Winterfell, in a long-forgotten corner of the castle.
For thousands of years, the castle had grown like a monstrous stone tree, twisted and tangled, with walls, towers, courtyards, and corridors stretching like limbs of grey rock in an endless maze.
Now, within one of its abandoned towers…
"As a devout follower of the Many-Faced God, don't think you'll make me feel even the slightest shame. I will never give in!"
The voice echoed in the cramped, narrow space—but no one responded.
Benita felt like she was going mad.
She couldn't even tell if someone was truly in front of her or if it was just air. The silence was so absolute, not even the chirp of insects could be heard.
The once fierce, seductive female assassin was now pitiful, vulnerable, and helpless.
Benita had been stripped of all clothing. A blindfold covered her eyes, her ears were plugged with cotton, and her limbs were tightly bound to a wooden cross.
The tower was suffocatingly small, its walls made of massive stone blocks. Not even echoes traveled through its dense construction.
There was only one exit—sealed by a heavy iron door, with a tiny slit left as a breathing hole.
This was where Domeric had stashed the female assassin who had tried to kill him in the Smokewood Tavern.
But this had nothing to do with indulging in some perverse fantasy or twisted captivity game.
It was purely about extracting the information he needed from her—through the simplest, fastest method.
For someone like Benita, trained at the House of Black and White across the Narrow Sea—though still a mere apprentice—physical torture was of little use.
For her kind, the pain of the flesh meant little. It was psychological torment that truly broke them.
The claustrophobic, bland environment of the abandoned tower, combined with its restrictive structure, dulled the senses to the point of collapse…
In the darkness, Benita took a deep breath.
Negative emotions flooded her mind—restlessness, anxiety, a scattering of focus, the inability to think clearly. She could no longer sense the passage of time.
Had it been a day? Two days? A month?
Her body was reacting too—nausea, hormonal imbalance, and even hallucinations.
Her perception was falling apart.
She was being broken.
This was the most terrifying interrogation method in human history—sensory deprivation.
History had recorded its use: in the 17th century, hunger masks were employed, unintentionally tapping into the same psychological horror. These masks left only a slit for the mouth, denying the wearer the ability to see, hear, or speak—provoking dread from within.
Solitary confinement in prisons, too, had long been known not to soothe, but to drive prisoners to the brink. Political prisoners often went mad from isolation alone.
As an interrogation tool, sensory deprivation made suspects lose their sense of judgment, rendering them far more susceptible to giving up secrets.
Now, trapped in that storage shaft, Benita was beginning to understand true fear.
It was unbearable.
Like being locked in a black box—forever and ever—nothing but darkness.
In the night, your hands cannot reach out, nor can they ever touch a thing.
Domeric closed the *Kubark Interrogation Manual* in his hands—a once top-secret book from the intelligence services of his former life in America, filled with interrogation methods of all kinds.
He had copied it down word for word upon first arriving in Westeros, just in case he ever needed it. Now it was proving useful.
There were hundreds of ways to extract confessions described within.
If time allowed, Domeric could try each and every one on Benita.
It wouldn't be long before she broke—crying and begging, spilling everything she knew.
The Karstark family must have paid a steep price to hire a Faceless assassin.
Apparently not steep enough—they'd only managed to afford a mere apprentice.
Still, this would be the final nail in the Karstarks' coffin.
Hiring an assassin to kill a noble?
Unforgivable.
It violated one of the core principles held by every noble house in Westeros.
If such actions went unpunished, no lord could ever feel safe again.
Domeric could already picture the scene when the evidence was placed before Lord Eddard Stark.
Known for his devotion to chivalry, Ned Stark would no doubt unleash a storm of righteous fury upon the dishonorable acting Lord of Karhold—Torrhen Karstark.
That was assuming, of course, that Domeric succeeded in extracting the truth from the assassin's lips.
The truth that the Karstarks had ordered a noble's assassination.
Domeric had never considered himself an ambitious man.
Before arriving in Westeros, he had been a simple office worker—earning money, enjoying life, dreaming of lazy weekends, video games, and marrying a decent woman for a warm, ordinary life.
But that had changed the moment he came to Westeros.
Even if he gave up his noble title, fled the Bolton name, abandoned the Dreadfort, and lived incognito in some remote village, one day he would still be dragged into the game.
Just like the protagonists in those films who are pulled back in—when a friend is killed or a family member wronged—they rise as lone, vengeful figures from the shadows.
The road to paradise lies through hell.
To live in the light, one's roots must plunge into the deepest dark, drawing strength from the soil of nightmares.
And those who possess power, but do not wield it wisely, often suffer tragic ends—dragging their loved ones with them.
This world was too cruel.
In Westeros, remaining an outsider was harder than being a piece on the board.
Without strength, you were nothing but prey—at the mercy of anyone who chose to crush you.
Some might pity you, show you a moment's sympathy—but more often, they would trample you into the mud.
That was why Domeric chose not to run from the coming War of the Five Kings.
He would meet it head-on. If he died, he would die brilliantly.
Returning to the present, Domeric pushed aside his thoughts.
Dealing with the Karstarks and building up his Lonely Mountain domain remained his priority.
He glanced again at the female assassin bound to the cross.
Fear had already taken root in her heart.
It was time to unearth her secrets.