The skies were a flood gate, ready to open. Thunder sang and lightning danced overhead, a sign of a coming storm. Domeric Bolton rode atop his courser, a big black beast named Plum. The winds whipped overhead, whistling through the trees. In the distance, amidst the flicker of lightning, stood the Dreadfort. His home. "My lord father awaits us," Domeric said happily. It had been far too long since he had been home, sent off to the Lady Dustin half-a-dozen years ago, and then to the Vale after that.
He had learned much while he was gone. Lord Redfort taught him how to fight with mace and sword, though he preferred the former. It was his aunt, Lady Barbrey Dustin, who taught him other practical skills like playing with the minds of men and playing a harp to impress noblewoman and their daughters alike.
"I'd like to get there before nightfall, and this drear rain," said Ser Mathias Waxley. He wore a cloak of gray wool, and in his hand was a shield of oak, with three candles painted on it. Ser Mathias was a thick jawed brute, whom only Domeric found to be good company. "I'd hope your father has some kind of feast for you, if that raven we sent ahead ever reached his ears. He's sent no out riders to meet us."
Domeric smirked, "My father is the Lord of the Dreadfort, he is a busy man." He lead Plum ahead further, removing his black leather gloves and stuffing them into his cloak. Rain dripped onto their heads slowly, picking up faster and faster, until it turned into a full on downpour. They came to a halt beneath an outcropping of trees, and quickly threw a leather tarp over their heads, covering their horses and them just barely.
"I'd have expected it to rain, this far north," the other said, a man in a long black robe. His name was Kennet the Chainless, a former maester apprentice who received not a single chain during his stay. He left in shame, but took his knowledge and returned to fighting. No man in the Vale dared let him live it down though, and just like Ser Mathias, Domeric found him to be wonderful company. He was wise beyond his years. He drew a knife and picked at the filth beneath his fingernails, "Hope it dies down soon."
"Soon enough." Domeric leaned beside a tree, and pulled a book from his bag.
Ser Mathias spat, "Even the rain don't stop you from reading, boy?" He was busy running a whetstone across his sword. He didn't see the joys of reading that Domeric or Kennet saw in it, but he did take an interest in Domeric's skill in battle. That is why the two had agreed to return to the Dreadfort with him, two men whom he could trust among a sea of strangers. Mathias questioned why he didn't simply befriend anyone at the Dreadfort, but Domeric waved it off. They are my father's men, not mine.
"I left a young boy, small and unable to lift up a shield," Domeric said. "Now I am a man, full grown. I can read as well as any Maester, and I fight and ride like the champion of a tourney. My lord father will be proud of how far I've come," Domeric turned a page, and tapped his finger against the cover. If he does not detest how unlike the rest of the North I have grown up to be.
The rain pattered down, and Domeric watched as a man in a cart rode by, his body covered in a heavy black cloak. He spied something stirring in the back of the cart, his children? Domeric turned another page and continued reading. It was a thick tome, a book he had found in the farthest corner of Lord Redfort's library. The cover read, The Old Tongue, Runes and Magic by Maester Quillen. Domeric was not familiar with any Maester Quillen, but the tome had intrigued him. The Old Tongue was the language of the First Men, and he intended on learning more about his heritage.
Like the Starks, the Umbers, the Karstarks, and most other Northern houses, Domeric and his father were products of the First Men. Their blood was pure, as old as the Age of Heroes, the very blood that fought the children of the forest ages ago. He was interested in his heritage, even if men like Ser Mathias were not. Ser Mathias was a man of the Seven, so of course he did not take much interest in the Old Gods, but Domeric had faith.
He heard the way the trees whispered, and he dreamt of things that very few had ever dreamed of. He saw visions, of a sort. Distilled pictures of his home, the Dreadfort. At first, he thought it was a nightmare, but then he saw it come into frame. It was like a still of his childhood, the great black castle that he was born in. He saw a shadow flicker beyond a window, Father. And he saw another figure. A boy, with ices as pale as ice. Am I looking at myself? He wondered. He had awoke before the figure became clear, and he knew it was time to return home that morning when he awoke.
As the rain continued, it grew darker, and soon the three sat beneath their tarp in front of a small fire like three Mountain clansmen seperated from the rest of their clan. They were easy prey for wolves out here, so they kept their weapons close. Domeric's dirk was at his hip, and Mathias napped with his sword across his chest. Kennet was not too afraid, however. He snored rather loudly, which drew an angry thump from Mathias after a few hours.
Domeric slept as well, after long enough, and when his eyes opened the rain had stopped.
"What is your name?" a voice startled him, and he drew his dirk, but a sword was at his throat in an instant. "I asked your name boy, not for your weapon."
Glancing to the right, he saw Kennet being dragged by the collar and Mathias with a bow drawn on him, his sword kicked aside into the mud. Domeric's eyes widened when he saw the flag fluttering behind his attacker. "You are in service to House Bolton?"
"Aye, we serve Lord Bolton. We are his Merry Men," the man guffawed. "And Lord Bolton doesn't take kindly to travelers in his lands, not after what happened a fortnight ago, everyone's on high alert."
Domeric smirked, and waved the man's sword away. "Tell Lord Bolton that he has nothing to fear of me and my men," he nodded to his horse's saddle. "Check the bag."
The man nodded towards it, and another advanced forward, digging through it, slowly pulling out a black doublet. On it, was sewn the a pink flayed man, the sigil of House Bolton. "You dirty thief," the man growled.
"You're mistake," Domeric said. "Those are my small clothes. I am Domeric Bolton, son of Roose Bolton, and heir to the Dreadfort. Would you be so kind as to let my men go, and escort us to my lord father? It's been a long journey, and we are quite starving."
The man's brow furrowed. "Anything else in there, Garett?"
Garret shook his head, "More clothes with the Bolton sigil."
After a moment, the man snorted, "My lord," he bowed and helped Domeric up. The other two stepped away and Mathias and Kennet rose, annoyed. "We ride for the Dreadfort, with Lord Bolton's son with us. He will be most pleased, especially since that bastard of his came forward..."
A bastard, Domeric thought. He remembered the dream, of the boy with the pale ice eyes. I did not dream of me, he thought. I dreamed of my long lost brother. He saddled onto Plum, feeling comfortable and welcomed by his courser, and relished in the morning sun. Today would be a wonderful day, he thought.