Domeric led his guard and entered Winterfell at a steady pace.
This time, he had come at the summons of the Warden of the North—Lord Stark himself—to attend a trial regarding the recent conflict with House Karstark.
Though it was called a trial, it was more of a mediation.
After all, both House Bolton and House Karstark were bannermen of Lord Eddard Stark. It was his duty to resolve disputes among his vassals.
On either side of the gates stood beggars, wandering prostitutes, and merchants hawking their goods.
In the crisp morning air, the ringing of hammers echoed through the streets. A slew of makeshift structures clung tightly to the walls like barnacles on a ship—grain stores, kitchens, warehouses, shops, taverns, and brothels with cheap women.
Domeric remembered the last time he had seen Winterfell.
It wasn't absurdly massive like Harrenhal, nor unbreakable like Storm's End, but the stone walls radiated a quiet strength that made anyone inside feel safe.
And then there was the Stark godswood. Towering sentinel trees wearing cloaks of grey-green needles stood proudly alongside great oaks, hawthorns, ironwoods, elms, and soldier pines.
At its heart stood the heart tree, a massive white weirwood frozen in time like a pale giant.
Even during the day, that part of the forest remained shadowed and solemn.
…
Outside the castle gates.
Greeting the party was Robb Stark, eldest son of Lord Stark.
With bright blue eyes, auburn hair, and a sturdy frame, the fourteen-year-old already carried the presence of the "Young Wolf" he would one day be known as.
At his side, a squire offered bread and salt.
This was an ancient and sacred custom passed down for thousands of years across Westeros—guest right.
When a guest entered a lord's home and accepted the bread and salt offered under that roof, guest right was invoked.
Neither host nor guest could harm the other. Breaking this custom invited the wrath of both the Old Gods and the Seven.
One old tale spoke of a cook at the Nightfort who, seeking revenge, baked the king's son into a pie and served it to the king. The gods cursed the cook, turning him into a monstrous white rat doomed to eat his own children forever, yet never know satiety.
"A man may have the right to vengeance, but to kill a guest beneath your own roof is to trample guest right—and the gods will never forgive it."
This was a truth every noble in Westeros acknowledged.
Domeric took a small piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and placed it in his mouth. Then he placed a hand to his chest and gave a slight bow.
"Lord Robb, thank you for your gracious welcome."
Robb smiled with youthful sincerity.
"Domeric, welcome to Winterfell!"
…
Arya's needlework was crooked again.
She frowned in frustration, staring at the tangled mess in her hands, then cast a sidelong glance at her sister Sansa.
Everyone always said Sansa's embroidery was flawless.
"Sansa's work is just like her—beautiful. Her hands are so delicate and graceful."
Arya looked at her own mess, hoping to salvage it somehow. But after a sigh, she accepted the inevitable. She was going to be scolded by Septa Mordane again.
She looked across at Sansa with a trace of envy. Sansa embroidered skillfully while whispering with the steward's daughter.
"What are you two talking about?" Arya leaned over and asked.
The steward's daughter giggled.
Sansa blushed deeply.
"We're talking about Ser Domeric. He's come to Winterfell," Sansa whispered, so softly it might've been carried away by the wind.
Arya, of course, knew who Domeric was—the heir of the Dreadfort. Not long ago, he had gifted her a Valyrian-forged needle.
"Ser Domeric gave your sister a white gem just now," the steward's daughter added, proudly. "He said it was his mother's keepsake. He only gives it to the girl he likes best."
"Really?" Arya asked, a little disbelieving.
"Mm-hm." Sansa nodded shyly, her cheeks flushed.
Arya was no longer in a good mood.
The gods were unfair. Why did Sansa always have everything?
Sansa was already two years old when Arya was born.
Sansa was graceful with needle and thread, could sing and dance, recite poems, and dress beautifully. She played the harp like an angel, and rang bells as sweetly as birdsong.
And worst of all—she was gorgeous.
Sansa had inherited the high cheekbones and auburn hair of their mother's Tully bloodline.
Arya took after their father, Lord Stark—dark brown hair, long face.
The steward's daughter loved calling her "Horseface Arya," and would neigh like a horse every time she passed.
Now even Ser Domeric had given a gift to Sansa and completely forgotten about her. Thinking of it made Arya even more upset.
"Where is Ser Domeric now?" she asked. She wanted to confront him face-to-face—why hadn't he brought her a gem too?
"They're at the training yard. Your brother Robb challenged him to a duel."
"Let's go see."
"Right now."
…
Winterfell. Training yard.
It was a duel.
Robb stood in armor, gripping a wooden sword with both hands, posture low and breathing calm.
Opposite him, Domeric wore no armor—just held his wooden sword lightly, gaze calm and fixed ahead.
Spectators gathered at the edge of the yard—an imposing, white-bearded master-at-arms, Theon Greyjoy in black, Ser Wendel of White Harbor, and several unfamiliar knights.
None of them dared blink, worried they'd miss the decisive moment.
Though it was summer, the North still carried a cool breeze. The godswood nearby gave off a faint, calming fragrance. The atmosphere was tense and solemn.
If not for the wooden swords, this might've been mistaken for a duel to the death between knights on the battlefield.
Swordplay wasn't like wrestling—no back-and-forth. Victory came in a blink, as sudden as thunderclap.
The stalemate was finally broken.
Young Robb, the "Young Wolf," could no longer hold back. He let out a fierce battle cry and charged at Domeric.
It was a shout designed to rattle opponents, make them flinch and expose a weakness—like a barbarian's war cry in those silly games boys played.
A good tactic for a real fight.
But Domeric wasn't some green boy. In his past life, he had been an enthusiast of historical combat. Since coming to this world three years ago, he'd fought wildlings, toppled mountain clans, and clashed hard with the old Karstark of Karhold.
This was child's play in comparison.
He made a slight shift in position—just a subtle adjustment within striking range—to adopt the ideal stance.
The air trembled as the wooden swords clashed.
Crack!
Wood splintered. A body flew.
Had Robb not been wearing heavy padding—or if Domeric had held a real sword—this would've been a bloody scene.
A bout that lasted ten minutes ended in a heartbeat.
Applause thundered from the crowd, joined by the cheers of children.
To Domeric, with his mature mindset, these were all still kids.
"Ser Domeric, please."
Sansa offered him a towel. Her auburn hair glowed pale in the sunlight. Her delicate, porcelain face bore a touch of light makeup.
"Thank you, Lady Sansa."
Domeric's gaze lingered on her a moment. She blushed and fled, her face crimson.
Domeric chuckled. When they were alone, the "little dove" could talk for hours, bold and eager. But in public, she became shy and quiet.
"My father was right. You really are the North's finest swordsman," Robb said, removing his gear as he approached.
Though reluctant to admit defeat, Robb could feel Domeric's unmatched skill in that clash.
At the moment of contact, it felt like striking a mountain. The force behind Domeric's blow was overwhelming—his sword snapped, and Robb felt his chest seize as he flew backward.
He could tell Domeric had pulled the blow at the last second. Had he not, Robb would've done more than just fall. Even with armor, he'd have suffered broken ribs at the very least.
"Lord Stark flatters me. There are many across Westeros stronger than I," Domeric said humbly.
"But why hide such strength?"
To Robb, becoming a figure like the "White Bull" Gerold, "Sword of the Morning" Arthur, or "Fearless" Barristan was every knight's dream.
If Robb had this kind of power, he'd already be in King's Landing challenging knights left and right to earn glory.
Why keep it secret?
"Maybe I'm just low-key by nature. I don't like drawing attention," Domeric smiled.
"Then why agree to fight me and expose your skill so easily?" Robb asked, unusually perceptive for someone not yet fifteen.
"Because… winter is coming," Domeric replied softly.