Chapter 17
The days in Barrowton settled into a rhythm of training, exploration, and quiet contemplation, but this time with an underlying tension Cregan had not noticed in his first weeks at Barrowhall. He spent mornings in the training yard with Beron, their sparring matches becoming almost a spectacle to watch, and Domeric was always close by, always analyzing and observing their every move.
He learned the lay of the land alongside Lord Dustin, riding through the fields, talking to the smallfolk, and learning the day-to-day challenges that they had to overcome, while being accompanied by Domeric, who always seemed to try to avoid those kinds of social gatherings. He also started to become more involved with the different trading routes of the area, understanding the importance of the small and often forgotten villages that kept the flow of goods going, and Domeric was always one step behind, just looking at everything with an almost unreadable expression.
One particularly crisp morning, Lord Dustin announced a change in their routine, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "We will be riding to the Rills," he said, his voice booming across the training yard. "Lady Barbrey's family is eager to show off their horse breeding skills, and I figure you need a bit of a break from our training methods, young Stark."
The journey to the Rills was not only a change in scenery, but also a journey into Domeric's past, as it was his mother's house, even though they were Boltons, Domeric's mother, like Barbrey, was a Ryswell. The landscape around them transitioned from the fertile fields of the Barrowlands to the open, rolling hills where the Ryswell's bred their horses. The conversations changed from talk of food and trade, to talk about his family, the dark reputation of his house and the Dreadfort.
"I have never really felt like I belonged," Domeric said, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his voice now laced with the faintest hint of bitterness.
Cregan nodded, a mutual understanding forming between them. "Your mother?" he asked, his voice gentle.
Domeric sighed, his gaze softening with sadness. "She was a Ryswell," he said, "Lady Barbrey's sister. I do not remember her. And my father…" he paused, his jaw clenching slightly, "My father never speaks of her."
Cregan remained silent for a moment, and then he started talking about his own mother,Ashara Dayne. How she was, how he wished he could have met her, and how he wished that he knew more of her, while avoiding all mentions of his father's grief, and her complicated situation with the rebellion. Domeric listened carefully, his eyes showing a faint glimmer of understanding, and Cregan could see, for the first time, how similar he was to himself.
The Rills themselves were a sprawling estate, with vast fields of horses grazing peacefully, and where the grey stone buildings felt both ancient and practical. The Ryswells themselves were a stark contrast to the Dustins, their manners more reserved, their smiles less genuine, and their eyes always watchful, but to Cregan they all seemed like they didn't like the Starks too much.
Lord Rodrik Ryswell, a man of few words, greeted them with a formal nod, his eyes sharp and assessing. He was polite, but there was a sense of calculation in his gaze that Cregan did not like. Rodrik's son, Roger, a proud man with a haughty demeanor, was even less welcoming, his polite greetings always lacking any real warmth. His other son, Rickard, was a kind, shy and curious boy. He seemed more open to talk with them, and was eager to show them the horses of the Rills, as he seemed to be more interested in their nature than in the breeding process.
Cregan spent most of his time with the stablehands, observing their techniques, asking questions about their methods, and understanding the work that went into raising such fine steeds. He carefully studied their breeding programs, their training techniques, and their unique knowledge of horses, and how they could be improved.
One afternoon, as he was observing a stablehand working with a young colt, he felt a presence beside him. He looked up to see Domeric, his expression thoughtful, his gaze fixed on the horse. "Do you like them?" Cregan asked, his voice soft.
Domeric nodded, his gaze never leaving the foal. "They are beautiful," he said, his voice quiet. "I have always preferred music, or the company of books, but I can see why you appreciate these beasts." He paused and then, he added with a tone that made Cregan shift uncomfortably, "Though, for a house that is known for their quarrelsomeness, that connection to horses seems a bit… out of place."
"There's something to be admired in the power of their muscles, and their movements. Their strength comes from within," Cregan replied, trying to make him understand, and trying to avoid his last remark. "It is a different kind of power, I believe. And they are good to spend time with. Sometimes, you do not need words to communicate."
"My mother always enjoyed horses, she would always say that you could see a persons true nature when they were around them," Domeric said, his voice barely a whisper, as he looked down. "She was a kind woman. And I always found that connection to the horses to be… my last tie to her memory."
Cregan nodded, a mutual understanding passing between them. They were both sons of lost mothers, both in search of answers, both in search of a path forward, but one was still tied to the reputation of a house, known for their cruelty. And Cregan was starting to question, if that was what his future was supposed to be.
As they rode away from the Rills, Cregan turned to his friend, his gaze thoughtful. "Tell me more about your family, Domeric," he asked, his voice soft. "And tell me about the Boltons."
Domeric nodded, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. And so, as they rode back to Barrowton, Domeric told Cregan stories of his mother, of his life at the Dreadfort, of his complicated relationship with his father, and the complicated and violent history of his house. He made no effort in hiding the cruelty, the torture, and the flayings, and he made no effort in hiding the fact that he hated it. He may be a Bolton by name, but that was nothing but a cruel joke of the Gods.
And as they did, Cregan felt a mix of horror and pity, the knowledge that he may have judged Domeric too harshly, and that sometimes, there may be more to someone than their name. But the stories of the Boltons were haunting. He wondered, how such cruelty could come to be, and if he himself would ever be able to be as ruthless as they were. He was starting to see, that maybe his father was right. And that he was not suited to be a leader, that the cruelty of the world was something that he could never embrace.
His journey had taken him to new places, shown him new faces, and revealed new truths that he had never expected. And he was still a little conflicted, in what direction to go.
