voice slid into his ear, sticky-sweet, soft as honey and twice as cloying.
"Ser Domeric… may I have a dance with you?"
This was the most infuriating part of noble feasts—never letting a man eat in peace.
In the bright lamplight, Domeric turned and saw the woman who'd approached from behind.
At first glance, she was the kind of woman who made men want to taste her on instinct.
Delicate features. Sharp, elegant lines. Bright golden hair. Snow-white skin. Tall, lushly built.
She wore a thin-strapped purple gown that bared a generous sweep of skin, the neckline plunging into a deep, inviting cleft. A red gemstone hung at her throat.
Long legs and full hips formed a near-perfect curve.
Her golden hair fell in glamorous waves. Powder tinted her lips to match her shadow. The whole look was calculated to squeeze every drop of allure from her body.
Beautiful.
And brazen.
A woman inviting him openly, lowering herself like that…
As a knight, Domeric couldn't very well refuse her in front of everyone. He set the half-eaten lamb leg back on the platter and, under Arya's resentful stare, took the woman's hand.2
They stepped into the dance.
"The heir of House Bolton…" the woman purred before Domeric could speak, already pouring on the praise. "Handsome, impressive, so refined…"
That low voice slid into his ear like a feather scratching at skin.
"Meeting a young talent like you tonight… I'm so happy."
She cooed and flattered and played coy until Domeric finally realized he didn't even know who she was.
"Forgive me," she said smoothly, catching his faint chill. "I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Lady Darry—Ser Raymun's wife."
"I see," Domeric replied, polite but cold. "And what exactly do you want, my lady?"
Lady Darry was said to be Ser Raymun's second wife, a merchant's daughter.
Nobles usually sneered at marrying common blood. Whatever the reason, Ser Raymun had still chosen a match like that.
"I wouldn't dare 'instruct' you," she said with an innocent smile. "For women like us, meeting more nobles means more chances… and a man like you—getting a dance is a joy all on its own."
She spoke sweetly, charmingly.
To Domeric's eye, her manner was natural—no obvious strain, no clumsy theatrics.1
Then she finally revealed the real reason.
"I've heard Bolton iron goods sell across the Seven Kingdoms. Do you lack a distributor—someone to handle sales for you? My father has… some experience in commerce."
"Oh," Domeric said softly. "So that's what this is."
Since the beginning, ninety percent of Lonely Hills' iron trade had run through White Harbor and House Manderly. The remaining tenth was split among other partners.
Now Lonely Hills had expanded—population up to two hundred fifty thousand, iron output up by half. There was no reason to keep throwing everything into the Manderly basket.
That extra production could open new channels.
"And?" Lady Darry asked, eyes glittering. "What do you think?"
Her gaze turned molten. She smiled in a way that promised trouble. As she moved, the purple gown clung to her hips, presenting them like ripe fruit. She drifted closer—too close—brushing against him on purpose, letting her body "accidentally" graze his.
Domeric's patience snapped.
"I have a betrothed. Control yourself."
He shoved her back, hard.
Lady Darry's eyes widened—she immediately sensed she'd pushed too far. She spread her hands, switching tactics at once, spilling her "hardship" like a confession.
She was a merchant's daughter who married into Darry thinking she'd live like a noblewoman—only to discover she'd married into debt.
House Darry had backed the wrong side in Robert's Rebellion and paid for it—lands lost, wealth bled away, most of their armed strength gutted. After the war, compensation and costs crushed them. The ledgers didn't balance.
To keep up noble appearances, they borrowed.
And borrowed again.
Lady Darry described herself chasing deals, scrambling to keep the house afloat, acting pitiful and close to tears.
Even Domeric—hard as iron—could feel that kind of relentless soft pressure wearing at him. And she clearly knew her homework; she understood the iron trade better than most.
"All right," Domeric said at last, businesslike. "If you can truly guarantee sales volume, I'm willing to let you handle a portion of our output."
He promised her a letter of introduction so she could travel to Lonely Hills and negotiate with the people in charge there.
The moment she got what she wanted, Lady Darry's face lit up. Afraid of provoking him again, she quickly withdrew.
"Then I won't trouble you further, Ser Domeric. I look forward to our partnership."
She still couldn't resist a final wink—half teasing, half serious.
"If you're bored at night, you can always come find me. I'm older than you, but I know more… tricks."
In this world, even doing business wasn't easy.
Domeric didn't think Lady Darry was "shameful." In his old life, a woman like that would thrive anywhere.
Before he could finish the thought, he watched her saunter away—straight past the turn—heading directly toward Tyrion Lannister.
Domeric almost smiled.
So Lady Darry was interested in "gold mine trade" too…
The feast didn't break up until deep into the night.
The smell of charcoal still drifted in the air.
Outside, a round moon hung high. Mist rolled in now and then, veiling the sky.
Lantern-light flickered in the wind against the black mass of the castle, red embers floating like dim fireflies.
In a cramped sept, heavy panting echoed, thick with the smell of blood.
"Die!"
"Die!"
"You damned woman!"
"Die!"
…
A shadow rose and fell in the darkness, muttering like a madman's prayer.
The face hidden in that shadow was savage.
On the floor, a once-sexy, enticing body was now covered in wounds. Thick blood ran like a slow stream, painting death across the stones, spelling out brutality in crimson.
Golden hair lay scattered and tangled. Frozen terror sat on her face, telling the story of what had been done to her.1
Her purple gown—once striking—was soaked through with blood. In the dim sept, only the red gemstone at her throat caught light now and then.
Dawn crept closer—sky not yet bright, not yet dark.
Heavy footsteps rang on the stone paths of the castle.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, led a patrol through the grounds.
Even this close to King's Landing—less than three days out—he remained vigilant. If King Robert's safety failed, nothing else mattered.
From a small sept came a few dull thuds.
"Who's in there?"
Barristan barked, kicking the door open.
Guards rushed in with weapons and oil lamps.
A huge, bulky shadow stood inside—and at its feet lay a corpse.
Even Barristan, who'd lived through battlefields, felt his pupils tighten.
It was a woman.
Her purple gown had been torn apart. Her body was covered in injuries, wretched beyond words.
She hadn't been dead long. Whatever happened, she'd suffered like an animal under a knife.
The air in the room stank of violence—so thick it felt hard to breathe.
It was her.
The seductive Lady Darry—who had spoken with Barristan at the feast not long ago.
Now she was cold meat on stone.
"You killed her," Barristan said to the shadow, voice sharp as steel.
The figure turned.
Soot-dark armor gleamed under the lamps, grim as a cliff face at night.
In his hands he held a helm—the visor shaped into the snarling face of a hunting hound.1
And compared to the man's own half-burned, ruined face…
the helmet was almost beautiful.
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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.
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Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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