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298 AC
Winterfell
The cold winds had begun to howl. Summer was ending, fall would begin soon enough then a longer winter.
It was now dusk the sun had set not too long ago, a day of hard riding had brought them to the Stark Holdfast. And by time the young Bolton saw Winterfell.It was not the grand, storybook vision sung by southern bards or remembered fondly by knights who had once wintered here and drunk deep of Stark hospitality when the king arrived.
It all looked sooo bland he thought. He wasn't unfamiliar with grand arrivals afterall, grander were the events in Bravos and Pentos alike. So to see the atmosphere around a king's arrival to a castle it wasn't as astonishing as he others would've thought.
It was early night and Winterfell was a looming, a breathing thing of granite stone rising from the earth like a jagged crown. Its walls were the tallest on this side of the continent, its towers even taller as they silhouetted against a low, cloud-choked sky. He came here a few months back at Lord Stark's behest but he never liked being in enemy territory. It made him paranoid being so close to his enemies against his own will.
Anything could happen after all.
Nevertheless he observed it all from the cover of a copse a quarter mile out, his cloak pulled tight, the hood shadowing his face. The Dreadfort colors were nowhere upon him.
Today, he was no lord only a traveler, another anonymous body drawn toward the Stark stronghold in the wake of a king selling silverwares with his fellow who crouched besides him , Jon Redfort, his friend from the eyrie who was always up for a dangerous adventure.
And one of the few men Domeric would ever call a friend without reservation. Jon was broader than Domeric, yet not taller, he was built like a man of armor and war.
He looked like a lumberjack in a some sorts or a blacksmith.
His eyes, remained sharp and ever seemingly amused, even now as he traced the walls with a scrutinized gaze.
"So," Jon murmured quietly, "this is it. The great wolf's den."
The Jon had taken a ship from the eyrie to arrive at the Dreadfort so he hadn't the chance to pass by or stop at winterfell on the king's road.
Domeric did not answer him yet . His pale eyes followed the movements atop the battlements and at the gates where a line of crowd moved slowly. The braziers of fire and torches illuminated the castle.
"Yes it is and we are a day late," Domeric said.
"But exactly as planned."
'King Robert Baratheon had arrived yesterday in a storm of banners, and horns with a retinue he would guess to be over 300 people.'
A many of the North folk had flooded into Winterfell after hearing news of his coming, lords, knights, hedge riders, petitioners, camp followers. Disorder and ambition taking the shroud as celebration. And it was the perfect moment to disappear into the cracks.
Jon snorted faintly unimpressed by his words. "You've always had that jarring talent for arriving wherever you aren't expected."
Domeric allowed himself a chuckle. "And leaving before anyone knew I was even there." He added.
He along with himself, excluding Jon Redfort rode with five other riders. Five members of his personal guards, the red guards. They were without much of their armor as they had to fit into the crowd as well so they dressed with subtlety and their arms were hidden.
And all in all, it was several men on a mission of hiding in plain sight and gathering information or Domeric was , for either his sick amusement or whatever other reason.
The group waited for another quarter hour before domeric gave the order to move. And when they did, it was not towards the main gate now choked with guards and latecomers but along the outer edges of the kingsroad, slipping into the flow of traders and smallfolk arriving with wagons of grain, ale, wool, salted and smoked meats.
Winterfell swallowed them without refusal.It was fairly a simple task to enter through here. Too easy.
Inside the walls, the castle grounds were alive even at initiation of dusk. Fires burned in pits and braziers, soldiers laughed loudly, horses stamped and snorted in the starting night dew.
Some Baratheon men, antler-helmed—jostled and conversed with northern guards in brown and black leathers and gambesons.
The direwolf banners also flew everywhere, on every parapet and wall it could hang, but so too did the crowned stag, a gold on black, a banner Domeric had long associated with excess, carelessness, and a rot disguised as strength, to which a sensible man could describe the fat king as now.
They moved slowly and fairly unnoticed as they moved like the sellers they proclaimed themselves to be, fitting right in to crowds.
Jon Redfort also played the role well, as well as he could that is , the redfort lord wasn't new to lying and he wasn't new to tricking people either and one could now see why he and Domeric were as close as they were.
Domeric kept his head lowered slightly, hands tucked into his sleeves, counting faces as he moved along.
It did not take long before he felt it, his magical senses warned him.
A subtle pressure between his shoulders. That feeling of being observed. The Bolton lord did not turn. He merely adjusted his pace, slowed half a step, and shifted his angle. The sensation followed.
Someone here did not belong as they should.
They reached the inner courtyard just as the bells rang for the changing of the watch. The sound echoed between stone walls, heavy and final. It was then that Domeric saw him.
The man stood near the shadow of a tower, half-turned away from the torchlight. He was tall, lean, dressed plainly in dark leathers and a travel-worn cloak. His hair was long, brown threaded with grey, his beard trimmed but unadorned. He looked no different from a dozen other sellswords or wanderers who had followed the king north.
Yet his eyes wondered everywhere, watchful, endlessly assessing and missing nothing.
'Mance Rayder', Domeric familiarized him self with the man. He looked younger than how they portrayed him in the show but that face was unmistakable.
It was him alright.
Domeric felt no surprise. Only confirmation that the man would be here as he was in the books and show.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall did not look towards him. His gaze instead tracked a pair of Stark guards laughing near the armory, then they slid toward the kennels, then up to the Great Keep's windows, glowing warmly against the night.
He was mapping out Winterfell visually as much as he could.
Domeric observed him with intent and Jon had noticed along with a pair of his guards.
Jon Redfort leaned closer. "You've gone quiet, what is it?"
"Its nothing," Domeric murmured. "It was just a thought."
Jon followed his gaze not believing him, but shrugged nevertheless. "Ok but can we continue moving?"
"We should," Domeric said softly, as they trodded carefully onwards.
They did not linger. Mance Rayder never looked their way, and Domeric did not force the issue. There would be time later. There was always time.
They secured lodgings in a cramped storehouse converted for the overflowed wealthier guests and the place was as he could imagine, it was cold, drafty, but anonymous. By the time Domeric shed his cloak and sat alone, the castle had begun to truly settle.
The Laughters he once heard loudly had began to dull . Fires burned lower. The wind continued its howl but quieter now.
Night in Winterfell had a way of stripping things bare, not only winterfell but the entire north.
He sat in the warehouse conversing amongst his lot for nearly two hours before he left near midnight, and alone this time.
He ordered Redfort and his praetorians to remain behind. They would stay where they were and visible enough to not draw suspicion on his absence if the guards cared to even remember their proper numbers.
Nevertheless he moved through servant corridors and open yards with practiced ease, keeping to the edges of the walls. He casted a spell on himself , one of translucency so he could move unseen for a few minutes.
The godswood drew him. It always did. It was a amalgamation of magic. The heart trees always were.
The ancient tree loomed pale and immense, its red leaves whispering shifting faintly in the wind.The pool beneath it was black and still.
A boy or near enough also stood before the tree. He wore all black. His hair was as dark as night, and from his posture and familiarity of his foreknowledge Domeric could already tell who it was.
'Jon Snow' The rightful Lord and king of the seven kingdoms.
Domeric paused in the shadow of a stone arch, watching him. The bastard of Winterfell seemed to be praying.
'How reverent of him.' The bolton lord thought.
A sword also hung at his hip ….
He held his distance not daring to go any closer. He wouldn't risk being heard or found out even with his cloak of translucency.
'It was best to leave this place , his mind told him'.
'And he did just that, there was no reward here to be had. He had other places to see. He'd hoped to enter the Crypts if possible and also try to find the infamous imp if he was still up and about.'
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