After handling a full day of official business, Domeric ate, washed his face, and finally stepped into his bedroom—
Benita was already waiting for him.
"Here—your midnight snack. I tasted a bit. Sweet and tangy… honestly, it's really good."
Perched sideways on the table, she nodded toward a dish of ice cream that was already half gone, acting as if she were the mistress of the room.
"No one ever teach you that you're supposed to be humble in front of your master?"
Domeric pushed the plate aside and sat down. "I remember when you first arrived you were quite polite—full of reverence and all that…"
"Like this?" Benita hopped down from the table, flashed a seductive smile, then snapped to attention—back straight, legs together beneath her warrior's skirt, right hand raised to brow height in a crisp, elegant salute.
The posture was so clean and martial it instantly wiped away her earlier flirtatiousness.
Domeric actually felt his heart stir—then forced himself back to his senses.
"You've been coming back later and later lately," Benita said, leaning close. "I figured it would just sit here, so I helped you 'solve' part of it. You're not really going to begrudge your personal guard a serving, are you?"
"Do what you want," Domeric said flatly. "But next time, if you eat my midnight snack—finish it."
Benita nodded obediently. "By the way, Master—what is this called? I've never eaten anything this delicious."
"You've got a lucky mouth. In all of Westeros, I'm the only one who can serve ice cream."
"Ice cream… so that's its name. It's amazing!" Benita said, pleased as she held the dish in one hand and worked the spoon with the other.
Making ice cream wasn't hard. At its simplest, you just needed sugar, cream, and milk—add a splash of fruit juice for color, toss in a few chopped preserved plums and bloodberries for contrast, and freezing was even easier: the North had ice and snow everywhere.
"I never knew you had this kind of skill, Master. My evaluation of you has risen by a whole level."
"Oh? I'm honored," Domeric replied lazily.
Inside, he was thinking: other transmigrators show up and start climbing tech trees like gods—steelmaking, firearms, cannons, conquering armies—while he still couldn't even get gunpowder to work.
Aside from smelting iron and forging swords, he'd poured most of his energy into food. The thought left a bitter taste of frustration.
Benita pouted, set the dish on the table, and said longingly, "I could ask the cook for another."
"It's cold. Don't eat too much."
"I'm fine," Benita said breezily. "I'm tough. I've never caught a chill in my whole life."
"Too much sweet will make you fat."
"Not afraid. I'm naturally beautiful."
Domeric had no choice. He had the cook make another serving—then warned, "If you keep going, your stomach's going to hurt."
"Mmm-hmm." Benita was too busy fighting the dessert to hear him.
Domeric sat beside her. Seeing a smear at the corner of her mouth, he took a handkerchief and gently wiped it away.
Benita froze. She stopped mid-spoonful and looked up at him, staring hard. "Thank you, Master," she said—her tone suddenly threaded with something wistful. "You're… really kind."
Domeric chuckled silently. This Braavosi killer—deep down—was still just a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl.
"When I was little, I used to get food on my face too," Benita sighed softly, eyes unfocused. "My father would wipe it off for me like that."
Then she smiled again—sweet as sugar—and snatched up the plate, trotting away.
"I should go patrol, Master!"
Benita was Domeric's personal guard, chiefly responsible for night security.
…
Domeric didn't stop her.
He unrolled a blank sheet of parchment, intending to finish a design sketch he'd started long ago and left half-done.
The room fell quiet, save for the crackle of firewood in the hearth.
His planned departure was only half a month away.
The strategic goal of this expedition was simple: eliminate the threat of the wildlings beyond the Wall, then concentrate strength for the coming War of the Five Kings.
So it had to be a war of annihilation, not attrition.
A decisive victory—not a "victory" paid for in blood.
Domeric had previously led small-scale raids beyond the Wall to capture wildling slaves—he'd even taken a few giants—so he understood the Free Folk extremely well.
The wildlings' environment was brutal.
They lived north of the Wall—high elevation, bitter cold, scarce food. Surviving at all was an achievement.
They were descendants of the First Men, cut off from the rest of Westeros by the Wall.
They held to the identity of "free folk," rejecting kings, nobles, and laws—following leaders by preference rather than fealty.
They believed the gods made the world to be shared by all mankind—then "kings" came with crowns and steel swords, stole everything, and claimed it as theirs.
Wildling society was divided into many tribes and clans, scattered into hundreds of small villages, each with its own customs.
Some groups were led by chieftains; others acknowledged no authority at all and lived in near-constant internal warfare.
Most wildlings had never made any major technological advances.
They were hard people on hard land—some more "civilized" than others.
There were the Thenns in the far north with strict community structure; there was Hardhome, the closest thing the wildlings had to a town.
Some were semi-nomadic loners who only settled when they needed to.
There were raiding bands from the Frozen Shore; and harsher clans by the rivers who survived on human flesh.
Among the Free Folk were not only towering giants, but also cave-dwellers who painted their faces blue, purple, and green.
The wildlings were famous for one thing: they would never kneel—they worshiped freedom and called themselves free.
But their "freedom" wasn't enviable.
They starved, they froze, and if they got sick, they died.
They had to fear not only nature, but also each other—stronger wildlings preyed on weaker ones, and all of them were preyed on by the Night's Watch.
Because they didn't eat enough, weren't strong enough, couldn't refine steel, lacked equipment, and—most importantly—had no organization or discipline, their combat power and productive power were both extremely low.
Historically, every "King-beyond-the-Wall" who managed to unite them tried to march south—seeking a better land to live in.
And each time they were destroyed—either by House Stark or by the Night's Watch before they could even get through.
The current "King-beyond-the-Wall"—Mance Rayder.
In the canon story, even the Night's Watch could hold him back, and when Stannis's cavalry arrived, his host was smashed to pieces. And that was Stannis after being bled by the War of the Five Kings—making wildling weakness painfully obvious.
Because they were so weak, the wildlings rarely had any chance to integrate with southern culture. They were beaten down again and again by the Watch—southern thieves, criminals, and murderers in black—who still outclassed them.
And that backwardness shaped their culture: lacking organization and discipline, they worshiped strength; trapped in a harsh environment with no capacity to organize production, they worshiped individual freedom.
But the truth was simple:
The weak don't get to keep their freedom.
In Domeric's previous world, entire regions had been conquered, enslaved, and exploited for exactly that reason.
In the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, the wildlings were also captured in large numbers and sold into slavery.
And Domeric did it often.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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