The hood over Benita's face—and the cotton stuffed in her ears—were removed.
With only a brief look at her surroundings, she realized in terror that she was inside some kind of mysterious ritual array.
"What are you going to do to me?" the woman assassin rasped out a hoarse shout.
No one answered.
Fire pits stacked with kindling were arranged in a strange formation—and began to burn.
Some animal's blood had been used to paint twisted, obscure patterns on the floor—symbols no one could easily understand.
The flames wavered. Domeric's shadow danced on the wall—like a demon capering in the firelight.
Amid Benita's anguished screams, Domeric lightly slid a dagger.
Until he peeled from her chest a bloody strip of human skin—one inch by one inch.
Domeric stood, raised both hands high, and his fingers drew several signs with rapid precision as he chanted a string of strange, harsh syllables.
Then a faint glow began to seep out of the strip of skin in his hand.
Devils danced in the flames; wailing spirits shrieked in hysterical screams.
Countless fragments of the woman assassin's memories flashed before Domeric's eyes like a lantern-show, pounding on every nerve in his body.
For a long time—until the fragments finally stopped flickering.
In front of Domeric's eyes, a line after line of blocky text appeared out of thin air:
Benita Antaryon
Identity: Fallen noble; apprentice of the Faceless Men at the House of Black and White in Braavos
Title: None
Strength: 48
Agility: 35
Spirit: 42
Combat Index: 1253
Note: A fallen noble of the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea. You now know the secrets in her heart. If you can help her take revenge, you may gain her loyalty…
This thing Domeric called the "Secret-Digging System" was the foundation of how he stood firm in Westeros.
After all, this was a world of fantasy—dragons, White Walkers, children of the forest, sorcerers, the Lord of Light, the Old Gods and the New. As the red comet appeared and the magical tide revived, all of those things would emerge one by one.
Even now, Domeric still did not understand whether the "Secret-Digging System" was a benefit that came with being a transmigrator—or an ancient black art inherited by House Bolton.
By flaying the skin of a target, he could obtain their "panel" of attributes, and there was a certain chance of gaining fragments of their memories, along with the deepest secrets buried in their hearts.
The more afraid the target became, the more memories and secrets he could obtain.
That was why the sealed chamber he used to confine the woman assassin—the burning bonfire, the animal blood patterns, the awkward chanting—were all merely to manufacture an atmosphere of terror.
In truth, simply touching a target's skin was enough to trigger the "Secret-Digging System" and automatically obtain their character panel.
If the target was in fear, there was a certain chance of receiving memory fragments and inner secrets.
So a strict, solemn "flaying ritual" was absolutely necessary.
At times Domeric wondered whether, a thousand years ago, the ancient House Bolton had used flaying to obtain an enemy's secrets.
Only later, as the tide of magic receded and such black arts ceased to function, the knowledge had gradually been lost.
The Dreadfort's "flaying tradition" had instead become a crude method used purely to intimidate and torment.
…
Pulling his thoughts back, Domeric stroked his chin, recalling Benita's memory fragments.
Fallen noble… betrayal… revenge… loyalty?
It had the flavor of a "princess revenge tale."
But what truly caught Domeric's attention were her attributes—Combat Index 125.
That was a very high number.
A normal adult man in Westeros typically had Strength, Agility, and Spirit around 10 each, with a Combat Index of only 30.
A knight trained under strict discipline might reach 60.
Yet this woman assassin's Combat Index reached 125!
Domeric abruptly changed his mind.
Originally, he had planned to use the assassin's memories to obtain proof that House Karstark had hired a killer. As for the woman called Benita—she would serve as witness as well, and after the judgment, she would be publicly sentenced to death.
No noble would pity an assassin.
But now Domeric felt a desire for talent.
This Faceless Men apprentice was still weak for now, but her potential was obvious.
If Domeric had not been suspicious from the start, he might truly have fallen into her trap.
And more than that, she could help him learn more about that mysterious order of assassins—the Faceless Men.
In Westeros, capable people were also among the most precious of all resources.
Domeric understood that since he had chosen the Iron Throne as his ultimate goal, he could not afford any "moral squeamishness."
He would need knights who could charge headlong into spears without fear of death—and also killers who would do whatever was necessary in the shadows.
…
"What did you do to me?"
Just now, Benita felt as though something buried deep in her heart had been taken from her.
"Nothing much. Just a small bit of magic."
"Magic—so it really is magic!"
Bound to the cross, Benita screamed. Anyone would fear something as eerie as sorcery.
After all, the fear of the unknown was greater than the unknown itself.
"You're resentful now, aren't you, Benita Antaryon?" Domeric asked with a smile.
"Y-you… how do you know my family name?" The assassin's voice shook with terror.
"I already know your secrets. Everything in your heart—your past, your revenge, your wishes, and the person you most want to kill…"
"You're a devil! By the Many-Faced God, you'll be punished—devils like you will be punished!"
"Even if I am a devil," Domeric coaxed, step by step, like a devil leading someone into corruption, "I can fulfill your wish. Your god, it seems, cannot.
"If you die here, will your god even know? Your national hatred, your family feud, all these years of endurance and struggle—gone like smoke, as though you never existed at all. What a waste."
Domeric gently stroked Benita's long golden hair and her soft skin, and let out a low sigh.
"Now I'll give you a new chance. Choose—death, or swear yourself to me."
Benita fell into deep silence.
Only after a long time did she speak.
"Can you really help me take revenge?" Her eyes wavered with doubt and shock.
"Of course. The lands across the Narrow Sea are territory I have not yet conquered. It will not be long before I set foot there. Avenging you will be no more than lifting a hand."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You can treat it as a transaction," Domeric said, confidence plain as he waved a hand. "If one day you find I lack the ability to fulfill your wish, you may leave at any time.
"Now tell me your choice, Benita Antaryon."
A moment of silence—then a low, firm voice answered in the air.
"I… I choose loyalty!"
…
Benita was freed from the cross. A cloak was thrown around her naked, soft body. Dragging herself forward in exhaustion, she walked step by step to the man.
This man—Domeric Bolton, trueborn son of House Bolton of the Dreadfort: tall figure, pale face, eyes deep and cold as ice.
It was that face that made Benita feel true despair for the first time in her life.
"Kneel."
Domeric slowly drew his knight's longsword and laid it on the woman assassin's shoulder.
"I, Benita Antaryon,
swear fealty.
Before the Many-Faced God, I offer my master loyalty without equal!"
Benita lay prostrate, kissing the tip of Domeric's boot.
…
At the same time—Bran Stark, Lord Eddard's second son.
He was a boy not yet seven years old, and his favorite thing in the world was climbing walls.
The ruined upper portion of the highest watchtower in Winterfell was his favorite place to climb.
Long ago—more than a hundred years before Lord Eddard Stark was born—the tower had been struck by lightning, set ablaze, and the upper third collapsed. It was never rebuilt.
From time to time, Lord Eddard would send men into the lower levels to clear rat nests among the rubble, but aside from Bran and the ravens, no one ever climbed to the ruins at the top.
But today—something was wrong.
Bran heard voices inside. He was so frightened he nearly let go and fell from the wall.
"I, Benita Antaryon… swear fealty…"
A burning bonfire. Twisted symbols on the ground. A golden-haired girl kneeling. A tall figure with his back to Bran.
Bran hung in midair, eyes full of curiosity.
Then fear struck him.
A pair of eyes—terrible as ice—appeared before him.
"Ah…"
Bran felt dizzy and started to slip from the wall.
A long, powerful arm caught him.
Relief flooded Bran. He steadied himself and finally saw who had seized him.
"Ser Domeric—it's you!" Bran exclaimed in delight, as if he'd found something to cling to.
"Bran," Domeric said, "you're sneaking off to climb again. Aren't you afraid I'll tell Lady Catelyn?"
"I'm not—please don't tell my mother…" Bran stammered.
Domeric pulled him up, ruffled his hair, and said earnestly:
"Remember this: a man without power should never pry into another man's secrets. That way lies misfortune."
-
-
-
🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort now has 30 chapters ahead available on Patreon! 🩸🐺
Uncover the secrets buried beneath the Dreadfort and the dark legacy of House Bolton before anyone else.
🛑 Also on Patreon, you can find exclusive novels not available anywhere else, including:
R18: Reincarnated in Her World
Cyberpunk: Lucy Adopted Me and I Got a System
Cyberpunk: The Relentless
My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?
My Cyberpunk 2077 Simulator
The Rebirth of Harry Potter
Dragon King of Ice and Fire
Star Wars: Relics of the Past
🔗 www.patreon.com/c/MrMagnus👤 Patreon name: SrMagnus🐦 Twitter/X: https://x.com/SrMagnusBook
⚠️ Remember: I'll always post more chapters of the novel that gets the most Power Stones!