A False Trial

The parchment contract detailed everything clearly: House Karstark had hired the Faceless Men of the House of Black and White to assassinate Domeric.

In return, they promised the income from the lands of Castle Karhold for the next twenty years, along with another binding agreement—

Under certain conditions, they would help the Faceless Men conceal their identities without compensation.

The parchment bore not only Torrhen Karstark's signature but also the official seal of House Karstark.

Domeric couldn't help but chuckle. Most people paid assassins in gold dragons, simple transactions. Who would actually write up a contract like this?

It was practically handing over evidence on a silver platter.

But given House Karstark's current financial ruin—and Torrhen Karstark's infamous title, "The Beggar Lord"—Domeric could understand.

After their defeat, Karhold had been completely sacked by Domeric's men, down to the last copper penny.

Torrhen had no choice but to stake the reputation of his house just to hire a Faceless Man. And not even a full-fledged one—just a novice apprentice.

Lord Eddard Stark skimmed the contents of the parchment and fell silent in thought.

"Assassinating a noble is a crime no king's law can excuse. Torrhen Karstark is yours to deal with as you see fit. Let this matter end here."

"That's it?"

Domeric found it hard to believe.

Torrhen Karstark, the acting lord of Karhold, had openly hired an assassin to kill a noble.

Given Lord Eddard's reputation as a just and upright man, he should've held a public trial, condemned the crime, and stripped House Karstark of its noble status.

That would've aligned with the expectations of Westerosi nobility.

But instead, Lord Eddard had passed it off lightly—handing Torrhen over to Domeric while making it clear this was to be treated as an isolated act, with no repercussions for House Karstark as a whole.

This wasn't what Domeric had anticipated.

"I know of the conflict between your house and House Karstark," Eddard said.

"Though the Karstarks struck first, they had their reasons. The North is not at peace. The wildlings beyond the Wall remain a constant threat.

I cannot have my bannermen squabbling over petty grievances and bleeding each other dry. Do you understand?"

"As you wish, Lord Eddard," Domeric replied quietly.

"And the Karstark elders you captured—what do you plan to do with them?" Eddard asked, his gaze sharp and meaningful.

Domeric, in his heart, already knew the answer. The best outcome would be to execute all of them.

Then House Bolton could absorb Karhold, expanding its reach and influence.

But of course, Domeric wasn't foolish enough to say that aloud.

He had seen through it now. From the standpoint of the Warden of the North, Eddard Stark valued not justice or fairness, but the delicate balance of power among his vassals.

What puzzled Domeric was that Lord Stark clearly possessed political foresight.

He wasn't the naïve, rigid man people claimed him to be. So how, then, had he allowed himself to be outmaneuvered and executed in King's Landing by Cersei and her allies?

Was he truly the political fool the rumors painted him to be?

Domeric couldn't quite make sense of it.

"I will release all the Karstark captives. And if their subjects wish to return to Karhold, I won't stop them…"

Domeric wasn't about to defy such an obvious signal. Lord Eddard had spoken clearly—there was no benefit in continuing a grudge against the Karstarks.

But he added, "However, House Karstark must compensate me for all the losses I've suffered due to their attack."

"That won't be a problem," Eddard nodded.

….....

Just a few words between two men decided the fate of House Karstark.

Power, it seemed, was a game.

That afternoon, the Great Hall of Winterfell.

The torches blazed bright. Fifty of them lined the walls, flickering with a warm, commanding light.

Lord Eddard stood at the dais in a black ceremonial robe, the Stark direwolf emblazoned on his chest.

Domeric stood below the dais, bowing deeply. As he straightened, he cast a glance around the hall.

Lord Stark had summoned all his knights and squires to witness the trial.

Several bannermen were present as well, including Lord Medger Cerwyn, seated beside Eddard. The Cerwyns of Cerwyn Castle were among the Starks' closest and most loyal vassals, formidable in strength.

From Cerwyn, one could reach Winterfell in less than half a day by horse.

Their sigil: a silver background with a gleaming battleaxe.

Another was Lord Herman of House Tallhart, from Torrhen's Square, whose sigil bore three green sentinel trees on a brown field.

These houses, close to Winterfell, were considered the core of the Stark loyalist faction.

They had little in common with the Boltons of the Dreadfort, much less Domeric himself.

What surprised Domeric was the presence of Greatjon Umber from Last Hearth, the northernmost stronghold of the North.

Domeric held little regard for the Umbers. Rumor had it the savage lot had secretly reinstated the First Night custom that the Targaryens had outlawed long ago.

Still, it made sense. Last Hearth was the next closest stronghold to Domeric's seat at Lonely Mountain, after Karhold. Greatjon had reason to be wary. He didn't want House Umber to suffer the same fate as the Karstarks.

Across from Domeric stood Torrhen Karstark, the accuser.

Torrhen's eyes were vacant. He stood motionless, his face pale, lips tight, as if he already knew how it would end.

Poor man. He'd begged his way to Winterfell in a rickety ox-cart, only to face a verdict that had been decided long before he arrived.

From the high seat, Lord Eddard Stark finally spoke.

"Now begins the judgment between Ser Domeric of House Bolton and House Karstark…"

"By the King's Law, we hold trial!" Eddard declared.

The torches along the walls swayed like flags in a gust, their flames sputtering as the wind passed through.

…....

Later, back at Domeric's temporary lodgings within Winterfell.

The trial, for all its solemn trappings, had ended in a perfunctory manner.

Its outcome was never in question, making the entire procedure little more than a formality.

Domeric had already decided—he would return to Lonely Mountain as soon as possible. He had been away for half a month, and who knew what trouble might have stirred in his absence?

Over the past three years, Domeric had worked tirelessly to build his own power base. Coal mines, ironworks, smelting yards, forges—he had attracted a massive influx of settlers. But with growth came danger.

Wildlings, refugees, hill clans—all of them were fuses waiting for a spark. It was a powder keg.

As Domeric pondered the future of his domain, footsteps sounded behind him.

He turned to see Benita, once an assassin, now dressed like a proper maidservant. She stepped forward and bowed.

"Master, Lord Eddard's steward sent word. The banquet will begin at six this evening, in Winterfell's main hall."

Only then did Domeric recall—today was Lord Eddard Stark's thirty-fifth nameday.

That was another reason why so many lords had made the trip to Winterfell—not only to witness the Karstark affair but also to celebrate the Warden of the North's nameday.

"Understood," Domeric said, rising from his seat. "Prepare hot water. I want to bathe."

"Yes, my lord."