295 AC
Even though Aunt Barbrey counseled against it, he brought Mordaena to the Dreadfort. There really wasn't any choice. The old man had to be told what what what. It was about as awkward as Domeric expected. The great hall was just as quiet and empty as he remembered, with servants who kept their eyes low scurrying about and trying not to be noticed.
"So this is your whore," Father said lightly, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Lady Dustin wrote to me of her."
"Concubine," Domeric corrected sternly.
That seemed to amuse him. Father let the silence hang, pregnant and forboding. "Concubine, then. See that you don't take her to Winterfell on your next visit."
"Wouldn't dream of it. She'll be staying at Barrow Hall, or riding with me in the south. Speaking of which..."
With a motion of his hand, Domeric summoned two servants, bearing a chest of gold between them. "One hundred gold dragons, here for safekeeping. I can use the ransoms I won for pocket money."
Roose Bolton's smile was less than mocking, even genuine, if he were capable of such an emotion. Auntie told it true. His father had a greedy, covetous nature. Those eyes of dirty ice, so similar to his own, lit up with barely-contained desire. "The coin is most welcome, my son."
"There will be more, a lot more," Domeric promised. "That is from one small tourney. I am told there are larger ones, with greater prizes. I mean to take these Andals for all they're worth."
"Yes, Lord Redfort wrote to me often of your skill with horse and lance. Do call on your mother before you leave. She has not been well, and remains in her chambers." With that, the old vampire turned on his heel to go and do whatever vampires do, pink cloak trailing behind him. Calling his dad a vampire was only half a joke. It'd been nearly ten years since he'd been back here, but Roose Bolton didn't look like he'd aged a day. Did leeches really work like that?
"Your castle is very large, Dom," Mordaena said complimentarily. At least she was honest. After growing up in cramped Braavos, she craved wide-open land. Well, she picked the right guy for that.
"Yes, everything is bigger in the North," he replied, voice echoing to make his point.
As a matter of fact, he did visit his mother, who was everything Aunt Barbrey was not. If she ever had spirit, it had been beaten out of Bethany Ryswell long ago. Now, she was only Lady Bolton, and served at her lord husband's pleasure. Domeric asked her to eat more and get some fresh air and sunshine. She nodded mutely, and did not hug him back particularly hard when they embraced.
After that, he showed Mordaena the godswood, the place where he came into the world. "This is my favorite heart tree," he told her, indicating the one with the smile that bled red sap. When he was a small boy, he'd spend all day just staring at it.
He took a deep breath, feeling the power of this place. The spirits of the Earth were strong in this land. Just being in their immediate presence brought him strength. They listened to the breeze blowing through the red leaves, trying to hear the words of the gods.
Domeric played his own song in exchange, and they slept in the open that night, curled up in a bedroll where the weirwoods could look on. High summer in the north was just about as pleasant as it got, with none of the humid heat he felt in the Riverlands. Harsh winters were a small price to pay for the clean, crisp air, and the sun that warmed them, but not too much.
***
For his sixteenth nameday and ascent to manhood, Domeric Bolton received numerous gifts.
Aunt Barbrey presented him with two battle axes, after the sigil of her house. They were heavy pieces of black steel with ironwood handles. One was honed to a razor's edge and the other thoughtfully blunted for tourney melees. He tested the weight of them. Yes, he could easily wield either with one hand from horseback, guarding his offside with a heavy oaken shield. They would serve, more than serve. Domeric would be a regular terror, in fact. For combat against men in plate, the axes were perfect.
"I'll use them well, Auntie," he promised, and the one who had been more a mother to him than his own mother hugged and kissed him while weeping happy tears.
From his grandfather, Lord Rodrik Ryswell of the Rills, which was the best horse country in the North, Domeric received five of the choicest horses from his herds, though he supposed he'd get the most use out of the two palfreys for daily riding, one for him and one for Mordaena. In battle, he preferred the vicious red courser he'd named Skinchanger, after a story he'd heard as a boy. They were of one mind at times, Domeric and that horse.
Lord Redfort sent a matching longsword and dagger of the finest castle-forged steel, with crossguards decorated with an etching of the flayed man of his house. He sent a thank-you note via raven.
Father sent twenty Dreadfort men, men-at-arms in oiled black ringmail and greasy leather jerkins, to act as guards on his travels, and to make him seem like a bigger deal wherever he went. Their captain was a thin, hard man with a massive, hooked beak of a nose. He bore the Bolton Banner on a staff of white weirwood. His name was Jack Clarke, but the other soldiers named him Jack-o-nose. Jack's hair was black and greasy, his lips thin and cruel. Domeric had no doubt he'd slit throats on command. Was dear old dad trying to send a message by assigning this type of guy to him? Privately, Domeric thought he rather looked like a cutthroat version of Severus Snape.
Last and best of all, Alandro Solel presented Domeric with his daughter, formally giving Mordaena into his hands as a concubine and paramour. They needed more time to work the leather, but they'd spent many an evening over candlelight trying design concepts.
Everyone had their say, debating sketches on parchment. There would be different colors, silver fastenings, and most of all a recognizable logo. It was the easiest thing in the world to name them "Bolton Bags," which rolled off the tongue nicely, but the Bolton sigil was a little morbid for a brand targeting noble ladies. In the end, Mordaena showed him a lovely, stylized "B" she embroidered with her deft hands. If it were possible to love her more, he would.
Domeric Bolton was going to enjoy his life, and that started now. If he could not marry Mordaena, he would love her as if she were his wife, no matter the bride his father picked later. He had a horse beneath him, a girl by his side, and armed men at his back. What more could he possibly wish for?
There would be tourneys, feasts, and maybe battles. Domeric had his first taste of blood in the Vale, and found he liked the flavor. It was just so easy. That was the first thing he noticed. Domeric didn't have so much as a nightmare or even an elevated heart rate when he killed that hedge knight. Those wild men on the High Road were just plain fun. Maybe he was built different. Maybe there was more Bolton in him than he realized. Mordaena absolutely loved it. So why not? Why not fight and kill and carve a name for himself in blood and bodies? It seemed to be what was expected from him, considering what was painted on his shield.
While they waited for the lizard lion leather to cure, he went out hunting with Aunt Barbrey.
"I did not know any man could own so much," Mordaena said breathlessly at his side. She was turning into a decent rider herself, especially on that gentle palfrey. It was not coin that impressed her, nor silk, nor jewels, but space.
"Big castles and lots of land, babe, that's how we live in the North. With more coin, we can live whatever life we want."
His lover beamed at him. That afternoon, they took a big elk, enough for the whole hall to feast on. When they returned, a messenger from Lord Reed was waiting. Strictly speaking, birds couldn't find Greywater Watch, since it moved. It was a bit inconvenient, but it seemed to him the people of the Neck were flattered just to be remembered. Some thought the North ended at Moat Cailin, which was not at all true.
"There's word of a tourney, my lord," the short crannogmen told them. "Lord Vyperen shall host the festivities at Fairmarket on the Blue Fork. They are to celebrate five years of summer without an end in sight."
Domeric and Mordaena shared a greedy look. It was time to show these riverlords what Northern steel could do.
Aunt Barbrey sighed. "I suppose you'll be leaving after the feast. I'd been getting used to songs at supper. Do be careful on the causeway, Nephew."