On the road to Winterfell, to seal the marriage alliance.
The clouds on the horizon were dyed red by the sun, but they gave off little warmth.
The northern sun was always like that—lukewarm, half-hearted.
More than a dozen wagons rolled slowly along the main road, loaded with every kind of gift: expensive silks, jewels, ceremonial pieces, and crates upon crates of spices and Arbor wine.
Nearly a hundred escort knights rode alongside in light armor, mounted on fine horses, longswords at their hips, their cuirasses polished to a bright sheen.
Most eye-catching was the four-wheeled carriage in the center of the column—built from the finest materials. Its deep obsidian-black body looked heavy and dignified, the carving exquisite, the gilded patterns unmistakably the work of Reach craftsmen. Everything about it screamed status.
Benita sat in the driver's seat, lounging against the carriage with lazy ease.
She hummed some nameless tune, her long fingers absently twisting a piece of foxtail grass she'd yanked from the roadside—snapping it into segments, tying it into a bow, undoing it, tying it again.
She repeated the motion over and over until the stalk was completely crushed and useless. Only then did she flick the scraps away, sighing, bored out of her mind.
She turned and knocked on the carriage window. "Master, should we find somewhere to camp? It's getting dark."
"There's a small town ahead. You don't remember?" came the voice from inside. "We'll rest there."
"Oh."
Benita answered awkwardly, as if some unpleasant memory had just resurfaced.
Inside the carriage, Domeric held a thick tome in both hands, yet his mind was elsewhere. He flipped pages without reading a single word.
Images from half a month ago kept intruding—his father's voice still fresh in his ears:
"Marry. Take House Stark's eldest daughter, Sansa."
Sansa Stark—tall and willowy, clear blue eyes, thick auburn hair, a girl who demanded of herself the full performance of a lady.
To be honest, "Sansa the innocent"—before King's Landing could break her—still looked, to Domeric, like a bright, dreamy, easily guided girl.2
A marriage alliance with House Stark had never been part of Domeric's three-year plan, but it was the best solution to the situation in front of him.
Lonely Mountain's rise had turned House Bolton into an upstart power, inadvertently placing them opposite the Lord of Winterfell.
And Domeric's aggressive wildling campaign had drawn every lord's eye as well. If anyone claimed Eddard Stark had no thoughts about it, Domeric wouldn't believe them.
House Bolton had become this strong—would Roose Bolton still remain content beneath the Warden of the North?
Now the northern lords were watching, choosing sides, some even eager to throw oil on the fire.
There were never any shortages of schemers. Those dissatisfied with the present always wanted to carve profit from chaos—like stealing chestnuts from a fire.
Chaos is a ladder.
It wasn't just Petyr Baelish's favorite line. In Westeros, plenty of people lived by it.
But in Domeric's eyes, chaos was also a pit that swallowed everything.
Only peace and order gave humanity any chance of surviving what was coming.
And a Bolton–Stark marriage would ease the suspicion, fractures, and potential conflict that followed a broken balance of power.
With the larger situation in play, Domeric had to sacrifice his own choice of spouse and complete the marriage alliance—stabilize the North so it could endure the coming War of the Five Kings.
As for the thing people never stopped prattling about—"love"—
Domeric suddenly smiled. He wasn't sure whether he even had that thing.
And with that thought came another face: White Harbor's lord's granddaughter, the girl with long brown hair braided into many plaits—Wynafryd.1
A few months ago he'd promised he'd attend her eighteenth nameday… but in the current situation, her grandfather—Wyman Manderly, eager to avoid suspicion—might well chase him out of the New Castle with a club.
His thoughts spun like drifting snow—one flake after another, passing without end.
"Master, we're here!"
The column slowed to a halt.
…
Winter Town.
The Smoked-Stick Tavern.
Domeric stepped down from the carriage and looked up at the tavern's rusted tin sign swinging in the wind. A noisy roar spilled out through the door; warm lamplight glowed in the windows.
After several months, Domeric was back here again.
Last time, it had been because of the dispute with House Karstark—Winterfell's judgment and arbitration.
Now it was for his marriage alliance with Sansa.
Ten days earlier, Roose and Eddard had already agreed to the match, and Domeric and Sansa's betrothal feast would be held at Winterfell in a few days.
Invitations had already gone out. It was a rare gathering for the North—every lord would attend.1
After all, the North's two greatest houses joining hands—who would dare refuse?
That would be like lighting a lantern in a privy—looking for shit.
Domeric entered the tavern. His servants had already cleared a patch of space and set out a table that was—by tavern standards—almost clean.
Just as Domeric was about to eat, a voice like silver bells rang out—refined, bookish, gentle without a hint of cheap flirtation.
"Ser Domeric. Long time no see."
He turned.
A woman stood there in a snow-white gown as thin as ice-silk, wrapped around a slender figure. Her eyes were bright as stars. Brown hair braided and draped over her shoulder, she stepped lightly, graceful and composed.3
Domeric's gaze sharpened, as if trying to see straight through her. She met it without flinching, her eyes calm as autumn water.
"Sorry, Domeric—uh, my lord," Wendell muttered nearby, wearing a meek, guilty expression, as if attempting an explanation. "You know how she is—when she gets an idea, no one can stop her…"
"So it's Lady Manderly." Domeric withdrew his harshness, his tone smoothing out. "Still as charming as ever."
He ignored Wendell completely. The bald fat man had somehow brought Domeric's pen-pal, first investor, and Wyman Manderly's granddaughter—Wynafryd—straight to him.
"You used to call me 'sweetheart,' and now it's 'Lady Manderly'?" Wynafryd stuck out her tongue, playful. "New love forgets old."
Domeric didn't bite on the joke. "Why are you here?"
"My grandfather is on his way to Winterfell. I took a detour to see you. I haven't interrupted anything, have I?"
Domeric neither nodded nor shook his head.
"I need to talk to you. Not here." Wynafryd turned and headed up the stairs to the second floor, straight for a small private room. A single oil lamp sat on the table—bright enough to illuminate one small patch, leaving most of the tabletop swallowed in shadow.
A perfect place for whispers.
"Lady Wynafryd," Domeric said, putting on a gentleman's tone, "with our relationship, you can speak plainly."
Wynafryd blinked her watery eyes. Her voice dropped low.
"Let's elope."
"…What?"
"I said, let's elope." Wynafryd spoke as if she were reciting a contract clause. "Didn't you say I'm your favorite girl? Elope with the person you like—sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"
"It sounds… like it should," Domeric said, pressing fingers to his brow, suddenly tired.
So she'd come all this way just to say that?
…
Downstairs, the tavern stage rang with a bard's song.
Light, cheerful music threaded faintly through the cramped space.
The melody wandered and turned with clear skill—yet you couldn't see the musician at all.
Unless you were blind, who could play that well in a corner that dark?
A few scantily dressed girls danced onstage, twisting their half-bare bodies with practiced heat.
The crowd howled approval. Some impatient hands even tossed up silver stags as tips.
Meanwhile, in the upstairs room, the air was silent—heavy.
"You don't want to?" Wynafryd's eyes fogged over. Her voice caught.
Domeric said nothing. He couldn't read her angle.
If "Let's elope" had come from Sansa, he wouldn't have doubted it. But Wynafryd was not some love-drunk fool. This woman who looked innocent was sharp, calculating—no less than her honey-tongued, dagger-hearted grandfather.
Three years ago, when Domeric was founding Lonely Mountain, Roose's support wasn't enough to fuel expansion. Domeric had traveled the North seeking sponsors and investment—gaining nothing but mockery.
Wynafryd had been his first investor.
He still remembered that evening on White Harbor's docks: the sun sinking, waves pounding, time slipping between fingers—fifteen-year-old Wynafryd facing him under the dying light.
"Ser Domeric… I don't truly believe this venture will make money. I just believe in you."
…
Time folded back into the tavern.
"Sorry," Domeric said quietly. "I'm not Prince Rhaegar."
Rhaegar—Aerys's heir, the father of Jon Snow. His "love" with Lyanna Stark was remembered as the most expensive romance in the story, their elopement sparking Robert's Rebellion, toppling the Targaryen dynasty and setting all of Westeros on fire.
Domeric couldn't say eloping with Wynafryd would instantly ignite a war… but it would absolutely turn the North into a boiling pot.
"I see." Wynafryd's face fell, wounded. "So I was wrong. Fairy tales are lies. So are the letters you wrote me."
Her voice dropped. She brushed at her forehead—an absent gesture that only tangled her hair further—then lifted her cup and poured the wine down her throat like it was water.
"Shit."
Domeric remembered something too late.
He couldn't let this woman drink.
Wynafryd had the worst drinking behavior he'd ever seen. One cup and she became someone else—violent, reckless, and—
The cup was nearly empty.
Arbor red. Strong stuff. A normal person would be drunk after a few swallows.
She'd downed far more than that.
"Strange…" Wynafryd murmured, her voice suddenly different—still hers, but drawn out, lazy, soft in a way that turned syrupy and dangerous. "I feel lighter."
She swept her bangs aside, and her eyes were already glazed with wet shimmer.
Then she jumped down onto the stage below.
She grabbed the side seam of her white gown—and tore.
A slit opened up to her knee.
She lifted a finger toward the unseen musician—almost like a greeting.
And slowly, on the balls of her feet, Wynafryd began to move with the music—waist, arms, shoulders—elegant as a willow in wind, her posture impossibly fluid.
A silent shock spread through the Smoked-Stick Tavern like a wave.
The patrons stared at Wynafryd's dance—beautiful enough to steal thought itself—until they forgot to speak, forgot to breathe.1
Her tempo quickened. Her movements grew larger, riding the rhythm as if she were walking on storm wind, drifting above the floor—
Everyone watched, hypnotized, as she danced with brazen freedom.
Nearby, Domeric stroked his chin, thinking.
Was this just drunken loss of control?
Or—
Was this… the real Wynafryd?
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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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