286 AC
"A quiet boy, and dutiful," Roose Bolton almost whispered. "Only seven, and already knows his letters better than some lords I could name."
There was a mocking smile on the lord's face, as much mirth as the man ever allowed himself.
"Come here, nephew, let me look at you," Barbrey Dustin commanded.
Yes, he has his father's eyes, she noticed. Those ghost grey eyes never stilled, roaming over Barrow Hall and her own person. His face was carefully blank, as one might expect of a boy born in the Dreadfort. If he missed his mother, he gave no sign of it. There was a woolen cloak on his back, dyed pink, pink for the flayed skin of House Bolton's enemies. Roose had ridden here with two score of guards, every man cast in his own sullen image, and nought else. Hardly a word had been spoken on the journey, Barbrey wagered.
Domeric Bolton approached her high seat with small, light steps, quiet as a cat. He bowed before her. "My lady," he greeted in a high, clear voice that echoed off the stone walls of her dead husband's castle.
She raised an eyebrow. Barbrey never imagined she would have children of her own, not since Willam rode off with Eddard Stark and never returned. "Bold little thing, aren't you?" she teased.
The lad favored her with his own pale imitation of his father's mocking smile.
"My master-at-arms says he takes instruction well, my lady," Roose spoke for the boy. "You will find no finer page, I'm sure."
"I'm sure," Barbrey Dustin agreed.
***
They conversed but little until Roose's party had ridden out of sight. She rested her hand on his little shoulder while they said their farewells.
"Do you understand the duties of a page, Domeric?"
"Attend you, my lady," he answered simply.
"None of that now," she chided her new ward. "You are my own blood, my sister's son. Address me as 'aunt' or 'aunt Barbrey'."
"What about 'auntie'?" he asked. There was that mocking smile again! It was far more droll from a child, Barbrey found.
"I'd like that."
***
287 AC
That high, clear voice proved sweet as summer silk! At no small expense, Barbrey hired a music master to teach Domeric the high harp and to sing. He mastered the Valyrian scales faster than the old Lyseni man would believe. Her nephew sang for her every evening, charming her soldiers, servants, and noble guests alike. Where Roose Bolton's get found the wits, Barbrey couldn't say. Just now, he was playing a Valyrian love ballad, the words washing over her like so much clean water and intoxicating her more than wine ever could.
"He's uncommon good," her father, Domeric's grandfather, said stupidly. Lord Rodrik Ryswell had come down from the Rills for a nice visit and brought his sons for Domeric to play with.
"Master Corio agrees. He said Domeric should sing as much as possible until his voice changes. Who knows how sweet he'll sound after that?"
Well, from what Roose had said, he'd be squiring somewhere else. Barbrey planned to take the full measure of enjoyment from Domeric's singing until then. Northern halls did not often attract singers of quality.
"My boy, young Roose, says his cousin is skilled in the yard. Not a big boy, but quick as a viper, with a queer way with horses besides," her father continued as Domeric reached the emotional climax of the song. She really had no notion how he could put so much feeling into words from a language he didn't speak. Master Corio said the song was a lay of doomed love and loss, like her and Willam.
Like her and Brandon.
"My master-at-arms says much the same," Barbrey agreed.
She didn't bother giving Domeric ordinary page work like running messages or pouring her wine. His talents were much better utilized here. He could already read, write, and do sums better than most, so why bother with more? Let the grey rat tend the ravens and stay out of sight otherwise. Domeric was learning High Valyrian because many songs were in that tongue, and the bastard dialects of the free cities, so he could talk to Corio in his own language, but more learning than that was quite unnecessary in her view. He could already sit a horse well and best some of the younger squires with his wooden sword.
"How about something a little more fun, Auntie, Grandfather?" Domeric beat out time by stomping on the floor of her hall in the fine, tooled leather boots she'd bought for him in Barrowton. "A bear there was, a bear, a bear!" he sang with spirit. Soon, the whole hall was stomping and clapping alongside him. He played a perfect counterpoint with the harp as Dustin and Ryswell men looked on, utterly charmed.
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She'd let him play at the harvest ball a moon's turn past, and the town had been in an uproar ever since. People clamored to hear her young ward and showered him with gifts. They had to start turning away ponies once her stables were full. Just now, Domeric wore a doublet of pink silk studded with rubies, given to him by a trader out of Lannisport. He liked fine things, her nephew, and wasn't ashamed to accept whatever was offered. If the gifts included casks of Barbrey's favorite wine, so much the better!
***
289 AC
"Gather round the standard, lads
We'll sing another song
Sing it with a spirit that will set the world along
Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thousand strong
While we were marching with Robert
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Baratheon to me
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We sing it lustily
And so our voices carried from the Trident to the sea
While we were marching with Robert"
The new tune Domeric had made up proved a massive "hit" at Winterfell. Her nephew liked to call songs people liked "hits," like it was a joust.
"Gods be good," Lord Eddard said from the dais, which was all that needed to be said. Typically, Barbrey preferred to avoid the Starks, but Domeric was so good now she'd received requests to take him visiting other castles. After three years with Master Corio, he'd progressed to writing his own material. Though she didn't particularly enjoy recalling the war against the Targaryens, his marching song would be well received here, more than well. There was to be a feast at Winterfell, so she made the journey for the first time in a long time.
"He's as skilled as any singer who ever visited Riverrun, Barbrey," Lady Stark said at his side. Bitch.
Barbrey did her best to keep a smile on her face. This was what Brandon chose over me? She could hardly believe it. Lord and Lady Stark smiled at her boy, charmed like all the rest.
"More traders call at Barrowton of late," she said conversationally. "I allow Domeric to play at the inn sometimes."
The Stark children, a boy who looked like his father, and another like his mother, plus a red-haired girl who might be two or three, listened, transfixed. Roose had plans for that girl, she understood.
"Since my son proves so skilled at charming others, let him charm the Starks," the raven read. Barbrey was surprised Roose approved of his son's singing, but supposed he would find it mildly diverting. A popular heir might prove an uncommon powerful playing piece. She'd done her best to gently educate Domeric about the realities of his family, but the boy had taken it all in stride. He was always mature and level-headed, her nephew, hardly misbehaving the way boys his age often did.
They might've stayed longer, but the fool Balon Greyjoy rebelled against the crown.
***
292 AC
"The gods are real, you know," Domeric said suddenly.
"Of course they're real! We're standing in the godswood! You can see them all around."
"That's not what I mean, Auntie," he said quietly, briefly sounding very much like his father. "I'll be going to the Vale soon, to squire for Lord Horton Redfort. They hold to the Seven there, the new gods."
She put her hand on her ward's shoulder, feeling the young muscle underneath. "What of it? The blood of the first men flows in the veins of House Redfort. They have a godswood much like this one."
"They also have a sept, Auntie. Those gods are fake, just statues and superstitions. The old gods, though, are very real. My first memory is in a godswood, you know. One day, when I was little, I opened my eyes, and there was the heart tree staring back at me. There is a power here, Auntie. Have you ever wondered how I can make new songs as I do?"
"Often," Barbrey answered. Domeric was always strumming a new tune on harp or lute, working the melody into something he could perform. Every song proved better than the last.
"I wouldn't call it divine inspiration, but somehow I think I wouldn't know half so much as I do had I been born in the south."
"Thank the gods you were born to my sister then."
He smiled and embraced her. They were of a height. "I'll miss you, Auntie. Once I come of age, I'll visit often, I promise."