Domeric
He had been a league away from the Dreadfort when the messenger found him, a short man on a large horse who was quite skilled at tracking, damn his eyes.
"You are required back at the Dreadfort, young lord," the messenger panted. "Lord Bolton wishes that you return at once."
Domeric sighed and then turned a yearning gaze to the road that led to the Weeping Water and the brother that he had always wanted to have, especially after all the time that he had spent at the Redfort in the Vale. There he had had brothers in all but name. Here he had a brother of the blood. But Father had called him back and he would have to obey him, so he turned away from the road to the river and started riding back to the Dreadfort. He did not ask the reasons for his summons, Father would not have told the messenger and the messenger would not have dared to ask the Lord of the Dreadfort.
However, he suspected that this might be a ruse by Father, who seemed to disapprove of Domeric's wish to visit his half-brother. Why he disapproved he did not know, but then Father could be secretive at times.
The towers of the Dreadfort appeared first on the horizon and he suppressed another sigh. He loved his home and he respected Father, but there were times when the shadow of his family's past hung heavy on him. The banner especially. A flayed man, a symbol of the times when his family had had men flayed alive. The Starks had stopped that practice, but he sometimes wondered if his father ever thought about it. He certainly saw a great deal of importance in being respected, sometimes even feared. And the very name Dreadfort – it spoke of fear, not honour. Not that he would ever speak of such things to Father. One day he would be Lord of the Dreadfort and on that day he would build anew. Not before.
The small party clattered in through the gates, Domeric acknowledging the salute of the master-at-arms as he did so, and then he made for his stables, where he kept his horses. A boy came out to take the reins after he had dismounted, but Domeric took the time to check that the horse was sound in wind and limb – and especially in hoof. His time in the Vale had taught him that your steed could be as important as your sword and he thought fond thoughts about Lord Redfort and his lessons on horses as he tended to his mount.
He found his father in his solar, reading from a small stack of documents. He was dressed in his customary black jerkin and he looked up when he heard the sound of Domeric's boots approaching. "There you are. You were heading towards the Weeping Water." He did not say it as a question, but as a statement of fact.
He could not deny it. "Yes Father."
"I told you not to contact your half-brother."
"Yes Father. I am sorry – I was curious about him."
Father carefully placed the document he had been reading down on the pile and sighed softly. "You should not be curious about him. One day I will tell you why. That day is not today." He said the words in an even quieter voice than normal, as if he was trying to repress some strong feeling on something. Then he looked up. "You are summoned to Winterfell."
Domeric blinked at his father. Of all the reasons for his recall to the Dreadfort, this one was the least likely he would have thought. The Boltons were the sworn banners of the Starks, but the two houses were not close. Too much blood had flown in the past for that, too much rivalry. "Why, Father?"
"Lord Stark would have you visit Winterfell it seems. And he desires that you bring much reading matter with you." Father sat down and stroked his chin, the way that he did when he was thinking very, very hard.
This again threw Domeric's wits a little. "Reading matter?"
"Books. Books on the Old Gods and the Others to be precise. A most… odd request."
Domeric walked to a chair and, upon a wave of the fingers from his father, sat down. "I would have thought that Winterfell would have been the natural place for books on the Old Days and the Time of Heroes."
A slight upturn of his father's lips showed that he was amused. "Yes, but House Bolton has many old tomes as well. Many of them make little sense as they are so old, but we have always kept the records safe and dry and frequently copied them. It never hurts to keep knowledge. Even if it is little more than legends of things passed."
"The Old Gods and the Others…" Domeric mused. "What could cause Lord Stark to require knowledge on things long dead?" he paused. "I would say long dead if they ever existed, but if they never existed what is the purpose of the Wall?"
Father looked at him with what seemed to be surprise and then no little thought. "An excellent point Domeric. All too often we forget the Wall." He paused and then shrugged. "Well, no matter. I am having the required tomes assembled. You will leave as soon as possible. House Bolton will assist Lord Stark on this matter. And when you are at Winterfell you must ask what prompted this inspection of the past. You should take your smaller harp. They say that Sansa Stark is quite the beauty."
He looked at his father affectionately but with a little wryness to his smile. "You would have me woo her, Father? A Bolton courting a Stark?"
Father looked back at him, his small eyes giving nothing away. "A Bolton always looks for any advantage. It is near time for you to marry anyway. You are my only trueborn son. The name of Bolton depends on you. I would have you happy, my son. At the very least see if Sansa Stark is worthy of a song."
Domeric smiled and then stood, bowed to his father and then left. Well, he had many miles ahead of him. His brother would doubtless still be in the Weeping Water when he returned.