The girl's features were pure and lovely as a painting, her small face fresh and delicate. Her skin carried a faint pink flush, smooth and tender as fresh milk.
She must have just bathed.
She had changed into a pale brown low-cut gown that hugged her narrow waist. Her chestnut hair, still damp, hung loose across her shoulders.
Lovely. Youthful and charming.
"Shall I scrub your back for you, Ser Domeric?"
A blush rose on Sansa's face as she spoke the words in a small voice.
The simple sentence seemed to have taken every bit of courage the maiden possessed.
"Well…" Domeric's throat moved once. He knew very well what "scrub your back" truly meant.
The girls of Westeros matured early. A girl of Sansa's age, if she were smallfolk, would likely already be married and have borne children.
As a noble maiden, Sansa must also have received the septas' lessons on what came before marriage…
In short, though Sansa still looked young, she already understood everything she needed to know.
"Ahem." Domeric was about to refuse when he suddenly paused.
For Sansa had undone the ribbon of her gown, letting the thin silk slip slowly down her body.
Beneath it, she wore nothing.
The maiden's graceful curves appeared before Domeric. The skin on the inside of her fair thighs showed a faint, hidden pink. The smooth sides gleamed softly, as though coated with a thin layer of wax.
"Ser Domeric, I…"
Sansa moved closer, her voice as light as a breath of wind.
The hands that had covered her body now fell away beneath his gaze. She straightened and offered herself to him without shame.
Domeric found himself caught in a dilemma. On one hand, he felt Sansa was still too young; on the other, he did not wish to wound the maiden's fragile pride. Only the gods knew how much courage it had taken her to go this far.
Just then—
A sharp cry suddenly came from outside the door.
"Sansa, where are you? Come bathe with us!
I haven't had a bath in so long!
I'm itching all over!"
It was Arya's voice, and very close.
Before Domeric could speak, Sansa had already thrown on her clothes with lightning speed and bolted for the door. "Forgive the disturbance, Ser Domeric," she gasped.
Then came the heavy thud of the door slamming shut.
Domeric could only smile bitterly.
The next day.
The council chamber was furnished with great splendor. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and the walls were hung with fine oil paintings from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
On either side of the great doors stood a pair of Valyrian sphinxes carved in the shape of lion-bodied women. Their bright, lively eyes seemed to stare straight at the bored Domeric.
Domeric attended the Small Council as the Hand's Advisor, seated in the chair to Lord Eddard's right.
The Small Council was a body of trusted advisors who helped the king govern the realm, each offering counsel from his own sphere of mastery.
None now living could say exactly when the custom had first begun, but it had existed throughout the rule of the Targaryen dynasty.
The Small Council answered directly to the king. Only the king could turn its decisions into law.
When the king was absent, the Hand of the King acted in his place—as Lord Eddard did now.
The appointment and removal of council members rested with the king alone.
Because of the Andal reverence for the number seven, the council was customarily seven in number.
Their offices and the men who held them were:
Hand of the King — Eddard Stark Lord Commander of the Kingsguard — Barristan Selmy Master of Coin — "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish, who controlled the treasury and the realm's finances Master of Laws — Renly Baratheon, who oversaw the kingdom's courts and justice Master of Whisperers — Varys, who commanded the network of informers Master of Ships — Stannis Baratheon, who commanded the royal fleet Grand Maester — Pycelle, the chief advisor on matters of learning and wisdom
Although the Small Council normally had seven members, extra advisors were sometimes summoned. Domeric now sat as the Hand's own counselor.
"This must be Lord Eddard's future son-by-marriage. A pleasure to meet you, ser. I am Varys, Master of Whisperers."
The speaker was a plump man, soft-bodied and powdered, his head as bald and shiny as a peeled egg.
He wore a loose purple silk robe beneath a gold-threaded vest that gave him the look of a newly rich man.
"Lord Varys, the pleasure is mine. I am Ser Domeric Bolton." Domeric greeted him politely.
The famous "Spider" of King's Landing had an appearance too distinctive to forget.
Varys's title of lord was only an empty honor granted with his office. In truth he held no lands; what he ruled were merely the "little birds" who served him.
"Then I hope you will be kind to me in the days ahead," Varys said, fluttering his lashes like a girl and letting out a soft giggle.
A chill of disgust ran down Domeric's spine.
"My lords, this is my first Small Council as Hand of the King. I am glad to see you all."
Lord Eddard, seated at the head of the table, spoke.
"You are the Hand of the King. Serving you is our duty," the others answered.
"Then, are we all here?"
"Lord Stannis returned to Dragonstone after Lord Jon Arryn's death. Our brave Lord Commander Barristan has duties elsewhere. Everyone else is present," Varys explained.
"What about King Robert? Perhaps we should wait for His Grace," Lord Eddard said.
Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws, could not help laughing. "Waiting for my elder brother to honor us—who knows how many years that would take!"
"Our beloved king has too many important matters to worry about," Varys said, "so he leaves these trifling affairs to us."
"What Lord Varys means," Petyr Baelish continued with a thin smile, "is that whenever talk turns to actual governance, His Grace's head begins to ache. So the heavy burden of ruling the kingdom falls on our shoulders."
"We may as well begin now," Grand Maester Pycelle said, rubbing his belly slowly with both hands. He had a kind and gentle face, with a few strands of white hair hanging beside his already bald forehead.
King Robert had once said that those around him were either knaves or fools.
Grand Maester Pycelle was the perfect example of a "fool"—yet he was only pretending.
This maester, who looked more than seventy years old and seemed to have one foot already in the grave, understood very well the wisdom of appearing harmless. For decades he had remained steady amid the politics of King's Landing.
Domeric knew full well that despite Pycelle's current sickly appearance and lack of spirit, the old man was quite energetic when he visited the brothels to examine the whores.
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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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