Chapter 62

At a desk that was antique in design yet unmistakably luxurious, Ygritte soon met the master of this place—the heir to the Dreadfort, lord of the Lonely Mountain: Domeric Bolton.

He sat upright, pale-skinned, with eyes deep as a still lake. The fingers holding his quill were long and elegant, yet he wore no gemstone rings, no gold or silver bands—something rare among nobles who took pride in ostentation.

“Ygritte,” Domeric said, flipping through the parchment in his hand. “Or should I call you ‘Kissed by Fire’?”