A colossal weirwood towered overhead, blotting out the sky.
Its bark was gray-white like bone. Its leaves were a deep, blood-red—like a thousand hands stained crimson.
A face had been carved into the trunk: long and sorrowful, with sunken eye-sockets crusted in dried red sap. The expression was strange—vigilant, almost warning.
Those were ancient eyes—
so lifelike they felt as if they were right in front of him.
Then, suddenly, the eyes opened.
Domeric jolted awake, mouth dry, head heavy.
Damn that greenseer—calling him again.
From the day Domeric first stepped into Castle Black to the day he fought the wildlings in open battle, the greenseer had sent him dreams more than once.
In the stories, greenseers were the mysterious, gifted sages among the children of the forest—leaders who could commune with nature, peer into the past, and glimpse the future.
The First Men believed the children had carved faces into weirwoods, and that through those trees they watched the whole world—guiding and shaping beasts and plants alike.
Domeric remembered that, in the tale, the last greenseer and the remnants of the children of the forest lived in a cave far, far north of the Wall.
That greenseer had likely seen Domeric's conquest through the eyes of animals, and now wanted to summon him—drag him into a war against the Others.
But Domeric couldn't be bothered.
Right now, over a hundred thousand wildlings had become his captives. Next came the march to Lone Mountain—labor camps, work gangs, the whole lot.
With no wildlings to serve as fuel, the rise of the Others shouldn't be as fast as it was in the original story. Not anytime soon.
The coming War of the Five Kings—that was the real priority.
…
Castle Black, the King's Tower.
The room was dim. Domeric rose from bed and drew the curtains.
Sunlight stabbed in, flooding the room with glare.
Judging by the sun's angle, it was already well into the day.
He dressed and went to the dining room, where his bodyguard Benita wore an apron and set down two fried eggs and sausages, then poured a cup of hot milk.
"Master, you're up. Wash your face first, then eat. I've already prepared hot water."
Domeric gave a low grunt, washed up, and sat down.
Benita wasn't just good with her hands—her cooking was solid too.
The eggs were tender, the sausage fragrant, the milk sweetened with honey—
and Domeric had no appetite at all.
Hard to, when you'd been startled awake at dawn by some ancient greenseer who might have been alive for gods knew how long.
He forced the food down.
Benita cleared the plates, then spread a blanket on the floor by the window.
Domeric sat on it, opened a thick tome, and read without really seeing the words.
"Master looks like he isn't feeling well," Benita said as she came over.
She had let her hair down; the ends were still damp, clinging to her clothes.
"How can you tell?" Domeric tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering.
"Reading people is a basic skill for an assassin." Benita sat beside him and set both hands on his shoulders.
Domeric took the opening—rolled over and rested his head in her lap.
Benita stroked his face, fingers gently pressing near his eyes, helping him loosen up. "Your color's off. Bad dream?"
"You can tell that too?"
"When I had nightmares, I looked like this. If you don't mind saying it out loud, it helps."
Domeric was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, "Do you know the First Men and the children of the forest?"
"Of course. History is another basic skill for an assassin."
Benita peeled an orange, carefully stripping away the white pith. She fed him the segments one by one.
"More than twelve thousand years ago, the First Men crossed from Essos through the Arm of Dorne and came to Westeros.
After they settled, the faces carved into the weirwoods frightened them—so they cut the trees down and burned them in great numbers.
That sparked a war between the children of the forest and the First Men.
The children had magic, but the First Men were bigger and stronger, and their ironworking and metalcraft were more advanced. Neither side could truly crush the other.
In the end, they made peace on the Isle of Faces. The pact was called the Pact.
Under the Pact, the forests were to belong to the children, and the First Men swore they would no longer cut down weirwoods. The rest of Westeros belonged to the First Men.
That Pact began an age of peace. The First Men even abandoned their old faith and took up the old gods of the children.
When the Others—those cold gods—invaded the north, the First Men and the children became allies in the War for the Dawn.
They say a legendary hero named Azor Ahai wielded a burning sword called Lightbringer and led the alliance against the Others.
Afterward the Others were driven back, and the Wall was raised, and the Night's Watch was founded…"
Domeric ate the orange—and, on impulse, sucked lightly at Benita's fingertip, as if rewarding her for knowing her history.
After a long while, he let out a slow breath.
"Bolton blood still carries the First Men. We still worship those ancient gods—nameless, faceless.
And now… those ancient allies have found me. They want me to fulfill an oath sworn ten thousand years ago."
Castle Black, the dungeon.
Mance Rayder drifted back to consciousness, his head splitting with pain.
It took him a long moment to understand: the wildling host had lost. He—he was a prisoner.
He glanced around. No windows. Cold, damp air.
The walls were stacked granite, bare and undecorated. Patches of moss clung here and there. From the stone slabs above, water dripped steadily.
Everything in the room swayed in torchlight, turning shapes into something twisted.
Mance had served decades in the Night's Watch. He knew this place.
The black cells' interrogation chamber.
In front of him lay an array of instruments: a cross, a two-pronged fork, a saw, a spiked chair, a skull-crusher…
The dried blood on them had darkened to black, and yet the screams of the people who'd bled on them seemed to linger in the air.
Two torches burned in iron brackets on the wall. The wavering light made his eyes ache—and that was when Mance noticed the cage of rats nearby.
The rat box.
One of the most vile punishments there was: you put rats in a box open on one end, clamp that end against the victim's body, then heat the box.
As it grows hot, the rats try to flee—and the only way out is through flesh. They dig, bite, chew… burrowing into the living body.
Just imagining it made Mance struggle.
But iron manacles held his wrists and ankles to rings set into the stone behind him. He was spread-eagled, hanging there—unable to move.
Is this really how I die? he raged silently. This isn't fair.
And then—
With a harsh creak, the cell door opened.
A tall, straight-backed figure stepped in from the corridor…
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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