The blindfold covering Benita's eyes and the cotton stuffed in her ears were removed.
As she blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light, she realized with growing terror that she was trapped in the center of some kind of ritual circle.
"What are you going to do to me?" the female assassin rasped, her voice hoarse and raw.
But no answer came.
Wood had been arranged in a strange formation and now crackled with flame. Blood from some unknown beast had been used to draw twisted, obscure patterns across the ground.
The flickering light danced on the walls. Domeric's shadow loomed in the firelight—like a devil waltzing in madness.
Benita screamed in pain as Domeric gently dragged a dagger across her chest, slicing away a square inch of bloody skin.
Then he rose, raising both hands high, fingers moving swiftly through the air as he chanted a string of strange syllables.
A faint glow emerged from the human skin in his hand.
In the flames, devils danced wildly. The shrieking of vengeful spirits echoed in the air.
And in a flood of imagery, Benita's memories began flashing before Domeric's eyes—like a slideshow bombarding every nerve in his body.
Only after a long while did the flickering visions fade.
Then, a line of floating text appeared before his eyes, projected across his field of vision:
[Benita Antalion]
[Identity: Fallen noble, apprentice of the Faceless Men of Braavos]
[Title: None]
[Strength: 48]
[Agility: 35]
[Spirit: 42]
[Combat Power: 125]
[Note: A noble from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, ruined and disgraced. You now know her secret. If you can help her take revenge, she may pledge loyalty to you…]
This system, which Domeric called the "Secret-Digging System," was the true foundation of his power in Westeros.
After all, this was a world of magic—of dragons, White Walkers, the Children of the Forest, priests, fire gods, and ancient deities. With the red comet approaching and the magic tide rising, the realm would soon see all of them reawaken.
To this day, Domeric wasn't sure if the system came as a benefit of his reincarnation—or if it was an ancient black art passed down by the Bolton family.
But by flaying a piece of skin from a target, he could access their character stats. There was even a chance of receiving their memory fragments—and their deepest secrets.
The more fear the target felt, the more memories and secrets could be extracted.
That was why he had gone to such lengths: the dungeon cell, the flickering torches, the strange symbols drawn in blood, and the eerie incantations. It was all a theatrical performance to generate dread.
In truth, he only needed to touch the target's skin to activate the system and reveal their profile.
But if they were terrified? He might glimpse far more.
Thus, the elaborate "flaying" ceremony wasn't just necessary—it was vital.
Domeric sometimes wondered: centuries ago, did the ancient Boltons truly practice this magic? Did they flay enemies to extract secrets, not just as a method of torture?
When the tides of magic receded, perhaps these abilities faded as well—and the ritual of flaying was reduced to mere cruelty.
Returning to the present, Domeric rubbed his chin thoughtfully, replaying the memory fragments he'd seen from Benita.
A fallen noble, betrayal, revenge, loyalty…
It was almost like a tragic tale of a princess seeking vengeance.
But what caught Domeric's attention even more was her stat sheet—especially that combat rating: 125.
That was astonishingly high.
To put it in perspective, the average adult man in Westeros scored around 10 in strength, agility, and spirit—making a total combat index of 30.
Even a fully trained knight rarely surpassed 60.
Yet this woman—a mere apprentice assassin—scored 125.
Domeric suddenly changed his mind.
Originally, he had planned to use Benita's memories as evidence that the Karstark family had hired an assassin. She would serve as a witness during the tribunal, then be executed for her crime.
After all, who would pity a killer?
But now, Domeric saw potential.
This apprentice of the Faceless Men was weak for now, but her potential was enormous.
Had Domeric not been cautious, she might have succeeded in killing him.
And through her, he might gain valuable insight into the shadowy organization of the Faceless Men.
In Westeros, talent was more precious than gold.
If he truly intended to claim the Iron Throne, Domeric could not afford to cling to any naive sense of morality.
He would need knights to charge into battle—and assassins to strike from the shadows.
"What did you do to me?" Benita asked, her voice shaky.
"A minor spell, nothing more."
"Magic? That was magic?!"
Benita screamed. For all her training, the thought of magic—mysterious and unknowable—terrified her. All people feared the unknown more than anything else.
"You feel helpless, don't you, Benita Antalion?" Domeric said with a smile.
"How… how do you know my last name?" she asked, eyes wide with alarm.
"I know your secrets. Your past. Your dreams of vengeance. Your desires. Even the person you most wish to kill."
"You're a devil! May the Many-Faced God punish you!"
"Perhaps. But I can grant your wish. Can your god do the same?" Domeric asked gently, his voice like a whispering demon.
"To die here—does your god even care? All those years of effort, suffering, and restraint… would vanish like they never existed. What a waste."
He gently brushed her golden hair, his fingers skimming her pale, vulnerable skin.
"Let me give you a new choice. Death—or loyalty to me."
Benita fell silent, wrestling with the storm inside her.
At last, she spoke.
"You… you can truly help me take revenge?"
"Of course. The other side of the Narrow Sea will soon be mine to conquer. Your revenge will be a simple matter."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Consider it a transaction. If one day you think I can't fulfill your wish, you're free to leave."
Domeric waved his hand, smiling confidently.
"Now choose, Benita Antalion."
Silence lingered… and then a quiet but resolute voice filled the room.
"I… I choose loyalty."
Benita was unbound from the cross. She wrapped a cloak around her bare form, her body weak and trembling as she stepped forward.
She stood before Domeric Bolton, heir of the Dreadfort. Tall, pale, and sharp-eyed.
This was the man who had shown her the true meaning of despair.
"Kneel."
Domeric drew his knight's longsword and laid it gently on her shoulder.
"I, Benita Antalion,
Swear my loyalty,
In the name of the Many-Faced God,
I pledge eternal devotion to my master!"
Benita knelt, her forehead pressed to the floor, and kissed the tip of Domeric's boot.
…...
Meanwhile, Bran Stark—the second son of Lord Eddard—was climbing.
He was not yet seven years old, and climbing walls was his favorite pastime.
His favorite spot? The ruined tower atop Winterfell.
Long ago, before even Lord Eddard's birth, the tower had been struck by lightning, its top destroyed in a blazing fire. It had never been rebuilt.
Though Lord Stark sometimes sent men to clear the lower rubble, no one ever climbed the broken tower's peak—except for Bran and the crows.
But today… something was different.
Bran had heard voices inside.
He nearly lost his grip on the stone as fear overtook him.
"I, Benita Antalion, swear my loyalty…"
He peeked through a narrow opening. He saw flames, twisted markings on the ground, a golden-haired girl kneeling, and a tall figure facing away from him.
Bran's eyes widened with curiosity.
Then terror seized him.
The tall man turned—and Bran saw a pair of cold, terrifying eyes.
"Ahhh!"
He felt dizzy. His body began to slip.
A strong arm caught him.
Bran let out a sigh of relief and looked up, "Ser Domeric! It's you!" he gasped, clinging to the man.
"Bran, sneaking around and climbing again? Should I tell Lady Catelyn?" Domeric teased.
"No! Please don't tell my mother!" Bran stammered.
Domeric hoisted him up, ruffled his hair, and said softly, "Remember this, Bran: those without power should never spy on others' secrets. Doing so only brings misfortune."