What did that mean?
Benita lifted her chest without drawing attention, then cracked her eyes open to steal a look at him.
The noble youth in front of her was far too calm.
He stood well away with arms folded, studying her with a teasing, almost amused gaze.
Benita felt a faint sense of danger.
"You've got real talent for acting. Put you on a different stage and you'd win yourself a little golden statuette," Domeric went on, still mocking.
"My lord, I don't understand what you mean."
Benita continued to plead. "Please, let me go. The rope is biting into me—it hurts…"
She gave her body a gentle twist and let out a "weak" little moan, hoping to lure him closer.
The rope's strange binding left her in a posture that was difficult to exert strength from—but it still would not truly hinder her.
If the noble came just a little closer, she could display the real skill of an assassin.
"Let me guess," Domeric said, his eyes sharp, like a hunter weighing prey, trying to find the flaw in her. "What would drive a young girl in her prime to approach a noble in a way this… extreme?"
"I didn't try to approach you," Benita huffed, defiant. "Your men dragged me in here."
"And that," Domeric replied, "is precisely where your method is clever. If you'd dressed as a whore and tried to come to me on your own, my chief knight would've thrown you out into the snow before you got within ten steps."
"I didn't!" the girl insisted, forcing the lie.
"So your aim was to seduce me this way and become a noble lady? Unlikely. Even if I were willing to marry a common girl, my house would never allow it."
"Which leaves only one possibility."
Domeric even made the thoughtful chin-resting pose of a detective at work.
"My lord, I truly don't know what you're talking about!" Benita panicked completely. Her tone grew stiff, the earlier coyness vanishing.
"You're an assassin," Domeric said, his expression turning playfully intent.
Assassinating a noble surrounded by layers of guards was difficult. Doing it in a bedchamber was far easier.
"Only assassination would make a beautiful woman like you pay any price to get close to a noble."
"My lord! You must be mistaken. How could a delicate girl like me be an assassin? Besides, I'm tied up—I can't even move. How could I possibly harm you?"
Benita dragged out her words, buying time. She understood her identity might already be exposed.
"I'm guessing you have a way to slip free of ropes instantly," Domeric said. "These bindings look like restraint, but in truth they're your best disguise—meant to make your target drop his guard."
"I'm guessing that if I step a little closer… you'll spring."
And sure enough—
When the map ends, the dagger appears.
Benita snapped her long hair. From within it, a silver needle shot out—tiny, screaming through the air with a shrill hiss.
With a sharp whoosh, the thick candle flame went out at once.
In the sudden dark, a streak of glinting light drove straight for Domeric's face.
At the same time, Benita's left foot gave a nearly imperceptible check, and the knee strike beneath her had already coiled, ready to explode.
It was one of the most common assassination patterns: the visible blade was a feint; the killing blow was the knee strike—where a poisoned iron spike was hidden.
But before her knee could even rise, his hand was already within a foot of her throat.
Benita dodged left on instinct—
And the noble youth vanished like a wraith.
In the next instant—
Before she could even comprehend it, a heavy punch slammed into Benita's lower abdomen.
"Ugh—" The pain hit like a hammer. The girl doubled over, her pretty face twisting.
Domeric followed with another punch, squarely into her small chin.
There was no tenderness in him at all. The blow sent the woman assassin stumbling, crashing into the corner of the room. She rolled a few times—and blacked out.
Downstairs, Ser Wendel—sleeping in the room below—was jolted awake by the crashing and banging overhead. He rubbed his bald head and sighed with feeling.
"Young is good."
…
The candle was lit again.
Benita came to with a bucket of cold water thrown over her.
Only now she looked even more wretched than before.
Blood at the corner of her mouth, bruises blooming across her exquisite face, her golden hair in disarray down her back.
Her leather armor and undergarments had been stripped away. Naked, she hung in a spread-eagle position from the ceiling beam on ox-sinew ropes.
Her heels dangled off the ground; she had to point her feet, straining just to keep herself from choking.
If the earlier "tortoise-shell binding" had carried a confusing trace of suggestive ambiguity, what remained now was only misery—pitiful, helpless, and raw.
Am I going to die?
Benita's face went ashen.
She had failed to assassinate a noble—and been caught.
She did not dare imagine what awaited her next.
In a daze, she thought of House Bolton—one of the North's oldest and most infamous houses, renowned for flaying men alive.
They liked to soak their enemies in the shadow of impending death until sanity collapsed—turning them into prisoners forever.
Cold dread poured into her heart like floodwater. She felt as if she'd fallen into an ice pit.
Benita regretted not bringing a "Strangler." Compared to endless torment, poisoning oneself was the best ending for a failed killer.
The candlelight flickered. With a creak, the door opened, and a trembling shadow fell across the wall.
The man who entered wore that same harmless expression—
Domeric Bolton.
Her target.
"Who sent you to kill me?"
"Don't underestimate me," Benita spat. "We don't betray our employers."
"No need to guess. House Karstark, was it? They'll pay for this soon enough."
Domeric smiled. It was not hard to guess—among nobles, grudges were sharply drawn.
Benita said nothing. Plainly, he was right.
"I'm curious about what you are," Domeric continued. "That dagger is very old. To my eye, its value lies more in antiquity than in use as a weapon.
"And the sigil on it—if I remember correctly, it comes from across the Narrow Sea, from Essos. That house has been fallen for a long time."
As he spoke, Domeric idly toyed with the dagger Benita had used to strike at him.
"And your hair—golden with a silver cast. Your eyes—violet. That means you carry Valyrian blood."
Benita froze.
Because the noble had not missed by a hair.
She truly was from a fallen noble line across the Narrow Sea, and she did indeed have ancient Valyrian blood.
"Taken together with your identity as a killer and that 'novel' technique of yours, you remind me of a famous Braavosi guild—the Faceless Men.
"But your craft is clumsy. A beginner? A newly taken apprentice, perhaps?"
The Faceless Men were a religious order of assassins. They worshiped the Many-Faced God, and the House of Black and White in Braavos—the Free City—was their gathering place.
"Y-you… how do you know all that?" Benita gaped. Only shock remained in her mind.
"Books."
As if performing a trick, Domeric produced a thick volume of histories from behind his back and smiled.
"Books contain all the knowledge mankind has ever recorded—and knowledge is power. Unfortunately, those who clutch their pitiful little scraps of authority have never truly understood that."
"Kill me!" Benita said, as if resigned, her voice edged with grim resolve.
"Want to die? Too cheap. First I need to confirm whether my guess is correct. And besides—I'm very interested in your secrets."
"No matter how you torture me, I won't say a word," the woman assassin said, her voice trembling.
Domeric's fingers lightly stroked the tender skin of her exposed body.
"In front of me," he said softly, "no one can hide secrets."
The sound by her ear was like a devil whispering.
-
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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