GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

In the dim flicker of candlelight, Domeric gazed at the woman from across the Narrow Sea—the assassin Benita Antaryon.

Now, she was serving as his handmaiden.

She stood at his bedside, completely cloaked in her robe, a hood pulled over her head, concealing her face.

The candle behind her stretched her silhouette high onto the wall, casting a shadow that filled half the chamber.

"Why are you dressed like this?" Domeric frowned. He didn't like his servants hiding their faces.

"I'm used to it."

"Take off your hood. I don't want faces hidden in my presence."

Benita complied, slowly lowering her hood.

As the cloth fell away, a cascade of golden hair tumbled down like a waterfall. Under the warm glow of candlelight, golden strands shimmered softly.

Her nose was high and proud, and her violet eyes sparkled with intelligence.

Unlike Sansa—the so-called most beautiful maiden in the North—whose beauty still bore a touch of girlish innocence, Benita's features exuded a mature allure.

Even in the dim lighting, the elegant contrast of light and shadow on her face was enough to prove her beauty.

"As you command, my lord."

She rose gracefully, lifting the hem of her robe, and dropped into a noblewoman's curtsy—perfectly practiced and refined.

Domeric slowly stepped closer and took her hand, guiding her to sit by the bed.

Not because he was swayed by her appearance or entertained untoward thoughts. He merely wanted to offer a gesture of kindness. Still, the effect wasn't quite what he'd hoped.

"So, you're afraid of me after all," Domeric said.

"No."

Benita's voice trembled slightly. She lowered her head and kissed the back of Domeric's hand in submission. "It's not fear. It's reverence."

Domeric coughed awkwardly. Clearly, he wasn't suited to the domineering master routine.

"Are you adjusting to life here?"

He sat down in his chair, picked up a book, and asked casually.

"It's bearable."

Benita moved softly behind him and began to massage his shoulders.

Her hands were trained, her touch neither too firm nor too light—precisely what one would expect from someone professionally taught.

Domeric had spent the day drowning in paperwork, and the night hadn't given him any rest either, thanks to all the unexpected events.

His body ached with stiffness, blood sluggish in his veins.

But after a few moments of Benita's expert kneading, the soreness gave way to soothing relief. He melted into the chair, too comfortable to move.

"That's good," Domeric murmured. "I didn't know you had such skills."

"Of course. All assassins of the House of Black and White receive thorough training."

"Massaging? What does that have to do with killing?" Domeric blinked.

"Quite a lot," Benita replied. "What do you think is the most important trait of an assassin?"

"Mastery of killing techniques? The ability to take a life in a single strike?"

"Wrong," she said. "Life is fragile—like a beautiful but brittle crystal. It doesn't take much to shatter it.

Even the finest knight can be killed by a dagger to the heart or a blade across the throat. So no, killing techniques aren't what matter most.

What matters is the ability to place oneself in a position where the killing blow becomes possible."

"I don't quite follow," Domeric admitted. He wasn't embarrassed—different trades had different depths, and assassins lived in a world of their own.

"In simple terms, it's about how you approach the target. How you gain their trust, lower their guard, make them feel safe… until they expose a fatal weakness.

As a female assassin, I naturally have some advantages in this. We disguise ourselves as maids, cooks, attendants—so we have to master those roles too. Massaging, cooking, and much more."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. In the eyes of most targets, women appear weak, harmless. Non-threatening."

"Go on. I'm finding your assassin order more and more fascinating. Tell me about the House of Black and White. The Faceless Men."

Domeric leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. His "Secret Digging System" could uncover Benita's innermost truths, but it offered no information about the Faceless Men or the structure of their order.

"In the House of Black and White, across the sea in Braavos, the acolytes wear robes of black and white and perform religious duties—like tending to the dead.

Within the temple is an open sanctuary, with a fountain and numerous statues of death gods from all across the world. But there are no formal ceremonies.

Worshippers of the Many-Faced God light a candle at an altar and drink from a black cup.

The water in the fountain is laced with poison. Drinking it causes a painless death—what the faithful call the 'gift' of the Many-Faced God."

Benita glanced at Domeric. "I'm just an apprentice, though. To become a true Faceless Man, you must complete a series of trials.

Failure means death."

So that's how it is, Domeric thought to himself.

Benita had chosen to serve him, not just because of her desire for revenge, but also because she feared failing those deadly trials. By aligning herself with Domeric, she sought shelter from the eyes of the Faceless Ones.

It was just as he suspected—loyalty and betrayal in this world always had hidden motives.

"And those who survive the trials are granted the true gift of the Faceless—an ability to change their appearance at will..." Benita continued.

"Change appearance at will? Is that magic?" Domeric asked.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not."

She considered for a moment. "It's an extraordinary skill, but not all Faceless Men can master it."

"Are there many of them?"

That question struck a nerve with Domeric. Such an elusive and lethal order could pose a real threat to any lord in Westeros.

"Not that many," Benita said. "There are a few well-known ones—The Pretty One, The Fat Man, Stoneface, Cross-Eyes, The Lord, and The Ghoul…

The House of Black and White recruits orphans from the slums. Those they see potential in are taken in and trained to be killers. I was one of them.

The training is brutal. Most don't survive. Only a handful ever become true Faceless Men."

"And how do they compare to you in strength?"

Benita looked slightly embarrassed. "Most of them are stronger than I am."

"I see. I was just wondering how many soldiers it would take to defeat the Faceless Men in open battle."

Benita froze.

Then, violently shook her head.

"That's impossible.

Even if you led an army to conquer Braavos and burn the House of Black and White to the ground, the real Faceless Men would never be caught. They live hidden among the common folk.

And there are rumors that powerful Free Cities support them."

"The Free Cities?" Domeric frowned.

"Yes. There are stories that the leaders of the Faceless Men have close ties with princes and lords of the Free Cities. Some say they've even played roles in political struggles, though I can't say for sure if it's true."

"I see..."

The Faceless Men—an assassin order backed by the hidden hands of the Free Cities.

At first, Domeric found it surprising.

But then, he smiled faintly.

Wasn't that just another version of the same old story? Thieves and rulers working together.

Always killing the honest folk first.

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