A ghostly smile appeared on Lord Roose's face as one of his nervous servants gingerly plucked the leeches from his arms. "The Leech Lord," he was called – not in his presence of course. Roose rather liked it. The Leech Lord. A nickname that struck fear right in the heart of his enemies.
"Milord?" whispered the servant, glancing fearfully at the door. "Milord? I um, I believe there is someone at the door."
Roose's pale eyes swivelled to him. Both he and the servant heard the tapping on the door as Roose stared at the servant for a good minute. "Then what are you waiting for?" said Roose softly, pleased to see the servant flinch and look away. "I do not like having visitors…waiting."
"Aye milord."
Roose sat up as the last of the leeches was back in the large, round, glass jar. It was always quite refreshing after a long leeching session. Roose rolled down the sleeves of his black long-sleeved padded leather tunic and crossed the room in a few strides to his desk. He was a man of habit: every morning he would summon Maester Tybald and read and discuss the letters and the Dreadfort followed by a light breakfast with Domeric and the Lady Lyarra in the Great Hall. After that, he would return to his chambers for an hour or two of writing and dealing with the problems on his lands. It would usually last longer than two hours but never than five. Though his table would be a mess by then, Roose would always make a little time to tidy it up before calling in the servant for a bit of leeching.
The servant cleared his throat nervously. "It is Mydea milord."
The smiling bastard girl closed the door behind her and beamed at Roose who remained stoic and still. "I thought you would like a report milord," she said with a broad grin. "I came as quickly as I could."
"What of the Lady Lyarra?" said Roose dryly. "She wouldn't be pleased to find her maidservant gone from her duties."
"The Lady Lyarra is riding with Lord Domeric milord."
Good. Very good indeed. "How is…Reek?"
"Cruel as usual milord. Spoke dangerous words too. He is under the belief that you will acknowledge him as your heir if anything happens to Lord Domeric. He's done many horrible deeds, milord. I do not think he plans on stopping even if he does happen to be named…heir." Roose stared at her icily. "Reek also thinks that he will be taking Lady Lyarra as wife," Mydea Snow continued. "Milord, there is a more…serious matter."
"What is it?" said Roose quietly, alert.
"Reek found one of his hounds dead in a spare chamber and has sworn to kill whoever was responsible for killing his dog."
Roose crossed his arms. "A foolish move. What does he think of you?"
Mydea flashed him another smile. "An ally and a lover, milord. Mostly a lover. I know he will never marry me – and I do not wish to marry him – but I must say, I find it oddly amusing when I remind him of his promise to wed me."
"He promised he would marry you?"
"Pillow talk I believe milord." She smirked like a sly whore. "What harm was it in him declaring such a promise?"
"Has he started plotting to kill Domeric?"
"I believe he was in the kitchens before discovering his dead dog milord. If you do not trust my word, you can ask the cook."
"I intend to. Reek believes he's fooled me does he not?" The corner of Roose's thin lips twitched. It was humiliating that one of his own blood thought he could fool him just by declaring himself to be a servant. Fool. Bastard or no, surely one of Bolton blood would be more intelligent and sneaky. It could be seen as idiotic of Roose to have accepted his tyrant of a bastard into his own castle. For one, not many lords take their bastards into their homes at all, with the exception of Lord Stark and no doubt a few Dornish lords who thought procreation the act of love rather than one of duty. For another, there was always the lingering concern that the mad bastard would murder Domeric.
Roose had no intention of losing his only son and heir but he had no desire to have a mad dog running on his lands, raping women and hunting them down like deer. Oh no, better the mad dog in sight than not. Besides, the Dreadfort servants were obviously more in fear of him than Reek and a little reward once in a while to particular servants was very helpful. Indeed, giving praise and incentive was a vital part of watching Reek though Roose despised rewarding servants.
"Reek is a mad dog," Roose murmured more to himself than to Mydea. "A mad dog cannot be allowed to live now can it?" But how to remove Reek…oh, it would have been a relief if the first Reek killed him as was planned all those years ago. A pity it was the first Reek who died when he and the bastard tried to infiltrate the Dreadfort. The guards still thought it was Ramsay Snow that they killed and Reek who returned; he, Mydea Snow, the cook and a couple of other servants knew the truth. None of the servants would dare to utter a single word about Reek – Roose had already threatened to rip their tongues out.
"How milord?"
A good question that Roose had thought about for many nights. There were a number of northern laws Roose and his ancestors had broken. Flaying of course, and the practice of first night for another. Kinslaying though…that was different – Roose had no intention of being branded a kinslayer. Thinking of killing Ramsay was one matter, but actually killing him…
No. Killing Ramsay would end House Bolton's prestige forever.
"He will be dead soon enough," said Roose harshly.
"And me milord?" asked Mydea.
"You will be rewarded as promised." He lowered his voice. "If you even think to breathe a word of this to Reek, I promise you the consequences will be indeed horrible for you. Do you understand?"
"Yes milord. Will I be a lady by the end of the year milord?"
Roose looked coldly at her. "Bastards will never rise to be ladies, Mydea. Who in their right mind would marry a bastard? If you continue keeping an eye on the mad dog and keep silent about it, you will be well provided for and will be wed to a wealthy merchant by the end of the year. Better a rich tradesman's wife than a bastard girl do you not think, Mydea Snow?"
"Yes milord. I thank you for your generosity."
Whether Mydea Snow was mocking him or not, Roose did not care. As long as she continued watching Reek and keeping her mouth shut, she would stay alive a day or two longer. Usually Roose would not take Snows in to be servants, but the usefulness of Mydea Snow was that not only was she an illegitimate child, but she was an orphan and formerly the unwanted ward of one of his older soldiers who was more than happy to rid himself of the girl. The soldier was now dead from an old wound infection and buried and Mydea had no living relations alive. Once the mad dog Reek was dead and buried and it came to rewarding the servants, not all of them would be rewarded. Oh the cook would be praised for keeping an eye out on Reek and given an extra pouch of coins, but that was it. As for the sly, devious, little minx Mydea Snow…her plump lips would be kissing the cold, rich earth by the beginning of winter.
Mydea Snow was a fool for believing she would be richly rewarded.
"Leave now," ordered Roose. "I expect to see you here again in a few days as it was agreed. Now leave."
"Father. We must talk."
Roose finished scrawling the sentence on the piece of parchment on the table in front of him and put down his quill. He turned and gestured for his son to sit. "I was about to summon you," he said softly. "Indeed we must talk. You first, Son. Is there something you are not pleased with?"
"There have been a couple of rather strange occurrences in the castle Father," said Domeric solemnly. "As your heir apparent, it is my duty to inform you of it. I noticed that the cook had been more careless of late in preparing meals and...I've been smelling rotting meat and blood more." He looked hesitantly at Roose. "Is it um, normal at this time of year or is there something I must know?"
"The servants and the cook will be reprimanded at once," said Roose calmly. "I have been aware of those points too. In fact, I've already spoken to the cook a few hours ago. Tonight's supper will hopefully be more edible."
Domeric nodded. "There is another matter. It regards my manservant."
"Reek?"
"Yes Father. Reek." Domeric's expression contorted into one of discomfort. "It is rude of me to criticise a servant behind his back, but there is something queer about him. He smiles too much, as if he knows a jape that I didn't know of. Smiles every time I give him an order too. This might sound rather childish and foolish I admit, but I do not feel safe with a manservant like Reek in my chambers. For the last few nights, I had to ensure the door locked before I slept. There is more. I've spoken to Lyarra and she too suspects something odd about her own handmaid – Mydea Snow I believe her name is." He leant forward and looked at Roose almost earnestly. "Father, I must ask. Did you not find anything…anything remotely odd about Reek and Mydea when you appointed them here? Surely the name Reek is strange in itself!"
Roose was silent as he carefully decided what to tell him. "You well know that I appreciate hardworking men," he said finally. Domeric nodded. "Ser Darvus – I always considered him one of my most loyal and trustworthy soldiers. He died a few weeks ago, leaving his unmarried ward Mydea. To honour Ser Darvus, I took the girl in and gave her a position in the Lady Lyarra's service."
"Why did you not just marry her off?"
"I could have done that," Roose acknowledged. "However it's considered more an honour to serve in the lord's household is it not?"
Domeric nodded uncertainly.
"Good. Now that it is sorted, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you. Your grandfather Lord Ryswell, is critically ill. Lady Dustin wrote that he may not live to see winter and requests your presence at the Rills. You are Lord Ryswell's sole surviving grandchild after all." Roose did not mention that Domeric had also reminded the now senile and sick Lord Rodrick Ryswell of the Lady Bethany, his dead daughter and Roose's late wife. "You will leave in two days," Roose went on. "If I'd received Lady Dustin's raven earlier, I would've instructed you to travel to the Rills immediately after the Highgarden celebrations. There is no point having you and Lady Lyarra journeying here only to travel halfway south again. Indeed a pity the raven did not arrive earlier."
"I do not mind riding back to Winterfell again," said Domeric, brightening up a great deal. "Maester Tybald said riding is beneficial."
Roose couldn't resist an indulgent smile. "You enjoy riding, Domeric. You have inherited that from your late mother's family. You and Lady Lyarra will both ride back to Winterfell and then to the Rills. It will take you no longer than seven days I believe. I know you like Winterfell, but do not linger there. Stay a night and then continue your journey."
"Very well Father. Will that be all?"
"There is the matter of Barrowton."
Domeric frowned. "What about it Father?"
"Your aunt Barbrey is a Dustin by marriage. She has no Dustin sons and there are no male Dustins alive. As Lady Dustin has no intention of wedding, there is a strong chance that upon her death, Barrowton will be controlled by Lord Stark. It might be the new keep for one of his younger sons or he might give it to a lord or knight descended from the Dustins or perhaps to one of his loyal supporters. You have a strong chance of inheriting Barrowton, Domeric. Are you aware of that? I see you look surprised."
"I know the Ryswells and Dustins have always been close…"
"Very close allies, Domeric. Lord Ryswell's great, great grandmother was sister to a Dustin lord and your own great, great, great, great grandmother a Dustin too. Not only that, but you are Lord Stark's prospective good-son." Roose's pale eyes glittered. "Now would that not be a wonderful legacy, Domeric? House Bolton of the Dreadfort and Barrowton. Of course when you have a second son, he'll be the next Lord of the Barrowton."
Domeric did not look excited, more…concerned. "Lord Stark will not name me Lord of Barrowton Father. Though our House is now allied to his, it would not be easy for him to forget all the bloodshed spilled between our Houses in the past. I am certain Lord Stark will give Barrowton to either Bran or Rickon when they're of age or to another Northern House."
"What if Lady Dustin writes a will naming you as her heir?"
"It will be an honour to be Lord of Barrowton, but maintaining control of both our lands and the Barrowlands will be so difficult as they're so far apart. It would be much easier if we are given say, the Hornwood. Besides Father, I'm content to be only Lord of the Dreadfort upon your death. If after the wedding Lord Stark wishes to honour me further, I will happy to accept."
Roose refrained himself from giving his heir a disdainful look. Domeric was all he wanted for an heir…but all that honour! The result of his fosterage at Winterfell, Roose decided. The Starks were once more wild than honourable – thanks to Ned Stark's own fostering at the Eyrie, now the Starks and all future Starks would be more honourable than wild. He hoped his future grandsons would be more eager to control the Barrowlands when the time came.
"I will have my own servants help you pack," said Roose, changing the subject abruptly. "Not that you and Lady Lyarra require much packing, eh? I will speak to Reek. If it comes to it, I will sew his lips shut myself." Domeric flinched. "I jape of course," said Roose, standing up. He wondered if tutoring Domeric in a few basic torture techniques was necessary. It would be shocking if in a century's time the northerners no longer fear the 'honourable' House Bolton. No. It's better to leave
Domeric alone. Perhaps in a few decades there would be a Bolton-blooded Lord of Winterfell. A pleasant thought indeed.
"I…see," said Domeric falteringly. "I will see you at supper then, Father." Roose nodded and watched him stand up and leave. Roose waited a few minutes before he too walked out, closing the door behind him and locking it. He trusted that his heir would not pry in his affairs, but Reek?
Roose silently made his way to Domeric's chambers, knowing Domeric himself would be off to the godswood to tell the Lady Lyarra the news of Lord Ryswell's illness. Lord Ryswell was an odd fellow. A keen lover of horses like that cripple of Highgarden and a couple of Dornish lords. Roose cringed as he remembered the time Lord Ryswell insisted on naming his third and youngest son after him. If that was not awful enough, Lord Ryswell then held a feast. "In honour of the Ryswell-Bolton alliance," he had explained. Roose shuddered. He never believed or liked the practice of naming children after loved ones, friends or the dead. From what Roose heard at suppers and breakfasts, he was to expect a Lady Bethany Bolton as one – most likely the first – of his granddaughters.
Expelling that thought from his mind, Roose pushed open the door to his son's rooms and watched as Reek fiddled with Domeric's stack of clothes. Reek looked up and his wormy, thick lips formed a sly smile. "Milord," he said, his long, dark, dry hair falling down to frame his face as he dipped his head.
"Reek I believe," said Roose, maintaining an expressionless exterior.
"At your service milord." Roose's lips twitched with disgust. Reek's words…it sounded as if they were dipped in the slimy swamps of the Neck. As if sensing his revulsion, Reek's grin widened, showing his filthy teeth. Roose scrutinised him as he licked his lips. Reek is no Bolton. The only physical Bolton resemblance Roose recognised was his pair of small, close-set and oddly pale eyes that were like two chips of dirty ice.
"How do you find the Dreadfort?" Roose asked casually. He watched as Reek's eyes brightened in delight. He thinks he has fooled me.
"I am grateful," Reek said with a smirk. "Very grateful milord. Work is hard to find these days – and serving the heir of the Dreadfort! An honour indeed. I thank the gods every day for my luck. Does milord need anything? I am a good hunter if milord wishes to have a hunting partner. I will be honoured to shoot down a deer or a bear for you milord."
And anyone I despise to gain my favour, eh? Roose shook his head. "A kind offer Reek," he said shortly, "but I rather hunt alone." A small lie. In truth, Roose liked to hunt by himself, but anyone could wish him dead and it would be simple to kill him in a hunt. Shoot him in the back and pretend it was a hunting accident; push him into a creek and feign a hunting mishap.
Any method of killing him in the woods could be put down to hunting accident. Even hitting him on the head with a rock.
"Have you ever flayed a man, Reek?"
At least Reek had the sense to look uncertain. "I have seen it done milord," he said with care. Roose smiled. A little clever aren't you? We both know you like to think yourself an expert flayer. Regardless, Roose was prepared to play along with this farce for a while longer.
"It is a delicate art, to flay a man," said Roose softly. "To create the perfect skin cloak, the perfect skin blanket…very delicate."
"I…suppose milord."
"You suppose," repeated Roose with a quiet laugh. "You said you've watched a person flayed, did you not? When was this?"
"A…a few months ago milord."
"Was it on my land? If it was, it is an offence not to report a crime. Flaying is an art no longer appreciated, Reek. Banned, according to northern law. The Lords of Winterfell want all criminals punished - are you a criminal, Reek? Watching one be flayed is a crime too." It pleased Roose to see Reek hesitate. "As you said, it's a great honour to serve my son," Roose went on. "A privilege too. I cannot possibly have a criminal awarded such honour."
"I am no criminal milord," grunted Reek, his thick fingers twitching.
Roose smiled. "Tell me more about yourself. Are you a commoner? A farmer or a miller? A…bastard?" Reek's eyes flashed with anger.
"I am no bastard milord," said Reek, grinding his teeth.
"Of course," said Roose smoothly. "Reek Snow…" He smiled as Reek glowered at him. "I expect you will continue serving Domeric until you are no longer able?" he said pleasantly. "All my servants do. No exceptions. I trust you will be loyal to my son, wouldn't you Reek?"
Reek – more like Ramsay now – glowered like a rabid dog who was denied his favourite play toy or his food. "Yes milord," he said, his fingers curled into fists. "I will be a…loyal servant."
No you wouldn't. The moment Domeric returns here, you will kill him. You are still jealous of him. You will never rest until Domeric is dead. Roose wanted to stab the miller's wife. Foolish bitch! If she had not told Ramsay that he was the father, there would be peace in his lands and at the heart of the Dreadfort. I should have had the bastard killed when he was still a babe in arms. Roose took a step towards Reek who did not budge from his spot.
"Are you not tired of all this…charade?" whispered Roose. "We both know you will not be a loyal servant. I know who you are. You see, I knew Reek very well. It was my duty to whip him twice a dozen times when he'd doused himself with my late wife's perfume." He smiled as 'Reek's' pale eyes shone with uncertainty. "Oh, he carried the worst of stenches wherever he went. He would bathe thrice a day and wear flowers in his hair. Nothing worked to rid him of that awful stench. Do you honestly think I would believe you to be Reek?"
'Reek' said naught, but his thick lips curved into another grin. "So you know I am not Reek my lord," he rasped, an evil glint in his eye. "Every man must have a name though. Who am I, my lord?"
Roose had no intention of satisfying him with the answer 'Reek' longed for.
"A bastard."
I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. I understand if some of you find it annoying that in one chapter Domeric and Lyarra are at the Dreadfort and the next they'll be probably travelling or arriving at the Rills, but it is 301 AC and no doubt some people who are still alive in the ASOIAF books should be dying around 301 AC due to old age or illness at least. Normally the standard Stark look is grey eyes, but in Benjen Stark's AWOIAF wiki page, it says he has blue eyes. My guess is that he inherited it from his mother's side of the family.
