At a desk that was antique in design yet unmistakably luxurious, Ygritte soon met the master of this place—the heir to the Dreadfort, lord of the Lonely Mountain: Domeric Bolton.
He sat upright, pale-skinned, with eyes deep as a still lake. The fingers holding his quill were long and elegant, yet he wore no gemstone rings, no gold or silver bands—something rare among nobles who took pride in ostentation.
"Ygritte," Domeric said, flipping through the parchment in his hand. "Or should I call you 'Kissed by Fire'?"
"It's me." Ygritte had been made to kneel.
The lord before her was even younger than she'd imagined. And this was the man who had crushed the free folk's hundred-thousand host.
"Can you read? Any special skills?"
"I can't read," Ygritte answered with a hint of provocation, "but the middle toe on my left foot is especially long."
"Oh?" Domeric's gaze narrowed as he looked up at her.3
She was short and thin, with a round face, small hands, a flat nose, teeth that were uneven but white—and, of course, that wild blaze of red hair.
"That joke is amusing," Domeric said evenly, "but this is not the time for jokes.
"You have only two choices.
"First: you go to the mines on the Lonely Mountain and dig until you die. Because you were one of the King-Beyond-the-Wall's capable hands, you won't be treated like an ordinary thrall—you won't be allowed to buy back your freedom with wages.
"Second: you show me your value.
"Before I change my mind—do you understand?"
Domeric's presence pressed down like weight. Ygritte's breath caught. The flippancy drained out of her. She understood now: what she said next could decide the shape of her life.
"I'm good with a bow," she said quickly. "Deadly accurate. No one among the free folk shoots better than I do. I was captain of Mance's scout band."
"Good." Domeric nodded and wrote it down on the parchment. "Anything else?"
"I run fast—faster than direwolves and snow leopards can catch!"
"You're sure you're that fast?" Domeric's expression turned skeptical.
"I… probably. Maybe. Sort of…" Ygritte forced the words out.
She glanced at Domeric, heart pounding. If she didn't sell herself big, how would she ever be worth keeping? And in truth, she wasn't exaggerating by much—beyond the Wall, almost no one could outrun her.
Domeric didn't bother parsing the truth from the boast. He simply flicked a hand toward his bodyguard.
Benita stepped forward with practiced ease, plucked a strand of Ygritte's hair, and placed it in Domeric's palm.
[Secret-Delving System Activated!]
Lines of blocky text flashed across Domeric's vision:
Ygritte
Identity: Free folk, captain of the King-Beyond-the-Wall's scout band
Title: Kissed by Fire
Strength: 23
Agility: 120
Spirit: 20
Combat Index: 163
Note: The target is not in fear. You cannot窥探 her secrets.
Domeric was startled for two seconds.
He remembered Jon Snow's Combat Index had only been 128—maybe 135 now. Yet Ygritte's was 163. And that Agility—120—was off the charts.
After a long moment, Domeric delivered his verdict:
"Fine. Choose thirty from the wildling thralls. Train them into a scout unit. You'll be the captain, and from now on you'll scout the battlefield for me.
"But remember this: until your loyalty is proven, I will have men watching you in the shadows. Don't gamble your life—or the lives of those around you."
"I will serve you," Ygritte said, bowing her head until it touched the floor.
"Go."
Domeric noted Ygritte's assignment on the parchment, and on the last line—Supervisor—he wrote: Jon Snow.2
He set down the quill and rubbed his aching neck, unbidden memories of late-night overtime from his old life rising up.
Benita's voice drifted in. "Master, do you want me to help you relax?"
"There's still a line of people to deal with. Later."
Domeric smiled and gestured for Wendel to bring in the next wildling chieftain.
The one led into the study was small—Varamyr. His face was gray-white, his forehead oddly bare, his hairline receding far back.
A skinchanger.
Famous for riding into battle on a thirteen-foot bear.
Beyond the Wall, more than a dozen tribes had fallen under his shadow. He raided, extorted, forced villages to pay him in food—and women.
When Mance Rayder sought him out to form an alliance, Varamyr had agreed gladly. In his eyes, the fertile South was simply richer plunder.
But now the free folk had failed to go south. They were prisoners, their lives hanging on a noble's whim.
Varamyr regretted it so bitterly it made his gut twist.
"Varamyr?" Domeric's eyes flicked over the parchment. When he reached the word skinchanger, something tightened in his gaze.
A skinchanger was someone who could invade an animal's mind—and control its actions.
The more familiar the animal, the lower its intelligence, the easier it was to take.
That was why they kept beasts—pets they could slip into, to do what a human body could not.
But taking a human body was far harder, and it could severely damage the victim.
Bran Stark, Eddard Stark's second son, was a skinchanger. And in the stories, when he forced himself into Hodor, that "mental rupture" left the boy broken—able to say only "hold the door."
To Domeric, skinchanging was oddly limited on a straight battlefield. Powerful beasts were hard to control; weak beasts were easy to control but useless in war.1
During the battle, Varamyr had brought a bear and a pack of wolves—yet against armored soldiers, it had mattered little.
Of course, if he had controlled a pack of armored bears wielding iron hammers, that would be a different story.3
And if he could take hawks—flying scouts—then high-altitude reconnaissance would be valuable indeed.2
Still, skinchangers were dangerous. Living too long inside beasts warped them. Over time they lost their humanity, becoming something neither man nor animal.
One in a thousand First Men was a skinchanger, and one in a thousand skinchangers became a greenseer.
Only northerners and free folk with First Men blood and the Old Gods in their bones had the potential. A skinchanger as strong as Varamyr was rare.
"I am Varamyr," he said, throwing himself flat on the floor. "Mercy, my lord. I'll be your slave, your servant, for life."
He started slamming his forehead into the boards. The guards' earlier "jokes" had terrified him; the thought of being flayed made his whole body cramp with pain, his breath coming hard.
Yes, a skinchanger could cling to an animal after death, leaving a scrap of mind behind—some "second life."
But what was the point of surviving like that?
So he submitted. Bowing to strength was the free folk's nature.
[Secret-Delving System Activated!]
Text appeared again in Domeric's vision:
Varamyr
Identity: Free folk skinchanger
Title: Six-Skins
Strength: 30
Agility: 24
Spirit: 135
Combat Index: 189
Note: The target is in fear. You can freely access the secrets in his heart.
A Combat Index of 189. Spirit as high as 135.
An ordinary grown man had a Combat Index of 30, Spirit 10.
Domeric suddenly realized something: these wildling leaders each had a defining edge.
Tormund Giantsbane had 110 Strength. Ygritte had 120 Agility. And this "Six-Skins" Varamyr had 135 Spirit.
It made sense. Beyond the Wall was brutal. Without teeth, you died.
Then Varamyr's memories spilled in fragments across Domeric's mind.
The skinchanger wasn't a good man.
As a boy, he'd slipped into a dog and killed his own brother. Later, he'd arranged his teacher's death and seized what the man owned.
This wildling's loyalty would be worth nothing.
But if Domeric truly meant to make the Iron Throne his endgame, he couldn't afford moral squeamishness.
Knights who treated honor like breath were useful.
So were vicious traitors like Varamyr.
But a mad dog needed a heavy chain.
"As you wish."
After a long time, Domeric raised one finger and said.
Just as he was about to deal with the next captive, Wendel—chief knight and acting castellan—strode into the study.
"Lord Roose has arrived!"
"What?" Domeric didn't even try to hide his surprise.
The infamous "Leech Lord" rarely left the Dreadfort. He preferred to stay within its walls, letting leeches drink his blood in the name of health.
What could possibly make him ride all this way?
With less than two months before the canon story's opening, what "big event" could have happened?
Domeric felt it—something slipping out of his grasp.
Could it be…
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort has 30 chapters ahead available on Patreon! 🐺🩸
Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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