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That absurdly oversized mosquito did not send Domeric's thoughts spinning. In the end, it was only a mosquito.
He rubbed his face and decided to use the Secret-Digging System on himself. He wanted to see how much he had improved lately.
[Secret-Digging System triggered!]
Lines of square, blocky text appeared across his vision:
Domeric Bolton
Identity: Lord of Lonely Hill; legitimate son of House Bolton; heir to the Dreadfort; "the North's finest swordsman" in Eddard Stark's eyes; Robb's sworn brother in spirit; the liege lord to whom Wendel Manderly and Jorah Mormont had pledged themselves; the object of Sansa Stark's and Wylyfide Manderly's private affections; "the infernal devil" in the eyes of hill clans and wildlings…
Titles: "Little Flayed Man," "North's Finest Swordsman"
Strength: 70
Agility: 80
Spirit: 75
Combat Rating: 225
Note: You already know the secret in your own heart. Why ask the System?
Domeric stared at the number and sighed. Still 225.
A common grown man in Westeros barely reached 30. A well-trained knight might reach 60. Even Eddard Stark—who had once bested the famed Sword of the Morning—had only been around 170…
For most men, a combat rating of 225 would be a boast for life.
But Domeric knew it was not enough. His future opponents were not ordinary men: Jaime the Kingslayer, Gregor Clegane the Mountain, Oberyn the Red Viper…
Any one of them was a monster.
He had trained hard these past three years, but in the last half-year his swordsmanship had hit a wall. That next step—he simply could not force it.
So it was with every craft: the higher you climbed, the slower progress became. Swordplay was no exception.
He drew in a long breath and gathered his mind. His awareness sank, slowly, as though descending into a dark abyss.
Cold pressed in from all sides. He searched for an exit—some trace of light—and found nothing.
Then—
A warning pricked at him.
It came from the ward he had placed beside the bed: an invisible, faint field with a radius of roughly twenty feet.
If anyone crossed into it, Domeric would know at once—whether asleep or awake.
Wendel?
No. His chief knight never wandered in at this hour. Besides, Wendel was almost certainly wrapped around some plump woman, snoring like a hog.
Domeric tightened his grip on his sword. A dozen contingency plans aligned in his mind. If something was wrong, he would strike first and pin the intruder before they could act.
With a combat rating of 225, no assassin should be able to last against him.
He held his breath and searched—
The room was empty.
How?
Someone had clearly entered the ward's range, or he would not have felt it.
The door and windows were shut, untouched. And yet there was no one.
Domeric frowned. Had the Quarthi warlock's "warding field" failed?
For a lord, security was not a detail. In ordinary times, perhaps. But if an assassin came and the ward failed by even a breath, that "small" error could cost him his life.
His thoughts flashed to Joffrey—poisoned in full view of the court—and to Lord Tywin—dead on a privy bolt. A cold sheen of sweat rose on Domeric's skin.
He was weighing whether to summon guards when a crisp voice spoke from the corner shadows:
"Hi there! I'm Issy Orz—very pleased to meet you!"
…
It was deep night. Westeros had no electric lamps—only candles.
The candlelight was not strong, and it threw dense shadows into the far corners of the chamber.
Now one of those shadows was… moving.
It twisted. It warped.
That shadow was unmistakably magic.
Magic had been absent for a thousand years. Most of Westeros had forgotten how powerful—and how terrifying—it could be.
He remembered the stories: after King Robert died, the man closest to the Iron Throne—Renly Baratheon—had been undone by sorcery early in the War of the Five Kings. The night before his battle with Stannis, he was murdered by a shadow… a thing born of the red priestess, Melisandre.
Domeric's eyes locked on the writhing darkness.
Slowly, a figure stepped out.
No—
Not a figure.
A white rat stood before him.
More precisely: a white rat riding a cat.
The rat wore leather armor. A crown sat on its head. A cloak hung from its shoulders.
It rode out of the shadow at a slow, deliberate pace.
Sweat beaded on Domeric's brow. His will was stronger than most men's, but he had never seen anything like this.
…
"Hello. I'm Issy Orz, a mage from Asshai. Ser Domeric, I'm very pleased to meet you!"
So it had been the rat speaking.
Its eyes were bright with intelligence. As if sensing Domeric's skepticism, it hopped down from its cat mount and approached him with exaggerated earnestness, craning its head to look up at him.
Domeric frowned. A mage from Asshai?
Asshai was the most distant—and most dreaded—city in the known world. A city steeped in sorcery.
In Asshai, there were no taboos.
Warlocks, witches, alchemists, shadowbinders, red priests, necromancers, fire-callers, blood mages, poisoners, priestesses, and shapechangers—every forbidden art walked openly there, if the tales were true.
They could perform rituals best left unspoken. They could lie with demons.
Domeric forced his mind into order. Whoever this was, she had come prepared—but this spectacle did not look like an assassination attempt.
"You're human?" Domeric asked cautiously.
"Of course!" The white rat planted its paws on its hips and puffed out its cheeks. "I'm a girl, you know!"
"Then why do you look like… this?"
The rat's ears drooped.
"With a magic experiment gone wrong, I swapped bodies with my pet." It sighed. "And that big, slow idiot—well, I think you've locked it up."
"Oh." Domeric's gaze sharpened. "So, Mage… that is why you came."
His voice cooled to ice as he studied the uninvited guest in his chamber.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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