I've commented an image for Rodrik Stark in the auxiliary chapter if yall want to see what he looks like.
[On the road nearing Winterfell, 4th moon, 295AC]
The chill of the North seeped into Domeric's bones, but he scarcely noticed it. His gaze was fixed forward, up the winding road to where Winterfell's massive walls loomed like a sleeping giant roused from some ancient slumber. Grey as a storm tide and just as inexorable, the seat of the Kings of Winter and now the Lords of the North held dominion over the horizon, a brooding citadel of stone and ice, crowned with wisps of smoke from countless hearths.
Beside him, Rodrik Stark urged his gelding ahead, unable to mask the excitement that lit his sharp sea green eyes. Domeric allowed himself a small smile. It was good to see his friend like this, eager, alive. He could not help but feel a pang of envy, too. No such homecoming awaited him.
Their party was small, only a dozen men in the Bolton and White Harbor Stark livery, cloaks snapping in the sharp wind. Domeric wore his father's colors, pink and red, but he rode at Rodrik's side all the same, his cloak pinned with a modest brooch of a flayed man, worn more from duty than from pride.
As they neared the ancient gates, two figures awaited them. One he recognized immediately, Ser Torrhen Stark, Rodrik's father, the beginnings of grey appearing in his beard, but iron-strong, with a heavy brow and deep-set eyes. The other needed no introduction: Lord Alaric Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, whose mere presence seemed to weigh upon the very air.
Rodrik all but threw himself from the saddle, embracing his father fiercely. Torrhen chuckled, rough and warm, clapping his son's back as if he meant to drive the air from his lungs.
"You've grown another inch, boy," Torrhen rumbled.
"That or you've shrunk in your old age, Father," Rodrik quipped, laughing.
"Im only 3 and 30, you brat." Ser Torrhen said, playfully smacking his son on the head.
Domeric dismounted more carefully, his legs stiff from the long ride. He watched as Rodrik grasped Lord Alaric's forearm in the old Northern fashion. Alaric returned the gesture with rare, open warmth, clasping Rodrik's arm and clapping his shoulder.
"Good to have you home, Rodrik," Alaric said, voice low and steady. The words were plain, but the feeling behind them was not.
When the Starks had finished their greetings, Lord Alaric turned his gaze upon Domeric.
It felt as though a glacier had shifted its full weight upon him.
The Lord of Winterfell did not stare; he studied. His pale grey eyes swept over Domeric with a cold precision, as if stripping him bare, laying his soul open to the bone. In that silent inspection, Domeric felt every cruelty his father had ever committed, every whispered tale of Dreadfort treachery, clinging to him like a second skin.
He fought the urge to straighten his back further or glance away.
Then, after a long moment, Alaric inclined his head slightly.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Domeric of House Bolton," he said.
"My lord," Domeric answered smoothly, bowing his head with a courtly grace born of the Vale's tutelage. "Your hospitality honors me."
Ser Torrhen gave him a more open smile, less weighed by duty. "You are welcome here, lad. A friend of Rodrik's is a friend to us all."
The tension bled from Domeric's shoulders, a breath he had not realized he was holding slipping free.
They passed through the gates together, the heavy portcullis groaning above as Winterfell swallowed them whole.
[The Next Day, Winterfell]
The next morning found Domeric seated in the Great Hall, a trencher of bread and ham before him, breaking his fast amidst the wild cacophony of Stark scions and their kin.
He sat beside Rodrik, who was attacking his food with the enthusiasm only a young man could muster. Across from them, several younger Starks leaned forward, eyeing Domeric with a mixture of curiosity and caution. He caught more than one sidelong glance thrown his way.
He could hardly blame them.
He had Roose Bolton to thank for that, no doubt. His father's reputation had crossed every river and mountain in the North, as immutable as the cold.
Roddy Dustin was the first to break the uneasy quiet, his voice bright with boyish bravado. "Is it true you saw the knights of the Vale ride against the banners of the Bloody Gate?" he demanded, crumbs flying from his mouth.
Before Domeric could answer, one of the Bastard twins of High Hill, Edric Snow, the older by a heartbeat, leaned in eagerly. "Did you see any duels? Any knights in shining armor, like in the songs?"
Elric, his brother, snickered. "Or were they all fat old men with bad knees?"
The table broke into laughter. Domeric smiled easily, sipping from his cup of watered wine before replying.
"I saw knights aplenty," he said, voice smooth. "Some rode like the wind and fought with blades of lightning. Others..." He allowed the words to trail off meaningfully, drawing another round of laughter.
Rodrik nudged him beneath the table, grinning. "Tell them about the tourney at Runestone."
"Aye, tell us!" Roddy urged.
Domeric obliged, spinning a tale of lances splintered and shields shattered, of banners bright as jewels and steeds caparisoned in cloth-of-gold. His audience hung upon every word, but he did not miss the older gaze that lingered across the hall.
Lord Alaric sat at the high table, speaking quietly with Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Yet even amidst his duties, Alaric's cold grey eyes drifted often to Domeric, weighing, measuring.
It was a test, Domeric knew. One, he dared not fail.
[The Main Courtyard of Winterfell]
Later that day, Domeric found himself beneath the sprawling canopy of the godswood's outer edge, seated cross-legged beneath a leafless ash tree. The air smelled of earth and frost, the distant hush of the heart tree's red leaves whispering like spirits.
He plucked the first few notes from his harp, the sound light and clean. Before long, a small audience had gathered, girls bundled in cloaks against the chill, their cheeks flushed with cold and delight.
Sansa Stark sat nearest, her blue eyes wide and shining. Beside her were Lyarra Stark, brown-haired and merry, and Alysanne Stark of White Harbor, laughing behind her gloved hand. Lysa Dustin listened raptly, and even Alys Karstark, eldest among them, deigned to stand nearby, though her attention seemed less on Domeric and more upon the training men across the yard.
Or rather, one man-to be in particular, Alaric.
Domeric smiled to himself and let the music swell, the harp's high voice filling the crisp air.
Across the yard, the clash of steel against steel rang out. Domeric's gaze strayed from the strings, drawn to the training yard where boys and men alike honed their craft.
Lord Alaric himself oversaw the exercises, a sword belted at his hip, his cloak rippling in the breeze like a living thing. Around him, a pack of young wolves fought and bled: Robb Stark, Rickard Stark, Jon Snow, Dorren Snow, the twins Edric and Elric Snow, Roddy Dustin, Osric Stark of High Hill, and Harlon Stark of White Harbor.
Each boy bore the lean, sharp look of winter-born stock, strong of arm and keen of eye.
Nearby, the elder lads, Torrhen Karstark and the Umber brothers, Smalljon and Derrick, trained with the men of the Greycloaks, Lord Alaric's personal retinue.
The Greycloaks moved differently than household guards or petty soldiers. They fought like wolves, disciplined, silent, lethal. It was a curious thing, to see a standing retinue in the North, where most lords called only on levies.
Another of Alaric Stark's reforms, Domeric thought, admiration threading through the observation.
"You play beautifully," a soft voice interrupted.
He turned to find Lady Sansa standing closer now, her hands clasped in front of her.
"My lady," Domeric said, bowing his head.
"Is it true that in the Vale, the halls are filled with singers and bards?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"There are many who make their living from song," Domeric answered. "In the Eyrie, music echoes from the very stones."
She sighed wistfully. "I should like to hear it someday."
He smiled. "Perhaps you shall. I would gladly show it to you."
Behind her, Lyarra and Alysanne tittered, and even Lysa Dustin nudged Sansa with a knowing look. Sansa's cheeks flushed pink, but she lifted her chin, proud and proper as any lady of the North.
They spoke then of the Vale, of the tourneys and the courts, of falconers and mountain passes and the gods carved into the living stone. For a time, Domeric forgot the wary stares, the cold calculations, and the heavy legacy of his House.
For a time, he was simply a boy– no, a man with a harp, basking in the simple warmth of a northern day.
But when he looked back across the yard, Lord Alaric's gaze met his once more.
And Domeric knew:
The Wolf of Winterfell was still watching.
Still judging.
And the true test had only just begun.
A soft thud interrupted Domeric's moment of thought, a cold splatter breaking across his shoulder and cloak. Snow clung to his dark wool, flaking and melting along the seams. A snowball.
Domeric raised his brow and slowly turned his head. Laughter echoed across the courtyard as the group of boys near the training yard began to feign innocence, but their poorly hidden smirks betrayed the culprit. It had been a strong throw, too, surely one of the older boys. Perhaps Jon Snow or Roddy Dustin.
Instead of reacting with anger, Domeric calmly brushed the snow from his shoulder, his fingers steady. He straightened the collar of his cloak, adjusted his gloves, and returned to tuning his harp, seemingly unmoved. His restraint was deliberate, learned from years of navigating the precarious moods of his father and the chill silences of the Dreadfort.
That alone seemed to give the other boys pause.
"Too composed by half," Roddy Dustin muttered, only half-joking.
"He's a Bolton. Maybe they freeze the rage inside 'em," Elric Snow added, grinning. "Like an old corpse under the frost."
The teasing was meant in jest, but Robb Stark stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of a boy who had seen a challenge. The wind tousled his auburn curls as he grinned at Domeric, his young lord's pride gleaming in his grey eyes.
"You took that well, Bolton," Robb said, crossing the distance with his practice sword in hand. "But let's see how you take steel. A bout?"
Domeric stood slowly, setting his harp aside with care. His breath curled visibly in the cold air. He regarded Robb for a moment, broad-shouldered for his age, burning with the eagerness of youth. He was a Stark trueborn through and through, save for the coloring at least.
A duel, then. A test. Not just of arms, but of who Domeric Bolton truly was.
"As you wish, Lord Robb," Domeric replied with a slight bow of his head. "Shall we use practice swords or blunted steel?"
"Practice for now," Robb said, bouncing lightly on his heels, his grin widening. "Don't want to send you back to the Dreadfort bruised too badly."
The others laughed and cheered, parting to give them space as Domeric stepped forward. Rodrik tossed him a wooden sword, heavy, balanced, and he caught it with ease, testing the grip.
They circled each other in the snow-packed yard, the ring of boys shouting encouragement. Alaric Stark, now resting near a wooden post, looked on with an unreadable expression.
Robb came on fast, slashing with the overzealousness of someone used to overpowering his foes. Domeric blocked the blow with a deft pivot, letting the force slide off the angle of his blade.
Another strike, then a feint, and Robb lunged. Domeric stepped aside, brought his hilt to Robb's ribs, and tapped lightly. A point.
The crowd howled.
"Too easy!" Roddy called. "You'll have to do better than that, Robb!"
Robb flushed, his grin fading as determination took hold. He came again, more measured this time. The bout quickened, their wooden swords cracking together, boots crunching in the snow. Domeric yielded ground like flowing water, reading Robb's footwork, watching his hips for every move.
Robb managed to graze his shoulder with a sharp arc. Domeric answered with a clean sweep to Robb's thigh.
Two points apiece. The boys shouted, stamping and clapping in the chill air.
But when Robb charged again, Domeric spun behind him, locked his arm, and placed the wooden blade to the back of Robb's neck.
"Yield."
Robb panted, frustration flashing across his face, but he smiled after a moment and stepped back. "Yield. Gods, you're quick."
"You're strong," Domeric said, offering his hand. Robb took it.
"We'll have to go again," Robb grinned. "I won't be so easy next time."
Alaric clapped once from the sidelines, slow and deliberate.
"Well met, both of you," he said. "Domeric. You fight like you mean to remain. That is good."
Domeric nodded, hiding the warmth that rose in his chest at the rare praise.
[The next day]
The next morning, the frost had deepened. Windows were rimed with white, and the chill crept through the stones of Winterfell like a second skin. Domeric sat in the Great Hall once more, at a lower table beside Rodrik. The hall bustled with the Starks and their many words, boys jostling, voices rising, laughter bounding like hounds through a hunt.
Domeric had grown used to it. Almost.
The serving girls brought thick oat porridge with honey and dried apples, alongside crusty bread and small slabs of mutton. Rodrik dunked his bread with cheerful abandon, talking with Edric and Elric Snow, who were swapping outrageous stories about a bear that had apparently fought one of the Greycloaks.
Roddy Dustin leaned across the table, his freckled face bright. "Is it true they have silk banners for every Bolton soldier? Even the levies?"
"No," Domeric said, suppressing a smile. "Only for the men sworn to my father's personal guard."
"Do they really keep hearts in jars at the Dreadfort?" Elric asked with a mischievous glint.
Domeric met his gaze. "Only the ones that lie."
The boys laughed, though Rodrik gave him a sidelong glance. He knew Domeric was being playful, mostly.
Domeric looked up from his cup of cider and caught Alaric Stark's eye again. The Lord of Winterfell was seated at the high table, speaking with Benjen Stark and Ser Harald, but his gaze had drifted. His grey eyes rested on Domeric with that same slow-burning scrutiny.
He still measures me, Domeric thought. As if watching for some sign. Some flaw. Some crack in the stone.
And yet… not unkind.
He forced himself to focus on his meal. Rodrik clapped his shoulder.
"Ignore him, my cousin is ever the wolf. He watches everyone."
Giving him a curt nod, Domeric went back to his meal, wondering about his future.