The threat of death made Benita's mind spin into a flashing carousel—shards of memories whirled past her eyes.
She had been born in Braavos, into an old and illustrious lineage: House Antaryon.
House Antaryon could trace its roots back to the very founding of Braavos. Eight hundred years ago, aboard a Valyrian fleet, the rowing slaves refused to be chained any longer. They rose in a massive revolt and seized control of the ships.
Unable to stand against Valyria's dragonlords, they fled beyond Valyrian reach—crossing the Narrow Sea northward—until they found an archipelago hidden by fog within a saltwater lagoon: Braavos.
Benita's ancestor had been a Valyrian noble. Out of pity for the slaves, he joined that uprising and settled in Braavos.
In those old days, Valyrian sorcery was terrifyingly potent. Powerful mages marched with armies, using whips, enchanted horns, and spells to control dragons.
That magic—and those arts—had once secured House Antaryon's standing.
But as the years passed, the tide of magic ebbed. Sorcery weakened, again and again, until House Antaryon faded into the crowd—reduced to an ordinary family and pushed out of Braavos's inner circle of power.
Benita's ancestors refused to accept it. They clung to the old grimoires and rituals left behind, vowing to restore the glory of their bloodline.
Generation after generation, they poured their lives into it—only to remain blind to the truth:
Magic and sorcery had declined.
Even without holding the center of power, House Antaryon still had influence in Braavos, thanks to the shadow of old prestige.
Then, in one struggle for power, they chose the wrong side.
The house was ruined.
Benita's grandparents and parents died in the purge. Her only brother was exiled overseas. She herself survived only because a loyal servant smuggled her out.
Raised on the creed of family honor, Benita's greatest ambition in life was to restore House Antaryon. So she joined the House of Black and White, willing to endure the trials to become a Faceless Man…
Until that mission—until she met Domeric.
In the Bolton heir, she saw hope: the hope of her house's revival.
What a pity.
She would never live to see that day.
Just as Benita was ready to accept it—ready to close her eyes and welcome death—
A sudden whistle of air cut in beside her ear.
…
One second earlier.
Swish!
Domeric snapped his right hand, and a razor-sharp spear appeared in his grip—its black tip breathing cold.
With his left hand he pointed toward Tormund in the near distance, drew a breath, and gathered every ounce of strength in his body.
The moment Domeric made the throwing motion, the black spear was already in the air.
For an instant, Benita—still sprawled on the ground—thought he hadn't thrown a spear at all.
She thought he had thrown a bolt of black lightning.
Thunk!
The spear screamed past Benita's pale face, shearing a few strands of hair as it went.
Then it punched through Tormund's leather armor, drove straight into his left shoulder, and burst out his back—so much force it flipped him over and pinned him to the frozen earth.
Tormund howled, clutching at the shaft, writhing as he tried to yank it free—but flat on his back, he couldn't get any leverage.
"Protect the lord!"
The soldiers around them snapped out of it at once. Spears, blades, shields—everything surged forward.
Tormund was nailed to the ground and couldn't generate power. Dozens of weapons chopped and stabbed down at him.
He thrashed and fought like a demon, but within moments his body was a ruin of wounds—bloody, battered, and cornered.
The "Giantsbane," trapped like a wounded beast, let out one final roar. His bloodshot eyes flared with a savage, icy gleam.
He swung his iron hammer with the weight of a mountain—pouring every last shred of will into a final, decisive strike at Domeric.
But a soldier's shield intercepted it.
The hammer pulverized the shield into splinters—yet it couldn't reach Domeric behind it.
On a battlefield, individual bravery mattered very little.
Even so, Domeric had to admit: exceptions existed.
Like Xiang Yu. Like Lü Bu. Like Li Cunxiao.
Monsters of war—men whose personal might could tilt a local battle.
"Easy…" Domeric slid from his horse and walked calmly toward the wildling.
Tormund now had a sword at his throat, pinned like a dead dog. His last strike had failed—he knew he was finished.
He didn't fear death.
He feared dying for nothing.
Domeric clasped his hands behind his back. Tormund's raw strength was absurd—enough to make anyone's jaw drop.
He plucked a strand of Tormund's hair between his fingers.
The Secret-Delving System triggered!
Blocky text flashed across Domeric's vision:
Tormund
Identity: Wildling raider from "the Red Hall"
Titles: The Tall-Talker, Horn-Blower, Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, Mead-King of the Red Hall, Father of Hosts, Speaker for the Gods
Strength: 110
Agility: 80
Spirit: 13
Combat Index: 203
Note: Target is not in a state of fear; you cannot窥探 his secrets.
A combat index of 203?
Strength: 110?
On Westeros, an ordinary adult man had strength around 10. A well-trained knight might be 20.
This wildling with the ridiculous string of titles was genuinely astonishing.
"My lord." An officer looked up, asking whether they should execute the dangerous wildling.
Domeric shook his head. "Take him. Bind him. No abuse."
"Yes, my lord!"
Then Domeric checked Jon Snow on the ground. A few broken ribs—painful, but not fatal. He ordered the soldiers to carry Jon off for treatment.
After that, Domeric swung back into the saddle and reached down.
"Up."
He extended his hand to Benita, who stood there dazed—her horse had died under Tormund's hammer.
Benita grabbed his hand and vaulted up, settling firmly in front of him. She was much smaller than Domeric; she could tuck in and lean safely against his chest.
"Back there you looked fearless," Domeric said, poking his bodyguard's cheek. "Weren't you scared?"
Benita grumbled, her delicate brows knitting slightly. "Didn't think about it. But now I'm kind of scared. Look—my heart's still pounding."
Her composed knightly façade dropped, and the playful side returned.
"Master, if you don't believe me, you can feel my heartbeat. It's really fast."
Domeric frowned.
Looking down at the heavy armor and her innocent expression, he said coldly, "Sit still."
A whip cracked.
Domeric led the cavalry into the sunset, charging toward the battlefield as the curtain fell.
Blood everywhere.
Ruin everywhere.
Under Domeric's three-sided encirclement, the wildlings were hollow-eyed and hopeless. They couldn't even be bothered to run anymore—some sat down and sobbed into their hands, others slumped motionless, pretending to be dead.
The north wind howled, snapping Domeric's banners—the flayed man on pink skin dancing in the air.
"Surrender and live!"
"Surrender and live!"
…
Countless soldiers roared in unison as the war finally, completely, came to its end.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Rise in the North! 📢
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