297 AC
It was the first day of the new year.
Some people found the Neck creepy, but not Domeric Bolton. He sang as he rode, not caring much at all who was watching from the mists on either side of the narrow causeway. It marked him as a friend, and sure enough, some of Lord Reed's archers emerged out of the gloom to have a listen. It was actually a relief. Once they left the Trident and the Kingsroad began to narrow, they had passed into the North and safety. He'd dismissed the extra guards they hired at King's Landing at the Twins, and they lumbered on with their heavily laden carts, Jack-o-nose, and his twenty good men. That was all they needed.
Well, his mind would be perfectly at ease, save for the fact that Mordaena was clearly getting tired. She was really showing now, and they hadn't dared let her mount a horse. Most of the time, she took her place on their principal wagon, with a chest of gold on either side. With the rich ransoms he'd won in the tourney, Domeric bought a few bolts of Lysene cotton, and set seamstresses to sewing some light summer dresses for his lover. Almost on reflex, he looked over to check on her.
She was sweating, even in her loose, airy garment, and he didn't like the way she was breathing heavily, either. They'd need to call a halt for the day soon. Mordaena reclined while the wheels of the cart creaked under the weight of all that pure gold.
Ten thousand dragons was plainly ridiculous. It was more than the annual incomes of the Dreadfort and Barrowton combined, including all the nickle and diming: petty shit like Daddy Dearest charging peasants to bake their bread in his ovens. Maybe some lords didn't hold with that, but you best believe Roose Bolton exploited every feudal right he possibly could. Maybe this would take the pressure off. His family's lands were vast and lightly peopled; there were only so many ways to squeeze coin out of them. Domeric didn't flatter himself to think he'd win every tourney. The big dogs like the Kingslayer and Barristan the Bold rode hard and fast, striking him cleaner on the shield than he would've believed. If he zigged when he should've zagged, Dom would go flying just like he had against Prince Oberyn in that little tourney at Goldengrove. He vowed to practice every day while Mordaena was pregnant and their baby was small. When he went back south, he'd be better.
"Ser Domeric," cried one of the archers. He knew he was one of Lord Reed's from the lizard lion badge on his breast. "My lord wishes you to know the Dornish party was seen safely to Barrowton, and the work on the breeding pen proceeds apace."
"Good," Domeric answered. "I'm glad. Is Lord Reed well? He got his share, didn't he? Though I'm not sure what there is to spend gold on out here."
The archer laughed. "Winter, ser, what else? We Crannogmen need food and fuel, just like other folk. My master bid me tell you that Greywater Watch is close at hand, and you might guest under his roof this night, if you wish."
Domeric took one look at Mordaena and agreed instantly.
***
Greywater Watch was built wide, rather than tall, which made a certain amount of sense when you considered the need to maximize surface area. One part giant raft, one part houseboat, made of pale timbers packed with mud, the moving castle was anchored to the solid ground with ropes and hooks, and they entered it across a narrow drawbridge. The hall was pleasantly cool and not damp at all, with none of the moldy smell you might expect. There were very old tapestries hanging on the walls, faded and threadbare, depicting little people that might've been Crannogmen.
Lord Howland Reed was a short, spare man with a receding hairline who wore a tunic of green silk. His wife wore a dress of the same material. They'd only met once before, and that for business, not pleasure, but he was glad they seemed to be doing well.
"Be welcome to my hearth and hall, Ser," the lord greeted them warmly. Alesander Frey, Domeric's squire, looked a little afraid, since his family had wars with the Crannogmen in history, but the rest of the men seemed glad to be sleeping under a roof tonight. Trestle tables for Jack and the boys were already set out thoughtfully.
They supped on crawfish, boiled over a turf fire with turnips and mushrooms, dressed with salt, garlic, and a generous amount of butter. The Crannogmen always had a lot of butter for some reason. It was delicious, and Mordaena devoured the food ravenously. While they ate, she had a jolly conversation with Lady Reed and her daughter, swapping stories. His concubine always had a gift for making friends with other women. After they finished the food, Domeric sang for several hours, and after a cup of wine or two, Alesander was able to muster up the courage to join in. When Domeric looked up from his last number, he noticed there must've been a hundred or more little people packed in Howland Reed's small hall. As few singers as the North got, the Neck must've gotten the least of all. They didn't cheer or weep, but gave Domeric silent, respectful attention. It was just their way, he supposed.
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Mordaena was feeling so much better that she absolutely insisted on making love in the chambers Lord Reed had given them for the night. She breathed easily, and they had a cool, comfortable night together.
Whatever troubled his beloved seemed to completely pass away by the morning, and breakfast with the leftovers put a proper spring in her step. "Shellfish is good for a mother; all the ladies in my city of Braavos know," she said. It gave Domeric an idea.
"Could you bring sacks of live crawfish to Barrowton?" he asked Lord Reed. "Imagine if they were boiled with Dornish spices. Prince Oberyn brought some, I understand."
"We could," the little lord agreed. "I confess, my girls would like an excuse to hear more of your singing."
"Great! We'll be at Barrow Hall most of the time. Mordaena has a few months left, the Maester said, and we'll be staying put with the baby. You're welcome to visit at any time. You can see the breeding pen, and take back Bolton Bags for your wife and daughter."
He smiled. "It's decided, then."
Yeah, making friends with the Reeds was a good idea, Domeric decided. They were the North's shield against the evils of the south. It would be good to visit a proper godswood again.
"Ser, might I have a word?" asked Lord Reed's son. The boy had the brightest green eyes he'd ever seen.
"Sure, kid. How would you like some lizard lion boots or a sword belt like Alesander has? Maybe a quiver?"
"Bloody hands, but open," he said, his voice sounding far away.
"Isn't that the best way to be? I'm vicious to my enemies and generous to my friends."
"Mayhaps," the boy said. "Would you accompany me to the godswood, Ser?"
"You have a godswood at Greywater?" Domeric asked in surprise, but then he reminded himself that these were decent people who kept the true gods. Of course they had a godswood.
"When Greywater is in these parts, yes," the boy said. Jojen, Domeric remembered. His name was Jojen.
While Jack and Alesander busied themselves with getting ready to hit the road, and Mordaena chatted happily with Lady Reed and her daughter over cups of nettle tea, Domeric followed Jojen to a little boat tied up at the rear of the castle. He rowed while the young Reed took the tiller and guided them to an island that took his breath away.
A grove! There were three great weirwoods arranged in an inward-facing triangle: one with a happy face, one sad, and one expressionless. Their roots gripped the ground like pale fingers clawing in the mud. A few young white saplings had sprouted as well.
The gods are strong here, he realized. Domeric felt the power, the way he felt it the first time, when he woke as a little boy in the Dreadfort's godswood, the carven face of the weirwood staring into his soul.
The power that brought me here.
"What must I do?" he asked the gods, though he got no answer but the wind rustling in their blood-red leaves. He turned to the boy. "Who are you?"
"Jojen Reed," he answered mildly. "I dreamed of you, no more."
"There are dreams, and there are dreams," Domeric said meaningfully.
"I dreamed that the gods were hungry and you fed them, for one."
"So I was right!" Domeric shouted happily.
"Mayhaps," Jojen allowed. "This place is where my father does justice. Do you see the new growth? The blood of the condemned strengthens the saplings."
"What about my plan? Did you dream of that?" Domeric asked. "Could we plant weirwoods in the south again? Would feeding them blood help?"
"Mayhaps. I dreamed of a Red Warrior who fed the gods. Properly watered, there is no reason one of these saplings might not take root in the south and one day grow into a mighty heart tree."
"Then we can take it back," Domeric said, more to himself than the boy. "We can take it all back." He would be ready.
While he was thinking about why the gods might have brought him here, Jojen spoke up again. "I dreamed one more dream. A Red Warrior rode down a dog, and then a giant trampled a field of flowers. Then, the deluge."
It didn't make much sense to Domeric, but he knew no one could lie in front of a heart tree. "The next time you have a dream, Jojen Reed, I would like to hear it."