"Why won't you kill me?"
Mance Rayder's voice was thick with despair and bone-deep weariness.
"Because I still have many questions for you, my lord King-Beyond-the-Wall," Domeric said with a soft laugh.
The conqueror's thrill felt damn good—especially when the man in chains could almost be called a king.
"Do you think I'll give you what you want? Torture me all you like; you'll get nothing from me!"
Mance scraped together the last of his strength and forced out a mocking smile.
"That is not for you to decide, Lord Mance." Domeric's eyes narrowed as he stared at the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
"Then go ahead and try. Planning to flay me, are you, Bolton boy?"
Mance knew exactly who stood before him—Ser Domeric, heir to the Dreadfort and House Bolton.
The Boltons. The oldest and most infamous house in the North, known far and wide for flaying their enemies alive.
They delighted in drowning their victims in the shadow of death, breaking their minds until they became eternal prisoners of terror.
But Mance was not afraid. A man who no longer feared death had nothing left to fear from the flayer's knife.
"I know you are not afraid to die," Domeric said, each word measured, "but sometimes death is the kinder mercy.
There are far worse things. For example… your wife and your unborn son being flayed alive right before your eyes…"
He reached over and slid open a small iron shutter in the wall. A piercing scream tore through the air at once.
Mance Rayder's wife, the wildling woman named Dalla, lay bound to a special flaying table, her belly still carrying the child Mance had never seen.
"You monster! Gods-forsaken wretch—you won't even spare my wife!"
Beneath Mance's tangled hair, his eyes burned with hatred and rage. His teeth ground together with a loud rattle.
He broke.
Mance thrashed wildly against his chains. The iron rings on the wall clanged and rattled as he yanked at them, begging, cursing, and laughing all at once.
"Lord Mance, if you truly wish to save your wife and child, stop being so stubborn. It is not too late—answer me before they begin on her.
Where is the Horn of Winter?" Domeric asked, looking straight into his eyes.
The Horn of Winter—also called Joramun's Horn—was a legendary magical relic.
A thousand years past, the King-Beyond-the-Wall Joramun had sounded the Horn of Winter and woken the giants from beneath the earth.
Even more terrifying, it was said the horn could bring the Wall itself crashing down.
Mance Rayder had claimed he found Joramun's tomb and the horn buried with him beneath an underground glacier in the Frostfangs.
That enormous horn was later burned by the red priestess Melisandre.
Yet Tormund Giantsbane later told a different tale: Mance had never found the true Horn of Winter.
"Truth be told, we never found the real one. If we had, every kneeler in the Seven Kingdoms would have had ice enough to chill their summer wine…" That was how Tormund put it.
Better to believe it exists than to risk it falling into the wrong hands.
Whether Mance had the horn or not, Domeric would not allow it to pass to anyone else—especially not to those with ill intent. If someone truly blew it and shattered the Wall, the entire North would suffer catastrophe.
Mance Rayder's body went rigid. His face turned ashen. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
From the next room the screams grew even more agonized, each one hammering against Mance's heart.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall's face twisted. At last he spoke:
"In the giant's grave we did find a horn. It was huge, black, curved, eight feet long if it was an inch. Ancient runes of the First Men were inlaid in gold along its length. No one had ever seen a horn that size.
It was because of its size that I claimed it was the Horn of Winter.
I wanted the crows to believe I could bring down the Wall—so they would let us pass south…"
"So even you weren't sure it was the real one?" Domeric's eyes darkened, though his smile never wavered.
"No… perhaps it needs magic to work, or maybe only certain people can sound it…" Mance explained.
"Where is the horn now?"
"In the wildling camp beyond the Wall. Someone is guarding it."
Domeric stroked his chin, thinking. Mance's story rang true and matched what he already knew.
But the Horn of Winter was too important to leave to chance. Domeric decided it would be best to verify it himself.
"All right. I've told you everything I know. Now will you stop them and release my wife?" Mance pleaded.
"Lord Mance, I think you misunderstood. I never promised to spare your wife and child—even after you answered."
Mance froze, his expression twisting. "What do you mean?"
"Sorry. I happen to need the skin of a king's son for my collection."
…
"You devil!"
"May you die a coward's death!"
"The gods will never forgive you!"
"Oathbreaker!"
"Die!"
Mance Rayder's curses echoed through the narrow dungeon alongside his wife Dalla's unending screams.
Mance's mouth twitched. His teeth sank into his lip until blood ran down his chin. His nails dug into his own palms, carving bloody crescents.
His eyes squeezed shut. Two dirty tears rolled down his cheeks.
When the screams finally faded, Domeric called out impatiently, "Are you done yet?"
Soon a servant from the Dreadfort torture chamber entered carrying a large tray.
On it lay two bloody, dripping skins—one large, one small—still warm and giving off a heavy stench of blood.
"Ahhh—"
"Ahhh—"
"Ahhh—"
Mance Rayder completely lost his mind.
To him those could only be the flayed skins of his wife and child. He collapsed into wordless howls, foaming at the mouth, drool running down his face.
Countless emotions twisted across his features—rage, regret, guilt, terror, despair…
When Domeric judged the moment right, he stepped forward and pressed a hand to the man's forehead.
[Secret Excavation System activated!]
Rows of text appeared before Domeric's eyes:
Mance RayderIdentity: Former Night's Watch ranger, chieftain of the free folk tribes Title: King-Beyond-the-Wall Strength: 25 Agility: 20 Spirit: 60 Combat Index: 105 Note: The target is in extreme terror. His secrets lie open before you.
Countless memory fragments flashed through Domeric's mind—all belonging to the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
A wildling's son… a brother of the Night's Watch… a torn black cloak… a gentle wildling woman… scorn from his brothers once his true heritage was known… the furious decision to join the free folk… years of careful planning to lead them south and conquer the Seven Kingdoms…
The fragments were chaotic, but Domeric sifted through them until he found what he needed.
…
A long while later, Domeric glanced at the now-mad King-Beyond-the-Wall and walked out of the dungeon.
The big, bald, swaggering knight Wendel came striding up, complaining loudly, "Those two sheepskins were tough as hell to take off whole. We had a deal—the fattest leg is mine!"
Domeric nodded. "It's yours."
"And me?" His personal guard Benita stepped forward, clearly expecting praise.
"Well done. Even Mance couldn't tell your voice from his wife's."
Sometimes imagination tortured a man far worse than reality. Mance had never actually seen his wife and child flayed—he had only imagined it, and that vision had shattered him.
"Perfect voice imitation is a basic skill for any assassin," Benita said with a small, proud smile.
Although Domeric was not a good man, he was not so depraved as to actually flay women and children. Such cruelty went against the code of knighthood.
Yet the Horn of Winter was too vital to risk. The deception with sheepskins and Benita's voice had worked perfectly. It had broken the King-Beyond-the-Wall and laid bare every secret in his heart.
Stepping out of the dungeon, sunlight poured down.
Domeric felt a fierce excitement surge through him—the intoxicating pleasure of total control. The irritation that had lingered since the Greenseer disturbed him that morning vanished completely…
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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