When Domeric had served as a page in Lady Barbrey Dustin's household at Barrowton, Lady Dustin had once described his "bargain" father like this:
"Roose has no feelings.
All those leeches he's so fond of have sucked every scrap of warmth out of him.
He doesn't love, he doesn't hate, he doesn't grieve.
Everything in this world is just a game to him—mildly entertaining, and mildly interesting.
Some men like hunting. Some like hawking. Some like casting dice.
Roose Bolton likes playing games… with people."
Those words flickered through Domeric's mind as he studied his father in silence, and a quiet, complicated feeling rose in his chest.
He… looked older.
Lord Roose was forty-five now—barely older than Ser Igor, his captain of guards—yet he looked far more worn than Igor did.
So worn he even seemed tired.
The sharp-edged lord of the Dreadfort from Domeric's memory wasn't yet fifty, and already fine lines had gathered at the corners of his eyes. His presence was still imposing when he turned his head, but the age in him could not be hidden.
Even sitting there, his back did not seem as straight as it once had. He leaned into the chair, the posture of a man carrying weight.
As if noticing Domeric's wandering focus, Roose gave a soft cough, pulling his son back.
"You've… grown a little taller."
Then, unexpectedly, Roose sighed. The authoritative tone that had always felt distant turned strangely gentle.
"These last three years… every time I see you, you seem different. So different that sometimes you feel like a stranger to me."
Domeric's body tensed at the words.
Roose spoke in a way Domeric wasn't used to. It didn't sound like a lord speaking from a high seat—it sounded, disconcertingly, like a father.
Domeric didn't know what to say. He simply stood there, hands at his sides.
Roose shook his head, then sighed again.
"Sit. I have something to say to you."
"Father," Domeric asked first, "why did you summon me back?"
"I know what you're worried about."
Roose watched his expression, then turned and drew a delicate crystal decanter from a cabinet beneath the desk, twisting the stopper free.
The scent alone said it was a fine vintage—an Arbor red, the best wine the Reach could send north.
Roose smiled.
"Your expedition beyond the Wall—I won't stop you. I'll support it. The reason is simple: you are my son, and the Dreadfort's only heir.
Though I don't know exactly how those wildlings managed to offend you…"
He poured two crystal cups, filling them with dark red wine.
Father and son each took a glass.
The study felt airless. For a while, both men seemed to sink into the ritual of tasting, neither speaking first.
At length, a faint, self-mocking amusement passed through Roose's eyes. He smiled—slowly—and spoke.
"Three years ago, you said you wanted to carve out a new domain in the Lonely Hills. I didn't oppose you, but I didn't truly believe in it either. And yet now… it's only been three years, hasn't it? Your lands have grown to one hundred and fifty thousand souls.
"The Dreadfort is our ancestral seat. Its taxes bring in barely twenty thousand gold dragons a year—though the family has other streams of income…"
He paused, as if checking an invisible ledger.
"And your Lonely Hills—within half a year, through iron trade alone—you earned… let me see… more than two hundred thousand gold dragons."
Domeric felt a small shock. He hadn't expected Roose to have investigated so thoroughly.
The Lonely Hills' income—those massive profits—were known to almost no one beyond Domeric himself and his treasurer.
And Roose knew it anyway.
"That's only the third year," Roose continued. "If you keep this pace, then in ten years the revenue from your lands may surpass the total taxes of every house in the North combined.
"I never imagined the son I sired would be a genius for commerce."
Since Roose had laid it bare, Domeric didn't bother hiding anything. He only smiled.
"They're just little toys I cobbled together. I never meant to conceal them from you. But you didn't call me back only to praise my accounts—did you?"
"Of course not."
Roose set his cup down, then stared at Domeric with a weight in his gaze.
"The house is facing a choice."
"A choice?" Domeric looked at him.
"Not only the house's choice," Roose said, each word slow and heavy. "Your choice as well."
"Then speak plainly, Father." Domeric had no patience for riddles.
Roose's brow lifted slightly. A ripple crossed his calm eyes. His lips parted, then curved into the faintest of smiles.
"Domeric… as your father, I've understood far too little about you. I never thought you'd be this… popular with women."
"…?"
Domeric stared, genuinely baffled.
Roose slid two letters across the desk.
"Here. Read for yourself. One is from Lord Eddard Stark, and one is from Lord Wyman Manderly. From the way they write, both intend to bind their houses to ours by marriage."
"Oh?"
Domeric took the letters and read carefully.
White Harbor's lord seeking a match was no surprise—he would want stability in the iron trade.
But House Stark?
So Lady Catelyn had persuaded Eddard after all.
That, Domeric hadn't expected.
Roose watched him.
"So. Which will you choose? Lady Sansa Stark… or Lady Wynafryd Manderly?"
Domeric was silent for a long time.
It wasn't an easy question.
Roose didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he continued in his steady, unhurried voice:
"Fear is what keeps you alive in a world made of lies and betrayal.
"Even in the North, the crows still circle, waiting to feast on our corpses.
"House Cerwyn and House Tallhart are no innocents. Our fat friend of White Harbor, Lord Wyman, smiles sweetly while keeping a knife behind his teeth. As for the Umbers of Last Hearth—simple-minded at a glance, but dangerous in truth. And Lady Dustin of Barrowton… she has her own clever little games.
"None of them are harmless.
"The North may not love this game the way the southrons do, but for thousands of years it has been house against house—biting, devouring, clawing for advantage…
"Hmph. How many once-proud names are gone now, swallowed by history?
"I want you to understand: your choice can send our house down two very different roads."
"I understand," Domeric said, nodding.
Seconds passed. Minutes.
Seeing that Domeric still hadn't chosen, Roose exhaled—softly, almost wearily.
"If you cannot decide yet, I won't force you. I'll keep Lord Stark and that old Manderly waiting… and you'll decide when you return from your expedition."
The study fell into that heavy silence again.
At last, Domeric spoke.
"Father, if there is nothing else, I'll take my leave."
"Go."
Roose waved a hand. But when Domeric reached the door, Roose called after him.
"Wait."
Domeric stopped. "Do you have another command?"
Roose's eyes held something complicated as he looked at his son for a long moment. Then he said, low:
"For this expedition beyond the Wall, Ser Igor will lead fifteen hundred of our men under your command. They will aid you in the war against the wildlings."
"Thank you, Father."
Domeric inclined his head slightly.
At the end, Roose's face hardened with a quiet resolve.
"This war permits only victory."
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