DOMERIC
The Dreadfort's eastern tower held an austere beauty at dusk. Narrow windows captured the fading light, casting long shadows across stone floors worn smooth by centuries of Bolton footsteps. In the small study, Domeric had claimed as his own, candles burned with steady flames, their glow reflecting off the polished surface of the carved oak table where scrolls and leather-bound volumes were arranged carefully.
Shen Bao sat opposite him, his formal robes of emerald and black a stark contrast to the muted grays of the chamber. Over the past moon, the Yi Tish scholar's lessons had become an evening ritual, their conversations extending far beyond mere language instruction into the complex territory of imperial governance and Eastern philosophy.
"The Jade Emperor disrupted centuries of tradition," Shen Bao explained, his fingers tracing the characters he had written on the parchment between them. "Where previous emperors maintained extensive harems—dozens, sometimes hundreds of concubines—Emperor Tianlong took only one wife, elevated her as sole Empress, and has refused all concubines throughout his reign."
Domeric absorbed this, his pale eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. "A radical decision for such a traditional society," he observed. "Was there resistance?"
"Of course," Shen Bao acknowledged with the faintest hint of a smile. "But the Emperor had earned significant military victories before ascending the throne. Few were willing to challenge his personal decisions when his strategic mind had already proven so formidable."
Domeric tapped his fingers once against the table—a rare gesture of visible contemplation. "With only one wife," he asked carefully, "does that mean the children are all equal in rank?"
Shen Bao's posture straightened almost imperceptibly, a subtle but unmistakable shift that Domeric had learned to recognize as pride. "Equal in blood, yes. But precedence still matters. The first daughter of the Empress holds the rank of Princess Royal. Such titles are held for a lifetime and would only be elevated. If Crown Prince Xian becomes the emperor, both will become Grand Princesses. They will become Aunt Princess once their nephew sits on the throne the highest rank of a princess."
Domeric raised an eyebrow. "Is that... common?"
"It is but with Emperor Tianlong's reign, it is rare," the scholar replied, his tone carrying a reverence that transcended cultural boundaries. "In this reign, there are only two imperial daughters: the Princess Royal and Princess Ruolan."
The scholar continued speaking, elaborating on the implications of the Emperor's dynastic choices, but Domeric's mind had already seized on the critical detail. With practised subtlety, he opened the small leather-bound notebook he kept at hand during these sessions, his script neat and precise as he recorded: Princess Ruolan—unwed. Age-matched to Robb Stark.
He closed the book gently, though in his mind, pieces were falling into place with the speed and precision of a master harper's fingers across strings:
Ruyan is that daughter. The Princess Royal.
This marriage isn't a trade agreement.
Yi Ti placed their power into the North.
The implications expanded outward like ripples from a stone cast into still water. Not merely a foreign princess, but the Emperor's firstborn daughter by his only wife—a deliberate placement of dynastic significance into the heart of the North. The question that followed was both obvious and unsettling: what justified sending a Princess Royal beyond the empire's boundaries? What game required such an extraordinary sacrifice?
"You seem troubled, Lord Bolton," Shen Bao observed, interrupting Domeric's racing thoughts.
"Not troubled," Domeric replied smoothly. "Merely contemplating the parallels to our traditions. Northern houses tend toward more... straightforward succession practices."
Shen Bao inclined his head, accepting the deflection with diplomatic grace. "Indeed. Though I suspect House Bolton has maintained its position for eight thousand years through methods more sophisticated than mere straightforwardness."
"House Bolton endures," Domeric agreed, the familiar words carrying weight beyond their simple meaning. "Thank you for today's lesson, Master Shen. Perhaps we might discuss the practical applications of imperial diplomatic protocols tomorrow?"
The scholar recognized the polite dismissal and rose with fluid grace. "It would be my honour, Lord Bolton." He gathered his materials with practised efficiency, bowing slightly before departing.
Alone in the study, Domeric remained seated, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky visible through the narrow window. The North had welcomed a foreign princess—had celebrated her marriage to the Stark heir—without understanding her true significance. A Princess Royal, placed deliberately in Winterfell like a valuable piece on a cyvasse board.
The question remains, he thought, what game requires such a move? And what does it mean for the rest of us pieces?
The raven arrived three days later, bearing the mountain sigil of House Dustin. Domeric immediately recognized his aunt's personal seal—not the formal Dustin emblem used for official correspondence but the smaller, simpler mark Lady Barbrey reserved for family matters.
He broke the seal in the privacy of his chambers, unrolling the small parchment with care. The message was brief, the script precise:
Nephew,
The bastard you seek is no kin to peace. If you must see him, do not do so as a brother. Do so as a man prepared for inheritance.
Your loving aunt, Barbrey
Domeric read the message twice, then held it to the nearest candle, watching as the parchment blackened and curled into ash. His aunt's warnings were never idle nor explicit enough to constitute evidence should they fall into the wrong hands.
He moved to the window, looking out over the Dreadfort's inner courtyard where men-at-arms trained with methodical discipline. His father's words from months earlier returned to him, delivered with characteristic dispassion over a half-emptied cup of wine: "Bastards are nature's gamble—one either claims the seed or burns the field."
Roose Bolton had neither claimed nor burned. He had left Ramsay Snow at the mill on the Weeping Water—acknowledged through financial support but kept at a careful distance from the Dreadfort and its heir. It was an unusual choice for a man whose decisions typically fell to one extreme or the other.
Decision crystallized within Domeric with the clarity that had always been his greatest strength. He would go to the mill. He would see this Ramsay Snow with his own eyes. And he would judge for himself what manner of seed his father had left unclaimed.
The morning dawned cold and clear, the kind of autumn day that reminded Northerners that winter was no distant threat but an approaching certainty. Domeric rode his red roan stallion, with Steelshanks Walton following on a sturdy northern courser at a respectful distance. They had departed the Dreadfort at first light, dressed in simple riding clothes that marked them as minor nobility rather than the heir to House Bolton and his guard.
"We're being watched," Steelshanks observed quietly as they crested a slight rise overlooking the river valley. "Left ridge, behind the stand of pines."
Domeric nodded almost imperceptibly, having noted the observer himself moments earlier. "Local huntsman, most likely," he replied, though both men knew better. The lands surrounding the Dreadfort were too carefully monitored for any unauthorized presence to go unremarked.
They rode on, the miles passing beneath their horses' hooves with steady rhythm. The Weeping Water appeared and disappeared from view as the road wound through the rugged terrain, its surface glinting like polished steel beneath the bright morning sun.
"The mill lies just beyond that next rise," Steelshanks said as they approached a bend in the road. "What exactly do you hope to find there, my lord?"
"Knowledge," he answered finally. "There are some questions that can only be answered in person."
When the mill came into view, Domeric reined his horse to a stop. The structure stood on the riverbank, its water wheel turning with methodical purpose, driven by the current of the Weeping Water. Smoke rose from the stone chimney of the attached dwelling, suggesting occupation despite the absence of visible activity in the yard.
"Wait here," Domeric instructed, dismounting and handing his reins to Steelshanks. "I'll approach alone."
"My lord," Steelshanks began, his concern evident, "Lord Roose would expect me to—"
"Lord Roose is in White Harbour," Domeric interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. "And I would learn what I can without the intimidation of armed escort."
Recognizing the futility of further protest, Steelshanks nodded reluctantly. "I'll remain by the ford, my lord. Within sight of the mill."
Domeric approached on foot, his steps measured and silent on the snow-covered path. The absence of dogs struck him as unusual—most Northern households kept at least one hound for hunting and protection. The message he had sent ahead the previous evening had received a brief but courteous response, noting that "the dogs are often hunting with my son."
As he neared the mill house, he noted fresh tracks in the snow—a man's boots, larger than his own, moving between the mill and the small woodshed beside it. The door to the dwelling stood slightly ajar, and as he approached, the murmur of voices reached him in the still morning air.
An instinct born of years of careful observation made him slow his pace. He moved to the side of the path where the snow had been swept clear by the wind, reducing the sound of his footsteps to near silence. He paused beside the woodpile, still out of sight of the doorway but close enough now to distinguish words clearly.
"—must understand what it means if he returns," a woman's voice was saying, her tone hushed but intense. "If your father has returned the heir, you cannot act rashly."
"If he returns, I vanish," replied a male voice—younger but with an edge that reminded Domeric uncomfortably of his father's controlled tone. "If he vanishes, I return. That's always been the arrangement, hasn't it?"
Domeric felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. He remained perfectly still, his breathing controlled and silent as he listened.
"Your father would never approve of—"
"My father," the young man interrupted, his words bitterly emphasised, "doesn't need to approve. He only needs to accept what happens when it's done."
The woman's voice lowered further, forcing Domeric to strain to hear. "The last time you spoke this way, you disappeared for nearly a moon. Don't forget who protected you when that miller's daughter—"
"I haven't forgotten," the young man—Ramsay—answered. "Just as I haven't forgotten what I am: a Snow. Not a Bolton. Not unless something changes."
A pause, then: "You've already decided, haven't you?"
"It's simple," Ramsay replied, his voice dropping to a tone that was somehow more frightening for its calm precision. "The dogs know the scent now. They'll follow the command when it's given. A hunting accident, perhaps. Or poison in his wine if the opportunity presents itself. The body needn't be found—or if it is, it won't be recognizable."
Domeric heard the unmistakable sound of his death being planned with the casual deliberation of a hunter discussing prey. He backed away from the millhouse with practised silence, his movements as fluid and controlled as his harp playing. Each step was placed with deliberate care, and each breath was measured to make no sound.
Only when he had reached the treeline did he turn and walk with normal stride toward where Steelshanks waited with the horses.
"We're leaving," he said, his voice betraying none of the cold clarity that had crystallized within him.
Steelshanks raised an eyebrow but asked no questions, following Domeric's lead as they rode away from the mill at a pace just short of urgency. They were nearly a mile distant before either man spoke.
"Did you find what you were looking for, my lord?" Steelshanks asked finally.
Domeric's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, his expression revealing nothing of the calculations racing through his mind. "I found what was there to be found," he replied. "Sometimes knowledge comes in unexpected forms."
The Dreadfort received them in silence, its ancient walls standing stark against the afternoon sky. Domeric spent the remaining daylight hours in routine activities—training in the yard, reviewing household accounts, dining with the castle steward—his demeanor betraying nothing of the morning's revelations.
Only when night had fallen, and the castle had grown quiet did he retire to his private chambers, barring the door behind him? He lit a single candle, its flame casting long shadows across the stone walls as he unlocked the small chest where he kept his most private journals.
The leather-bound book opened to reveal pages of neat script—observations, calculations, and questions recorded in Domeric's precise hand. He turned to a fresh page, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote with steady strokes:
The Princess Royal is married into the North.
On the facing page, separated by design but forever linked in his mind, he added a second observation:
My bastard brother has planned my death.
He closed the book carefully, returning it to its locked chest before moving to stand by the window. Outside, the moon cast silver light across the Dreadfort's battlements, transforming the familiar landscape into something alien and uncertain.
Two revelations in a single day, each changing the shape of his understanding of the world. The North had unknowingly welcomed the highest-ranking imperial princess of Yi Ti. And Domeric himself had unknowingly lived beneath the shadow of a knife that bore his name.
Knowledge, his father had always taught him, was the foundation of power. But some knowledge carried a weight that transformed the bearer.
Domeric Bolton had begun the day a curious heir seeking understanding.
He ended it a man calculating survival.