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The Dreadfort was a quiet place. There was little that disturbed the stagnant silence which clung to the keep’s plaid gray walls, for the servants were always cautious not to disturb their lord. Roose Bolton liked his quiet, after all.
The Lady of the Dreadfort was accustomed to the silence as well.
But today, both of them were nowhere to be found in the Dreadfort’s silent halls. Instead they stood in the courtyard, watching as in the distance a half-dozen riders atop horses drew closer and closer.
When the horses and their riders finally arrived in the courtyard, the pair walked to the young man bearing Bolton colors on his cloak. His companions took to the stables, leaving the three of them alone.
Domeric Bolton dismounted from his steed and walked over to his parents, taking Roose Bolton’s hands into his own.
“Father,” Domeric said warmly. Domeric’s warm gray eyes met the watery blue gaze of Roose Bolton, and after a moment Roose nodded.
“My son. It is good to see you again.” Roose was silent for a moment, and then added, “I hope your time as a squire for Lord Manderly has benefited you.”
The pair then stood awkwardly. Domeric loved his father, but Roose Bolton was not a man prone to displays of affection. After a few beats of silence, Domeric turned to the woman at Roose’s side.
“Mother,” he said, pulling the woman into a tight embrace. “I have missed you.”
Lyanna Stark nodded and pressed a kiss to her son’s cheek. “I missed you too, Domeric.”
~~~
The following day, Domeric and Lyanna went out on a ride through the lands near the Dreadfort. It was a sunny day, but this far north the ground was always covered in snow, in white piles that cloaked the landscape and silenced the sounds of the woods.
For a long time the pair of them rode side by side, trading stories of what had gone on in White Harbor and the Dreadfort during their time apart. Domeric told Lyanna about the various things he had done as Lord Manderly’s squire, everything from his time in the training yard to his studies to his time in the Snowy Sept.
Lyanna’s stories were less interesting. The Boltons ruled over a quiet land and a quiet people, after all. But that was fine by Lyanna; it gave her more time to listen to Domeric speak. She had missed his voice.
Eventually the pair came to rest in a clearing. Domeric built a small fire and Lyanna fished a bottle of brandy and a fur pelt out of the pack on her horse’s saddle. Then the two sat down on a log and relaxed, letting the quiet murmurs of the forest fill the air.
Lyanna took the time to study her son. He was older and his frame more defined than when he had last been in the Dreadfort. Domeric’s face was a blend of Stark and Bolton features. He had Lyanna’s eyes, but the crook of his nose, the black-brown of his hair, the emotionless expression that rested on his face when he was in thought—that was all Roose.
(Lyanna’s greatest fear was that in his heart, Domeric was more Roose’s than he was her’s.)
“So,” Lyanna finally said. “ Ser Domeric Bolton now, eh?”
Domeric blushed, both abashed and proud. “Lord Manderly said I had proven myself worthy of being knighted.” There was no better rider in all of the North than him, in Domeric’s estimation. And he was skilled with the sword and lance as well. When the time had come, Lord Manderly had knighted Domeric without a second thought.
“I am proud of you,” Lyanna said. “To be given your spurs is no small feat. And you have made me the mother of a knight—I’m sure my path to heaven will be a little easier now.”
Domeric smiled at that. “I am happy to have won them.” He hesitated, and then took a sip from the bottle of brandy. “You know, in White Harbor, there were rumors about you.” Domeric knew some things about his mother’s past, but rumors blended fact with lurid fiction. He wanted the truth.
Lyanna rolled her eyes. “Oh? What were they? Complimentary, I hope. Or do they still recount my time as the King’s whore—”
“Mother!”
Lyanna chuckled and reached for the bottle. “It’s nothing new to me. I lived in King’s Landing for five years as His Grace’s paramour, Dom.” She took a draught and stared into the fire. “I was the most valuable whore in the Seven Kingdoms, but a whore nonetheless.”
Domeric shook his head. “You’re no whore,” he insisted. He had seen whores in White Harbor, and they were a far cry from the composed woman before him, the woman who had given him life. “It doesn’t matter what happened between you and the king.”
Lyanna shrugged. “At first it was in the aim of fulfilling some noble prophecy. I was to be the mother of a legendary prince, you know.” Lyanna rolled her eyes again. It is one thing to listen to such things, but Seven save me; for a time I believed them! “I was a girl lost in love and lust. Your grandfather was wiser than I. He took full advantage of the king’s folly. It won him the position of Hand for a half-decade.”
Lyanna let the memories of that time wash over her. She had been so unprepared for the politics and intrigue of the city, of the Red Keep. But I played my cards well. I did what I was told: I smiled and doted on Rhaegar during the day. I drank moon tea every night, in front of Queen Elia’s spies. Just as the good Queen had instructed. It had been a delicate balance, but one which had kept the peace and profited House Stark. But nothing good lasts forever.
“Then, one day the king’s goodbrother paid a visit to my manse, and I bought my life by spreading my legs for him too.”
That had been the end of it. She had been able to stave off Oberyn Martell’s wrath once, and Lyanna had no intention of repeating the experience. Nor was Rhaegar willing to provide for a faithless woman. Not that he was ever the most faithful of men , Lyanna thought wryly.
“After that, my time as a paramour of the king drew to a close. I returned to Winterfell with your grandfather.” It had been a difficult time. Her reputation and virtue were non-existent, and the list of potential husbands had shrunk to nearly nothing.
“And that is when you married Father?”
Lyanna nodded. “That was when your father proposed a match between himself and I.”
Marriages between Boltons and Starks were simply not done. In the past five thousand years of Northern history, only once had a Bolton bride wed a Stark man. And never, not once in the eight-thousand year old annals of House Stark had a Stark bride wed a Bolton. But Rickard had been both desperate and a little wary of Roose. Lyanna was to serve as the bond tying the Dreadfort to Winterfell, staving off for a generation or two the coming clash between the two greatest houses in the North. I played that role well, I think. “We wed quickly.”
“And were you happy?” Domeric asked.
“I knew what my options were. The Dreadfort is a mighty keep. Your father is a powerful man. Our house is second only to House Stark.”
Our house , Lyanna thought to herself. It’s the truth. The Dreadfort had made her into a Bolton, as ruthless as they came. The corpses of a miller’s wife and her babe buried in a shallow grave somewhere out in the frozen forests was proof of that.
“You look morose, Mother.”
Lyanna sighed. “Your father is… I am content with him, Dom. He has never beaten me. He raised you well.”
That’s not enough to be content , Domeric thought. To not be beaten, was that enough to make a marriage a successful one? He repeated his question aloud, and Lyanna shrugged.
“I am fine.” With a huff, she downed the rest of the brandy and stood up, staring at the pack on Domeric’s horse’s side. She could make out the shape of something in his pack. I’d recognize that anywhere. “Is that a harp, Dom?”
Domeric flushed, and walked over to the pack, taking out the small instrument. “It’s a traveling harp. In my time in White Harbor I learned a little about how to play it.”
Lyanna got up, the heat of the alcohol making her flush. “Play it. Something happy.” I’ve had enough melancholic songs for one life.
Domeric nodded, and struck a cheerful tune, the sort of thing one might hear in the cozy taverns of White Harbor on a winter night. It was a warm tune, something that covered you and shielded you from the cold of the outside world.
Lyanna nodded appreciatively and began to sway to the music. Then as the tune grew faster, she threw out her arms and spun in a circle, looking out at the woods as snow and tree turned into a blur around her.
Domeric watched as his mother spun in the snow, her arms extended out and her hands cast upwards, an uncharacteristic smile on her face. Domeric liked the look of a smile on his mother’s face. He tried to remember her smiling. There were a few times—my namedays, the time we went to Winterfell, the day Father gifted her a set of hunting leathers and a woman’s bow.
But those were precious few glimpses of joy on a face which so often bore a dull calmness, a placid contentedness and nothing more. At that moment, Domeric wanted nothing more than to see his mother smile forever.