DOMERIC
Lord Roose Bolton's solar occupied the highest chamber in the Dreadfort's eastern tower. Unlike the rest of the ancient fortress, where torches and braziers cast wild shadows across the stone walls, this room was lit by carefully placed candles. Their flames were shielded from drafts by glass cylinders that maintained a steady, unwavering light.
Domeric had always found it fitting. His father despised disorder in all its forms.
He stood before the hearth, waiting as Roose finished reading the ledger before him. The quill in his father's hand moved with methodical precision, noting figures in a script so neat it appeared almost mechanical. Though Roose had returned from King's Landing only yesterday, he had already immersed himself in the estate's accounts, reviewing the stewardship of his heir with characteristic thoroughness.
Three minutes passed in complete silence. Domeric remained perfectly still, neither shifting his weight nor clearing his throat. Patience was a weapon in House Bolton—one he had mastered long before his time in the Vale.
When Roose finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost requiring one to strain to hear it. A deliberate choice, Domeric had always known. Men who must lean closer to listen are men already bending to your will.
"The Karstark timber payments have increased," Roose observed, not looking up from the ledger. "Explain."
"I negotiated a restructuring of the debt," Domeric replied, his own voice measured and calm.
Roose made a small mark on the page. "And the matter of the eastern boundary dispute?"
"Resolved in our favor. The village headman has acknowledged Bolton authority, and their taxes will begin with the winter harvest."
Another careful mark. Another moment of silence. The scratching of the quill against parchment was the only sound in the room.
Domeric watched his father with the untroubled patience of a hunting falcon. Beneath his calm exterior, however, his mind continued its precise calculations. This discussion of estate management was critical, but only one piece in the larger game he was positioning himself for.
"You've kept the Dreadfort in order," Roose said finally, closing the ledger and setting it aside. He looked up, his pale eyes meeting his son's with dispassionate assessment. "Though I'm told you've spent considerable time with the Yi Tish scholar."
"Master Shen has been most instructive," Domeric replied. "His knowledge of Eastern governance systems offers valuable insights."
Roose's expression remained unchanged, but Domeric detected the faintest shift in his posture—the subtle tensing that indicated heightened interest. "And what insights has Master Shen provided that warrant the heir to the Dreadfort spending his evenings in academic pursuit?"
The question was perfectly crafted: not a direct criticism, but a test of justification. Domeric had anticipated it.
"Knowledge of the imperial system has clarified Princess Ruyan's position," he said carefully. "Princess Ruyan is no mere consort. She's the lever moving Winterfell's future—and those watching closely have begun to feel it."
Roose's voice remained quiet. "I wondered when you'd bring her up."
"Her status places her within the line of imperial representation. The kind that's never sent across oceans unless something is shifting." Domeric's tone remained neutral. "The scholar didn't say it directly. He didn't need to."
"And you find this relevant to Bolton interests because...?" Roose let the question hang, his pale eyes fixed on his son.
"The North's future will pass through Winterfell," Domeric answered with quiet certainty. "Not merely through Robb Stark, but through his imperial wife. The Yi Tish did not send a Princess Royal beyond their borders without extraordinary purpose."
Roose steepled his fingers, resting them against his lips as he studied his heir. "You believe this foreign princess will reshape the North."
"I believe she already is," Domeric replied. "The Manderlys have invested in joint shipbuilding ventures. The Mormonts have accepted Yi Tish sea guards on their western shores. And the Stark children are being educated in Eastern languages and governance."
"Interesting observations," Roose acknowledged, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts. "Though I fail to see how this concerns us directly."
Domeric moved slightly, shifting his position to stand more directly in his father's line of sight. A deliberate choice—not confrontational, but ensuring his next words could not be dismissed.
"I intend to seek Lady Sansa's hand in marriage."
The statement hung in the air between them. Roose's expression remained unchanged, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Lady Sansa," he repeated, the words measured and precise. "The elder Stark daughter."
"She is observant, shrewd, and already mimics Princess Ruyan's style. If the North is being reshaped, Sansa Stark will be part of that foundation. Not as a queen—but as a center of influence."
"And your reasoning?" Roose asked. "Why her—not another Northern girl? Why the elder Stark?
"Because she listens. Because she adapts. And because Ned Stark is not blind—he will see the stability we offer when others offer only charm or coin."
Roose considered this, his fingers tapping once against the desk—a gesture so subtle it would have been imperceptible to anyone less attuned to his habits than his son.
"An ambitious strategy," he acknowledged. "Though one that assumes your continued position as Bolton heir."
The moment had arrived. Domeric had steered the conversation exactly where he needed it to go, and his father—ever the strategist—had recognized the maneuver with characteristic precision.
"That assumption has been called into question," Domeric said, his voice unchanged despite the gravity of his words. "My recent visit to the mill on the Weeping Water proved... informative."
Something cold flickered across Roose's pale eyes—not anger, but a focused calculation that was far more dangerous.
"You spoke with the boy."
"I listened to him," Domeric corrected. "He was quite explicit about his plans for my death. Dogs trained to his command. Poison. A body that 'needn't be found—or if it is, won't be recognizable.'" He quoted the words with clinical detachment, as if discussing a minor trade dispute rather than his own murder.
Roose's expression remained impassive, but his stillness took on a different quality—the absolute motionlessness of a predator assessing threat.
"Ramsay has always been impulsive," he said finally, his voice so soft it barely disturbed the air between them.
"He has always been a tool," Domeric countered, meeting his father's gaze directly. "One you cultivated for a specific purpose. But tools that turn in the hand are worse than no tools at all."
For the first time in the conversation, Roose's eyes revealed a flicker of genuine interest. "You've given this considerable thought."
"I am your son," Domeric replied simply. The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning—an acknowledgment of the sharp, calculating mind he had inherited from his father, alongside the pale eyes and lean features that marked him unmistakably as a Bolton.
Roose studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "And what would you suggest? I assume you have a proposal beyond simply informing me of the situation."
"The law offers cleaner solutions than kinslaying," Domeric said, his tone remaining even. "Ramsay's activities extend beyond threats. There have been... incidents with local women. Disappearances that the smallfolk whisper about but fear to report."
"Rumors," Roose dismissed with a slight wave of his hand.
"Evidence," Domeric corrected. "Which I have documented with witness statements collected through trusted intermediaries. Anonymous, but admissible before Lord Stark should it become necessary."
The implicit threat hung in the air between them—not against Roose directly, but against the careful political balance he had maintained throughout the North. A Bolton bastard exposed as a murderer and rapist would damage alliances cultivated over decades.
"You present me with a choice," Roose observed, his voice betraying no emotion despite the gravity of the moment.
"I present you with clarity," Domeric replied. "Your heir, or your bastard."
He continued with measured precision. "I offer a solution that maintains both Bolton honor and your particular... sensibilities. A legal trap, laid with care. Justice, not blood." He paused, letting the words settle. "Unless, of course, you prefer I bring these matters directly to Lord Stark."
The threat was veiled but unmistakable. If Roose chose Ramsay over him, Domeric would not quietly accept his fate. He would ensure that any plot against the Bolton heir became a political crisis that would engulf the entire North.
"A legal trap," Roose repeated, seeming to taste the words. "For a dog that has slipped its leash."
"Precisely." Domeric's voice remained calm, betraying none of the tension humming through him. "The method would be your choice, of course. I merely offer the framework."
"And in return, you pursue Lady Sansa's hand and bind House Bolton to this... new order you perceive taking shape."
"I pursue the future," Domeric corrected gently. "One where House Bolton remains relevant in a North that will inevitably change."
He had laid out his position with perfect clarity: the North was transforming under the influence of Princess Ruyan; Sansa Stark represented a path into that future; and Ramsay Snow threatened not just his life, but any prospect of such an alliance. The choice before Roose was not merely between his trueborn son and his bastard, but between adaptation and obsolescence.
Roose sat back, his pale eyes unreadable, the silence between them stretching like drawn wire. This was the language of House Bolton—not threats or sentiment, but stillness. Calculation.
At length, he rose and turned to the window overlooking the bailey. His voice, when it came, was so soft it barely disturbed the air.
"You will dine with me tonight."
A pause. Then:
"Tell Walton to have the kennelmaster's ledgers brought up. And the records from Maester Aran's ravens this past year. I'll want them copied. Quietly."
Domeric bowed his head, though Roose still faced the window.
It was not approval. Not yet. But it was movement.
Ramsay Snow's time was being counted—quietly, precisely, as only a Bolton would.