"What do you mean?"
Benita subtly straightened her chest and cracked her eyes open just slightly to peek at him.
The noble youth before her was too calm.
Arms crossed, he stood at a distance, regarding her with a mocking look in his eyes.
Benita felt a twinge of unease.
"You've got real talent for acting. In another world, you might've won yourself a little golden statue," Domeric quipped.
"My lord, I don't understand what you're saying."
Benita continued pleading, "Please, let me go. The ropes are hurting me…"
She shifted slightly, her body letting out a deliberately delicate whimper, hoping to lure her target a little closer.
The strange way she was tied restricted her movement, but she could still manage. She only needed the boy to come a little nearer. Just a little more—and then she could unleash the full strength of a trained assassin.
"Let me guess. What could drive a young girl like you to use such extreme methods to approach a noble?"
Domeric's eyes gleamed sharply, like a hunter watching for any tell from his prey.
"I wasn't trying to approach you at all. It was your guards who dragged me here," Benita protested.
"That's precisely the brilliance of your method. If you'd approached me like some common whore, my men would've thrown you out without a second glance."
"I didn't!" she snapped, trying to hold her story together.
"So, your aim was to seduce me in hopes of becoming a noble's wife? That's unlikely. Even if I was willing to marry a commoner, my family would never allow it."
"That leaves only one possibility." Domeric mimicked a detective's pose, hand under chin.
"My lord, I truly don't understand what you're saying!" Benita's tone turned rigid, her earlier sweetness gone. Panic had crept into her voice.
"You're an assassin," Domeric said, smiling darkly.
Compared to assassinating a noble under heavy guard, getting close through the bedchamber was far easier.
"Only a woman with your looks would go to such lengths just to get close to someone like me."
"My lord, you must be mistaken! How could someone like me be an assassin? And besides, I'm tied up! I can't even move, how could I harm you?"
Benita tried stalling. She knew he might have already figured her out.
"I'm guessing you have some way of slipping out of those ropes instantly. They're not really restraining you—they're your disguise. The perfect way to make a target drop his guard."
"If I moved just a bit closer right now… you'd make your move, wouldn't you?"
Her plan unraveled.
With a flick of her head, Benita sent a silver needle flying from her hair. It tore through the air with a sharp whine.
With a whoosh, the thick candlelight was extinguished.
In the darkness, a flash of silver shot straight for Domeric's face.
At the same time, her left foot shifted slightly, and her knee began to rise. She was poised to strike.
This was a classic assassin's feint—the blade was a distraction. The real kill came from the poisoned iron spike hidden in her knee strike.
But before she could follow through, his hand was already a hair's breadth from her throat.
Benita instinctively dodged left.
He vanished.
Before she could register what happened, a heavy punch slammed into her stomach.
The pain made her double over, her face twisted in agony.
Domeric followed with another blow, right to her chin.
There was no mercy in his strikes. The force of the punch sent the female assassin flying across the room. She tumbled several times before crashing into the corner, finally going limp and passing out.
Downstairs, Ser Wendell stirred from the commotion above. He scratched his bald head and murmured, "Ah, to be young again…"
…
Candlelight flickered to life again. A splash of cold water brought Benita back to consciousness.
But now, she looked even worse than before.
Blood stained the corners of her mouth. Her once lovely face was battered and bruised, golden hair tangled and matted against her back.
Her leather armor and underclothes had been stripped away, and she now hung naked, arms and legs spread, suspended from a beam by sinew rope.
Her heels hovered off the ground, toes barely grazing the floor.
If the original ropework had a strange hint of sensuality, this time there was nothing left but shame and helplessness.
Am I going to die?
Benita's face was pale as ash.
She had failed to assassinate a noble and been captured.
She dared not imagine what came next.
Her mind flashed with dread to the Bolton family—an ancient, infamous house of the North, known for flaying their enemies alive.
They were masters of dragging their prey to the brink of madness, then keeping them alive in misery.
A cold wave of fear washed over her.
She regretted not bringing the "Strangler." A vial of poison was a far better end than the torment she now faced.
The door creaked open.
A shadow flickered against the wall.
The man who entered still wore that same harmless smile.
Domeric Bolton.
The one she had come to kill.
"Who sent you to assassinate me?"
"We don't betray our employers."
"No need to guess. It was the Karstarks, wasn't it? They'll pay for their mistake soon enough."
Domeric smiled. It wasn't a hard deduction. Among nobles, grudges ran deep and clear.
Benita said nothing. But her silence spoke volumes.
"I'm curious about your background. This dagger—it's old. Feels more like an antique than a weapon."
Domeric held the blade in his hand—the same one she had used in the failed attempt.
"And this emblem… if I'm not mistaken, it's from across the Narrow Sea. From the continent of Essos. The family that bore it has long since fallen."
He continued, inspecting her with interest.
"Your hair—it's golden with a silvery hue. Your eyes, violet. That tells me you have Valyrian blood."
Benita froze.
Every word he said was true.
She was, in fact, descended from a long-fallen noble family from the other side of the sea. Her bloodline traced back to Valyria.
"Add that to your assassin's training, your unique method—it reminds me of a certain group in Braavos. The Faceless Men."
"But your skills are too raw. You must be a novice. A mere apprentice."
The Faceless Men were a guild of religious assassins who worshipped the Many-Faced God. Their home was the House of Black and White in the free city of Braavos.
"How… how do you know all of this?" Benita asked, stunned.
"Books."
Domeric pulled out a thick tome from behind his back, as if conjuring it from thin air, and smiled.
"Books contain all of mankind's knowledge. And knowledge is power. Sadly, those clinging to petty scraps of power rarely understand this."
"Kill me," Benita said softly, accepting her fate. There was no more resistance in her voice.
"You think death is that easy? Not until I confirm a few things. Besides, I'm curious about your secrets."
"No matter what you do, I won't talk," she said, trembling.
Domeric gently ran his fingers across her exposed skin.
"In front of me… no one can keep their secrets." His voice was a whisper in her ear—soft and cold, like a demon's breath.