The cold wind blew through his hair, sending dark locks flying behind him like a black banner in tethers. His pale eyes watered from the tickles of the shivering winds, but he minded not. For these experiences were of the North, and the North was reviving to his soul. He rode harder and harder, knowing in his heart the Balthasar the mighty black stead felt the same as he did. They were free in these moments, Balthasar and him, free and forever.
But alas, the freedom of Domeric Bolton was short lived, as the shouts reached his ears. Knowing he had no true excuse, he slowed his mount and came to a halt.
"My lord!" Domeric turned Balthasar to face the approaching rider. "M'lord!"
Sat atop a brown horse was a man short and stumped with a curling red mustache. Behind him were four other riders, each rather plain looking. The five man escort had collected Domeric in the Vale, were he had resided for some years.
"Ah, Wallace," Domeric said jovially. "I thought I had lost you fine men."
Wallace, clearly unhappy, growled out "You nearly had, m'lord. But I must insist that you not ride ahead. You know not who or what resides in these parts."
The North is my home, he thought to himself. I know what resides in my home.
"Shall we ride on then, Wallace?"
But before the man spoke again, Domeric leaned down so that he could whisper in his horse's ear. "Our freedom was short lived." Balthasar let out a great snort. "Aye, old friend. What says you we be free for a bit longer?"
With a slight tug of the reigns, like a great black shadow, the horse was off. With eyes shut, Domeric extended his arms outward, keeping his legs tightly around his mount. He felt as an eagle, soaring over the northern soil in true freedom. For a brief instant, he was a boy of seven again, serving as a page for his beloved aunt in Barrowton. And then he was eleven, squiring for the good Lord Redfort in the Vail, dreaming of Knighthood. But now he was off to foster at the capital of the North, therefore, the only capital that mattered.
At fourteen years of age, Domeric had spent his life divided, living his life in three different castles during three different periods of his youth, and soon it would be four. Leaving his third home had been taxing, seeing as Lord Redfort's sons had been like brothers to him. But it mattered not, his father willed him to be fostered with the Starks, and so he would.
Closer and closer, a huddled group of buildings in the foggy distance grew and grew. Soon the huddle expanded and spilled out into a town, the Winter Town. He slowed to a trot as he traveled down the main road. But much to Domeric's disappointment, it was practically empty, only producing small groups of small folk who watched him in curiosity.
He turned his attention now to the massive granite walls of Winterfell, and to the imposing iron wrought gate. Rather impressed, he gave a smile, though it quickly vanished when he heard the voice of Wallace. "M'lord."
Domeric turned to see that the man's face was as red as his hair. "Wallace, you look fit to kill an orphan."
"We has a beast of a time following you. M'lord."
"Well," Domeric said, "I'm glad you men caught up. Woe to me if you hadn't."
"Woe to us too," said one of the other men, "and our skins if you had."
Domeric winced at the insinuation, but upon hearing the gate being raised behind him, he said "Well, we have an entrance to make!"
Crossing the threshold, Domeric and his horse trotted into a large courtyard. The House of Stark stood unified, accompanied by a few guards wearing the direwolf sigil of their lord.
Domeric climbed off Balthasar and approached Lord Eddard, taking notice of his oddly equal expression of both sternness and kindness, he fell to one knee.
"My lord, I am honored to be here."
Lord Stark motioned for him to stand, so he did. "We are honored to have you, young Domeric."
Domeric doubted it was much of an honor. There was bad blood between the wolf and the flayed man, surely he was only there to held smooth relations over.
Knowing his courtesies, Domeric kissed Lady Stark's white hand. She was rather beautiful, with dark red hair and pretty blue eyes. In her arms was a small boy with the lady's coloring, not knowing how to greet the babe, Domeric awkwardly patted his head.
He then shook hands with the heir of the North, a boy close to his own age with red hair and blue eyes, just as his mother. He moved next to Eddard's second son, who looked like a miniature of the first born. "How large is that horse," the bow asked, pointing towards Balthasar.
Domeric smiled. "I couldn't tell you, young lord. But I wager you couldn't find a larger stead in all of Westeros."
There were two Stark girls, though they looked drastically different. The elder was pretty, there was no denying that. She looked very much like her mother, though it was easy to wonder if she'd grow even more beautiful than the lady of Winterfell.
"My lady," Domeric said respectfully, kissing the girl's hand as he had done with her mother. She blushed to a great amount.
Arya, the younger girl, was different. She was skinny with brown hair and grey eyes that held a look of wildness. Oddly, she didn't offer her little hand, instead she crossed her arms, raised a brow, and looked Domeric up and down.
"I hear," she said, "you Boltons skin people alive. Flat 'em up an-"
"Arya!" The Lady Stark hissed, looking most mortified.
"No, no." Domeric shook his head. "We don't do such things at the Dreadfort. That is, unless..."
The girl looked greatly curious. "Unless what?"
"Unless," Domeric said with a smirk. "Unless we find a skinny little girl who asks too many questions."
Arya's eyes narrowed, then widened to a comical size. Slowly a smile formed on her lips, which was quickly replaced with a wild grin.
Domeric wondered then how the others would react to his humor. But then, as if Robb has heard his thoughts, the heir let out a great laugh.
Domeric and his companion, who would be leaving in the morning, were invited into the castle next. Domeric and Robb quickly fell in tow with one and other. "Did you truly squire in the Veil," the Stark asked.
"Aye, I did. Best three years of my life, to be truthful."
Suddenly, Arya pushed her way between the two. "Are you a knight?"
Domeric shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. I never earned that honor."
"Well," said the girl, "I'm going to be a knight someday."
"Oh? A knight in favor of being a pretty lady?"
Robb chuckled. "Arya isn't one for such things."
Domeric was shown the basics of the ancient castle, including where he would be sleeping. Afterwards, Robb took him down to the training yard. The younger girl, Arya, had wanted to join them. In fact, she had hardly left the boys' shadows until Lady Catelyn ordered her away to her lessons, much to Domeric's disappointment. The girl was very likable, in truth.
"I hope you don't mind," the Stark boy said. "I just fear I'll fall out of practice if I miss a day of training. Though, in truth, this delay has been rather agreeable. I'm usually bruised and sweat soaked by this time of day."
Domeric decided he liked Robb, the auburn haired Stark was most welcoming. "I mind not, but you may soon regret bringing me along."
"Oh?"
"Mmh. I'm afraid I'm rather skilled with a sword... As well as knocking my foes on their arses."
Robb snorted a laugh. "You're alright, Bolton. You got hair like a girl, but you're alright."
Robb spoke truthfully, Domeric's hair was so long that it reach his mid back. I'll take that as a heartfelt compliment. And my hair, for your information, is as fine as silk."
Ser Rodrick Cassel was the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell, and a gruff one at that. The man was an old veteran of the wars of the past, with long white side whiskers and a stony stern face. Under the knight's supervision were two boys. One was a couple of years older than Domeric, the hostage and ward of the Starks, Theon Greyjoy. The other, who looked almost as a portrait of a younger, more handsome Lord Stark, was surely another brother of Robb's.
After being introduced, Domeric's curiosity took over and he asked what he had been wondering. "You must be a son of Lord Stark?"
Oddly, Jon did not answer, he only looked away. Theon, on the other hand, had no issue answering. "He is, Bolton, but not in the way it counts!"
"Theon!" Robb glared at the Greyjoy. "That's enough."
Theon shrugged and raised his hands. "I wasn't the one who brought it up."
Not in the way it counts. Domeric didn't quite understand. Was there something strange about this boy, this Jon Stark? He surely wasn't a eunuch, was he?
Jon then spoke up. "I am Lord Eddard's bastard."
Domeric felt tongue tied. A bastard, just as his own brother. Oh, Ramsay. I wish I could know you, dear brother.
"Lord Domeric," said Ser Rodrick. "Care to go around with Lord Robb?"
Domeric nodded and took a wooden sword from the rack. He readied himself as he face Robb, a smirk on his lips. It was only as they began circling each other when Domeric realized that he hadn't responded to Jon. The Snow had caught him off guard, and now thought poorly of him in all probability.
Robb proved to be a skilled fighter, strong as well. It wasn't long before Domeric began to wonder if he had been too cocky. With each and every strike, Domeric found it harder and harder to block the relentless attacks.
Though barely ten minutes had passed, it seemed as if they had been at it for hours. It was a relief, however, to see the heir of Winterfell so worn out with his red hair soaked with set and plastered to his forehead. Domeric decided then that it was time to abandon the defensive.
He swung his wooden blade at Robb's head, a move easily blocked. He struck a second time, but a second time he was blocked. Now seeing it as a challenge, Domeric made it his goal to give Robb a wack on the head, potentially knocking the boy senseless in the process.
Again and again Domeric struck, again and again Robb blocked and parried blow by blow. And while Domeric grew annoyed, Robb grew amused, now using only a single hand to hold his sword, using the other to mock yawn.
Ser Rodrick, however, was evidently not amused by Robb's antics. "Pay attention, boy!"
"Oh, yes!" Robb called back with a most amused voice. "This certainly is most challeng-"
Robb ceased to joke when Domeric's hard blade connected with his knee. The Stark yelled out in pain, and then Domeric's blade struck Robb's knuckles, causing him to drop his own training sword and cradle his hand, falling to his knees.
"You're right, Lord Robb." Domeric leaned down to pick up Robb's discarded sword. "Not a challenge at all."
Robb shook out his hand, as if the pain would simply fall off. "It's not my fault that you flayed men are so... devious." A smirk followed.
Domeric rolled his eyes before asking "Who's next, then? Greyjoy, how's your sword arm?"
Theon shook his head. "I prefer my bow. Well, unless we're speaking of pretty girls. In that case, I'm quite skilled will my sword." No one laughed.
"If you aren't here to train, Theon," growled Ser Rodrick, "then why don't you see if the stable boys can use a hand."
"And miss out on conversations such as this? No thank you, Ser."
"What of you, Jon?"
The bastard looked surprised. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Jon Snow, the glum son of Lord Eddard Stark. You."
The Snow nodded before climbing over the the old fence that served as the border of the training yard, while Robb joined Theon in observation. Now each holding a practice sword, the two readied themselves.
Domeric raced at Jon, swinging his sword with great strength, but the bastard merely ducked and the blow passed over him. Unfortunately, Domeric had lost his balance in the assault. He did his best to regain his steadiness, but before he could, a powerful and painful blow connected with his back. Domeric's eyes shut as he went flying towards the dirt.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back. He moved to get to his feet, but found that the tip of Jon's sword was pressed against his throat.
"Yield!" Domeric held out his hands in surrender. "It seems I underestimated you."
Jon helped him to his feet. "Then I expect you'll put up a better fight next time."
"Next time," Domeric said, "I'll-"
"Fall on your arse rather than you face," interrupted Theon with a laugh, which Robb join in on.
Domeric eyed the two. "That sounds like a challenge to me."
"Excuse me?"
"Say you and Robb against Jon and myself?"
"Sounds fair to me," said Jon.
"More than fair," added Domeric.
Robb had a slight look of nervousness. "I don't find that fair at all."
Theon nodded. "Agreed. You two would knock the shit out of us."
"That's the idea."
"Fine," said Robb. "But this time you shan't beat me, Bolton."
"Live steel," added Theon in a possible attempt to scare Domeric off. "None of these sticks."
"Agreed," said Domeric.
"Excellent." Robb looked positively giddy. "Ser Rodr-"
"No," said the old knight before Robb could finish. "No live steel. I don't even allow you boys tourney swords yet, and I won't have any missing limbs. What would Lady Stark say should one of you lose an arm or a leg?"
Theon seemed to be entertained by the picture Ser Rodrick painted, but before he could make some jest, he was silence by a glare from the knight. "Or," continued Ser Rodrick, "Your little cock."
Robb, unlike Theon, was amused. "Aye, we could call you joyless Greyjoy."
Much to Domeric's surprise, Jon spoke up next. "You'd have to change your sigil. Make it a kraken with six stubs."
Domeric couldn't remember the last time he laughed so hard. Theon, however, didn't seem to see the humor it all. "A kraken doesn't even have six arms," he had said, crossing his own arms.
Domeric's brow raised. "Doesn't have a cock either."
Chuckling, Robb followed with "You'd have to change your words to We do not fu-"
"That's enough of that," said Ser Rodrick. "Now, it's wood or nothing."
Robb sighed. "Wood it is, Ser."
Once prepared, the four boys faced each other, Jon taking on Robb while Domeric saw to Theon. He had heard of this Iron Islander, as many had. Nine years beforehand, Balon Greyjoy fancied himself king. That started a rebellion, which lead to a rather bloody war. In the end, Balon found himself defeated. Theon, as it seemed, was a bargaining chip given to Lord Stark to ensure the Iron Islands remained submissive.
Domeric easily block a blow, choosing then to strike at Theon, the Wood nearly skinning his belly.
"So, Bolton," Their swords clashed, "do you prefer to stick your cock in a girl before or after you skin her?"
Domeric ducked as Theon's sword went over his head. "Tell me, Greyjoy." He blocked a blow. "Do you put your cock in a great many girls?"
"Of course," Theon bragged, sidestepping from harm's way. "More than you could even count."
"I see." Domeric smirked. "I wasn't aware the ironborn taught their prince to rape before tossing him away like a rotten fish."
Theon's sword dropped. In a flash, Domeric was tackled to the ground, the Ironborn's hands around his throat. But, despite the loss of the ability to breathe, Domeric did his best to grin as his knuckles connected with the side of Theon's head. It was then that the two truly attempted to beat the life from eachother.
