294 AC
They had a bird from Harrenhal a week ago. Lady Whent was feasting Domeric after he'd come down the High Road. Ah, pardon her, Ser Domeric. Her nephew had won his spurs.
He'd won a tourney at Runestone, and slew a chieftain of the mountain clans besides. Barbrey Dustin was pleased to hear he was safe and whole, but the raven brought other tidings.
Her darling boy was coming up the Kingsroad with a merchant of Braavos, a party of master leatherworkers, and a girl. She wondered if Roose would be pleased to hear of it. Well, he could hardly be surprised. Domeric was a strong lance and a stronger singer. What maiden wouldn't be charmed? He was getting to be about that age. At that age, she had girlish dreams of being the lady of Winterfell, and Brandon Stark took her maidenhead with whispered promises. False promises. He had sworn he would defy his father and spurn the Tully maid.
When he died after running after Prince Rhaegar like a fool, she dared to hope his brother Eddard might be different, a fool's hope. It fell to Willam Dustin to mend her broken heart. Sweet Willam took her to wife, spoiled as she was, and she knew happiness for a few turns of the moon. Then he rode off to war, and Ned Stark would not even return his bones, or name the land he died in. Why her goodbrother of the Dreadfort wished to wed into that line she knew not. Roose always kept his own counsel. "A creep," Domeric called him once. Aye, he was a creeping thing, who wished not to be noticed, plotting in the dark. His son was just the opposite, all too free with his fancies.
She had been asked to gather the tanners of Barrowton and send a rider to Lord Reed, asking leave to hunt lizard lions in his lands. It was a strange request. Barbrey had never had much dealings with the Crannogmen beyond Moat Cailin, but the recluse lord had little reason to refuse her. Indeed, he offered guides and help. She hoped it would please her nephew. Always a clever boy, this notion of lizard lion leather might prove profitable for them all. Whyever had no one thought of it before?
Barrow Hall of late proved a lonesome quiet keep, much as the barrows of the first men of old, high mounds where nameless kings slept eternally. Her father, Lord Rodrik of the Rills, visited often enough, bringing her kin to cheer her. Young Roose was of an age with Domeric, though hardly his equal. Her sister Bethany, Domeric's mother, had always been a spirited girl, whose flame had guttered out in the gloom of the Dreadfort. That spirit lived on in her son, and none other.
Barbrey Dustin spent her days riding and hunting, always a pleasure to any Ryswell girl, and she had been born a Ryswell. From time to time she held court in Barrowton, arbitrating the petty squabbles of her smallfolk, though she took no joy in it. She was a cold lady to them, and her subjects no more than dutiful. Only Domeric's singing had brightened up her life, her life and theirs. Often men asked after him, from guildmasters to stableboys. All remembered her young ward, and looked to his return with as great anticipation as she. Her hunters would return from the Neck with hides soon, she heard. Like as not, Domeric would be here before they were properly tanned. Going from a fresh hide to supple leather was a process of many weeks, her master tanner informed her.
***
"Banners, my lady!" her captain of the watch informed her. A party of riders had left the Kingsroad, flying the flayed man of Bolton and the bats of Whent. The lady of Harrenhal must've liked his singing. She sent him with an escort all the way to the North.
"Open the gate and prepare a welcome," she ordered. Barbrey left her chambers and walked down the spiral staircase of Barrow Hall's central keep to receive them in her own yard.
"Auntie!" he greeted her brightly, dismounting with a flourish and running to embrace her.
He's grown taller, she thought. There was a boyish softness left in his face, but his eyes were as cold and hard as any man. It was well he had his first battle against savages in skins. Such were no true threat to her dear nephew. They hugged fiercely, and when he let her go, Barbrey saw the girl.
A dark and sultry foreign beauty, with rounded womanly curves, trailed after her nephew. Idly, Barbrey wondered if she already had a bastard in her belly. Well, it made no matter. Any bastard of Domerics would find a welcome in Barrow Hall. They were her own blood.
"My lady." The girl of Braavos curtsied before her. Her words were heavily accented, though understandable.
"Be welcome in my hall, child," she said, not unkindly.
"Is Father here?" Domeric asked. "I sent a bird, informing him of my intentions to stop at Barrowton first."
Barbrey shook her head. "Nay. He awaits you at the Dreadfort, nephew."
The boy scowled. "I would sooner not go back. Master Alandro here wishes to start his tannery and workshop straight away, with your leave, of course. I should like to be on hand."
The merchant bowed to her. Whether he liked the look of her castle and town, his face gave no indication. Mayhaps a man of Braavos thought it a hovel, mayhaps not. "We took a few lizard lions on the road, lured them onto the Causeway with scraps of meat. My men have the fresh hides packed in salt to preserve them."
"And my tanners have taken more. Already they are at their work. You may be about your business, Master Merchant," Barbrey said, which he took for dismissal. The girl had his look, short and dark and broad of shoulder, but there was a lightness in his steps. Those were fine riding boots he wore, very fine. Mayhaps lizard lions would serve for boots as well.
She told her steward to prepare food and rooms for Domeric's knightly escort, and took her nephew's arm, leading him back to her solar. The girl followed without being asked. Once they were alone, she put the question to him. "Is she pregnant?"
Domeric flushed. "No, not yet."
"I should be happy to give Domeric as many babes as he could wish, my lady," Mordaena said politely.
"But you would not be wed," Barbrey pressed. "The children would be bastards."
"I care not. Mine own mother was a whore, yet high in honor. Father is rich, and will grow richer still. Does not Domeric deserve a companion of the heart?"
There was little she could say to that. The girl seemed to understand, and the Braavosi were queer about such things. Whoever heard of a whore with honor?
Barbrey sighed. "As you like it, girl. Fill my hall with bastards. I would never deny Domeric anything."
"Nor I," the girl replied brightly.
"Very well. Domeric, your next name day is coming up. You'll be a man grown in the eyes of the world, and will not require your father's leave to come and go as you please. Have you any plans?"
"Oh, I have many a notion, Auntie," Domeric said, smiling slightly. "Barrowton shall be our 'base of operations,' if you will. I shall ride south seeking after tourneys and return with chests of gold. Master Alandro and his men shall set up production upon your Barrow River. Soon enough, we'll have bags and boots and belts, the finest yet seen. A singing knight is welcome at the high table in any castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Let the first few bags be gifts to noble ladies, and their gossip shall do the rest. You ought to look to the docks, I think. I have a feeling you'll be receiving much more custom than usual. Soon, traders out of Oldtown and Lannisport will be sailing up the Barrow River to call on you."
He put an arm around his sweetheart and pulled her close. They looked as in love as any young couple she'd ever seen. It eased her mind somewhat.
"You will sing at the feast tonight, won't you?" she asked, as if she needed to ask.
"Naturally," Domeric answered with easy confidence. "I have many a new song to share. It's been easier to write love songs of late."
Mordaena smiled shyly, looking oddly innocent, even in her clinging silks. Mayhaps she would like this girl.