298 AC
Judging from the banners flying on the walls of Barrowton, half the lords of Dorne were in attendance. His children made a game of guessing them.
"And that one?" Robb asked Bran as the Starks of Winterfell approached the wooden town.
"That's easy," the boy replied with easy confidence. "Lemons for Lemonwood, seat of House Dalt."
"Too easy," said Jon. "And that one there?"
Jon grew more comfortable talking the further they rode from Winterfell. The thought shamed Eddard. Lyanna, forgive me.
Bran thought for a minute, rocking with the gait of his pony. "The, er, vulture, right, the vulture of Blackmont."
"So you have been paying attention. What about you, little sister? What's that one there?" Jon pointed with a gloved hand.
Arya frowned. "Skull with a crown, skull with a crown...the...Skullcrowns of the Dornish Marches!"
Sansa tutted. "That would be the crowned skull of House Manwoody of Kingsgrave, Arya."
From there, the game devolved into childish bickering. Eddard let it go on until they were within earshot of the town walls. With one stern look and a threat to turn around and go home, he silenced his wayward children. The Starks must be united, especially here.
Eddard did not especially share his wife's misgivings. Ser Domeric had been nothing but a polite and courtly lad on his few visits to Winterfell. Though he did not approve of southron tourneys, mischance happened all the time, as Ned well knew from his boyhood in the Vale. Being crippled or even killed in a tourney was a tragedy that touched every house, large or small. Of course, the fools kept holding them. The boy was not to blame for poor Ser Edmure. If anything, Domeric would be a great improvement for House Bolton. Old Roose was cruel and cunning, and had to be treated with care. The lands about the Weeping Water were quiet, too quiet. Little and less word of the goings on in those parts reached Winterfell, which Ned misliked. The son was just the opposite. Hardly did the moon turn without some word coming up the Kingsroad of his adventures in the south. But of course, Domeric was still his father's son.
There was cruelty and cunning in him, if the tales about the mountain clans could be believed. Domeric suborned one clan to use against the others and attacked their ability to feed themselves, rather than seeking battle directly. Now silver flowed into the Vale of Arryn and Lord Jon's lands were quiet and peaceful. If that was all, Ned could hardly fault the boy. Sometimes hard decisions had to be taken in war. That was not all, however. He was a lusty lad by all reports, and already had a bastard with another on the way. Well, Robert was much the same in his youth. One could only hope he would be true to his wife once they wed.
When a man on the wall spotted their direwolf banner, the gates opened, and riders galloped out to meet them.
"Lord Stark!" the herald called. "My lady bids me lead you to your chambers in the New Tower!"
New tower?
Much to Eddard's surprise, he discovered they were rebuilding Barrow Hall in stone. The foundation of the central keep was already laid, and one stout tower that would eventually form an angle in the curtain walls had been raised on top of an ancient barrow hill of the First Men. The Starks would have the top floor to themselves. Grooms took charge of their horses and a troop of servants was already on hand to take their things up the stairs.
A Dornish family was staying on the floor below, and Arya could not resist running off to greet them. "Are you Lady Lance?" she asked a girl about Robb's age.
The lass smiled in good humor. "Alas, I am not. I'm Jynessa Blackmont, and this is my brother, Perros. My lady mother attends the bride, or she would be here to greet you."
"Do you know Lady Lance?" his daughter pressed on.
"Only by reputation. Our prince's daughter has won much renown in the mountain war. She squires under the mightiest knight of the North, I am told."
Perros and Bran seemed to make fast friends, while Arya continuously plagued Jynessa Blackmont with rude questions, scandalizing Sansa. Meanwhile, Robb and Jon sent shy looks Jynessa's way, and Theon hungry ones. Ned would have to take his ward aside. They would be staying in these chambers a fortnight, until all the guests arrived.
***
The day of the wedding was as pleasant as could be wished for: a cool and crisp late-summer day. Some of the Dornish shivered all the same. Ser Domeric and Prince Oberyn whispered to each other while they waited for the bride. "I warned them. I had Maester Glendon warn them!" he said. "Are there no woolen cloaks to be had in Dorne?"
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"In the marches, mayhaps," Prince Oberyn answered with a rueful chuckle. "For the likes of Uller and Qorgyle, I think not."
"Well, at least this won't take long. We can have everyone inside just as soon as Auntie gets here and you say your vows."
They did not have to wait too long.
Lady Barbrey Dustin was still a handsome woman, though her hair was streaked with grey, and the corners of her eyes wrinkled when she smiled. She was all smiles today, which gladdened Eddard's heart. Too often had he seen the lady frowning. There was a time she oft went riding with his brother Brandon. She smiled then, aye, and when she wed Willam Dustin. All her smiles soured when Ned returned without him.
Highborn ladies of Dorne on her left and the North on her right escorted the bride to the heart tree. Jynessa Blackmont, who was an especial favorite of Ned's sons, as well as her mother, the Lady Larra Blackmont, were prominent, alongside Myria Jordayne and, much to his surprise, Ellaria Sand.
Barbrey wore a fetching gown of white samite trimmed with Myrish lace, with a jeweled hairnet bedecked with pink diamonds, garnets, and rubies. She was tall and slender, almost of a height with Prince Oberyn. When she approached, Ser Domeric left Oberyn Martell to stand at her side.
With one last look around to make sure all was in place, Prince Oberyn began. "Who comes before the god?" he asked. The dark and handsome Dornishman in his orange silks looked oddly out of place standing before the pale heart tree. Eddard saw two waist-high saplings growing a few feet away. Those had not been there last time he visited. Surely weirwoods did not grow that fast, or mayhaps he misremembered.
Domeric answered. "Barbrey of House Dustin comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
"I do," Oberyn said formally in a clear, strong voice. "Oberyn of House Martell, a Prince of Dorne. Who gives her?"
Indeed, who? Barbrey's father, Rodrik Ryswell, still lived, though he was old and getting older. Ned saw him off to the right, looking terribly pleased.
"Domeric of House Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort, son to Lady Barbrey's sister, Bethany Ryswell." He turned to the bride. "Will you take this man?"
"I take this man," Barbrey said confidently, and her smile grew wider. It proved contagious, as Oberyn could not resist joining her, aye, and the ladies at her side. Arya was fidgeting, but Sansa looked enraptured.
The couple joined hands and knelt before the heart tree in a moment of silent prayer. When they rose, Ser Domeric removed Barbrey's Dustin cloak with a flourish, and Prince Oberyn fastened a Martell cloak of orange and red in its place. It was done.
Eddard thought it passing strange that a Prince of Dorne would agree to a Northern wedding, but there it was.
Domeric clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "Right! Al, get my harp if you would; time to get this show on the road." Al could only be Alesander Frey, Ser Domeric's squire. The strapping lad had the instrument ready and handed it to his master quick as lightning. The knight plucked a few experimental notes. "Well-tuned, good job. Okay, everyone! If you will just follow me, the feast will be in the old Barrow Hall, not the new one being built. Follow me, and we'll parade through the town square. Make sure to wave!"
As he led, the lords and ladies followed, Dornish and Northern alike. Eddard was expecting Two Hearts that Beat as One, but Domeric had another song in mind.
"Here and now, I promise to love faithfully~" he sang in a high, sweet voice. Sansa paused to listen and was almost bowled over by one of Lord Ryswell's sons.
"Pardon, my lady," he muttered gruffly.
So they marched, straight through Barrowton's freshly-cobbled town square. New prosperity was clearly in evidence, not just in the rebuilding of the castle, but in all the streets, new and no longer made of mud. Ribbons and streamers hung from every window, and cheering crowds thronged the wedding party. There were Martell banners, Dustin banners, Ryswell banners, Bolton banners, and many more. Casks of wine and ale were tapped, and drink flowed. Public feasting tables piled high with freshly baked bread and roasted meat were set out even for the smallfolk. Eddard could hardly believe the extravagance.
Mayhaps there is a message in this, he thought. Since when did Barbrey Dustin grow rich enough to feast a whole town?
Above it all, Ser Domeric's voice carried, and they made their way to the castle with the sounds of music in their ears.