Chapter Text
“I’m going to tear out his entrails, and string them up in a line. Low to the ground, so my bitches can devour the sausages all the way to their source!” Merik raged, uncharacteristically passionate.
Podrick regarded him calmly, unmoved by his tirade, save to raise both brows incredulously.
“For a moment then, I do believe your flesh was inhabited by the spirit of your father,” he said, “It was almost as if he was standing right across from me. You do look so very like him, when you are worked up into a frenzy.”
He paused, as if considering how often Merik resembled his father, when most that knew her told Merik he looked the image of his long-dead mother.
“Father would not have stood for this,” Merik paused in his pacing to stand, red-faced, fists clenching and unclenching reflectively. He wanted to wrap them around Hugo Tuttle’s throat.
“No indeed,” Podrick murmured, looking deep into the fire. For a moment, his face was grief-stricken, before he visibly shook off his ennui.
“What would Father have done?” asked Merik pitifully. He was woefully unprepared for situations such as these.
His parents had prepared him for the politics of the North, and taught him how to maintain their trading negotiations with the Iron Islands and the Reach. He had never been prepared for a sandal such as this to originate from his own House. Being Lord of the Redbolt was shaping up to be far more taxing than he had anticipated.
“We would not be having this conversation, were your Father still with us,” said Pod stoically, “For if he was, the man in question would already be dead.”
“I should visit Tuttle in the dungeons tonight, and see he never leaves them,” Merik decided, “If I am to retain any honour, I cannot let this slight against my household go unpunished.”
Pod clucked his tongue, unimpressed by Merik’s bravado. Though Merik was a man long-wedded, with children of age, Pod never ceased to make him feel a boy again when he found Merik's judgement to be lacking.
“You disapprove?” he asked, because at heart he was a soft boy, desperate for Pod’s approval.
“He did not rape her,” Pod reminded him, “As she has made perfectly clear, quite vocally. You will break her heart if you kill him, and women can be brutal in their contempt. She may never forgive you.”
Merik rubbed the crinkle of his furrowed temple, and once again cursed his lot, to be a man with two heirs. He had been invited to Winterfell for the harvest festival, as was his right, as the Lord of the Redbolt. He brought his household to the North's largest hurrah before winter, and was duly afforded all the respect of his station. But the Redbolt was not his only source of power. Through his marriage to Ingrid, and Uncle Dom’s acceptance of Merik as his heir, they stood in line to inherit the Dreadfort upon his death.
A man could not hope to manage two castles so far from one another, without leaving one to a castellan, and probably letting it fall into ruin. Merik would not allow such a thing to happen to either of his boyhood homes. The Dreadfort was the larger, more prestigious castle, and the Bolton man who lorded over it had the lineage of a line of unbroken kings and lords to draw upon. But he would be a fool if he did not retain control of Sea Dragon Harbour. It was the North’s second ever city, and a growing hubbub of innovation and artistic culture.
They had devised a cunning plan to perpetuate the good fortune of his line. Merik had decided to settle the Redbolt upon his daughter at his death, leaving his son to inherit the more prestigious lordship of the Dreadfort. That way, Merik could advance to the Dreadfort upon his uncle’s death, whilst knowing the Redbolt was in good hands.
Technically, Pod was still its lord. But he had ceded control to Merik some five years past, to give him the opportunity to flourish as a leader, whilst still being able to lean on the guidance of his guardian. It had taken some time for the Sea Dragon lords to stop addressing their woes to Pod, but eventually they had began to have confidence Merik’s judgement. And he had learnt to make decisions, without always looking to Pod and their maester for advice beforehand. Merik had never been tested quite like this before, however.
He scrubbed a calloused palm over his beard scruff and let out a moan of agitation.
“What am I to do?” he groaned, “Barba is already the most stubborn girl I have ever met. And she will punish me until I am bare bones in the ground, if I slight her.”
Pod’s lips held the hint of a smile, as though he was satisfied to see his surrogate son face similar battles in child-rearing as he had overcome himself.
“She has expressed a willingness to marry the man,” said Pod mildly.
Merik only narrowly resisted the urge to swipe his arm along the desk, smashing all the contents to the floor.
“And reward that ruffian, for defiling my daughter?” he howled instead.
“Your father defiled me a thousand times, and we were never married,” Pod pointed out gleefully.
Merik let out a choking sound like a dying cat, gagging theatrically.
“That is - entirely - beside the point,” he wheezed, once he caught his breath, looking faintly green.
“Not entirely,” Pod countered. “Many a couple take liberties before they are wed. Announce the match as though it was settled upon some time ago, and the sting of their actions is lessened somewhat.”
“None here would believe it, knowing how they were caught.”
Pod shrugged, unconcerned with the thoughts of others. “They need not believe it. It needs only to be recorded as such, in the written declarations of this time, and history will remember that record as truth.”
Merik sighed, but he could not deny that cynical take on Westerosi politics was likely the correct one.
“She was destined for greater than this,” he lamented, seating himself heavily at the small table where Pod had calmly remained during his tirade.
Pod commiserated with him over Barba’s lost fortune, for she could have had a second son from a great house; a Karstark or Umber, a Riverlands man or even a man from the many cadet branches of House Stark. Instead she had chosen to settle for a Tuttle.
“It is not so very low a match, anymore,” Pod reminded him softly, “They are no longer lowly pig-farmers and stable masters. The Tuttles oversaw the King’s goldmines after the war, and made quite a fortune squirreling away gold and silver.”
“Still, they come from lowly stock, and she is so pretty, and an heiress. She could have married a second son from a Great House.”
“I think she knows that,” Pod said gently, softening the blow, “In fact, I am sure of it.”
“Then why-”
“It is not yet public knowledge, that you intend for Barba to be the heir to the Redbolt,” explained Pod, “When it is, she will have no end of suitors, who care not one whit for the girl in question, only that they might be the lord of their own keep someday. Many second, third and fourth sons would kill their brothers for their father’s lands. Do you believe they would treat Barba well, once they held her fortune in their hands?”
Miserable to picture his daughter mistreated and melancholy, Merik shook his head sadly.
“So before she could be descended upon by greedy men she could never trust," Pod continued quietly, “I think Barba set out to find a kind young man. No other man’s heir, that she could trust with her happiness, as well as her father’s castle.”
Merik suddenly felt very foolish, for needing to be spoon-fed the reasoning behind his daughter’s bold actions, now that it had been made so clear.
“Perhaps I owe her an apology,” he whispered, “I should have found her a kindly young man, before any rumours of her good fortune could circulate.”
“Perhaps,” Pod agreed, “But you are a busy man, as are all lords who command men, and she understands you did not need this extra burden. So she took it upon herself, and I think you will not find her choice wanting, once you come to learn more about his character.”
Merik grumbled, unsure about that. Whilst he had faith in his daughter, he was not sure he would ever be able to befriend the man that had lain with her without asking for her hand first. Pod placed an arm about his shoulders, and drew him close.
“Trust in your daughter’s judgement,” he said, “Hugo Tuttle might not be the man you would have chosen, but he is the man you must now work with. The pieces have been set upon the board, it is your duty to arrange them to your satisfaction.”
Merik pondered that for a pregnant moment.
“There is much he will probably agree to, for the privilege of escaping the dungeons as a betrothed man,” Merik supposed, the beginnings of a satisfied smirk dancing its way onto his face. He could feel a plan beginning to hatch.
“Yes indeed,” Pod agreed, tugging him forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “I’m sure you will think of some way to use this opportunity to your fullest advantage, son.”
“I’ll let you know what I can arrange,” Merik agreed, snuggling into the much-adored embrace of the only parent that remained to him.