Domeric X

Domeric was starting to think they'd brought too many men. The press of trees on either side of the game trail that passed for a road in the "Haunted Forest" all but required them to ride single file. Their men, some two thousand Northmen with another two hundred rangers from Castle Black, and another hundred from the Shadow Tower coming to rendezvous, were strung out for miles and perilously isolated from one another. If the rear got into trouble, they wouldn't be able to help. They might not even hear it.

"I like this not," he told his father. Strange. This had been the most time they'd spent together in years. Roose Bolton was a man of few words, but one should never mistake his reserved manner for cowardice or dull wit. He was a Bolton, and Domeric knew better than most what that meant. Men feared them, and not without reason.

"Indeed?" said Father, silently pressing Domeric to elaborate, as was his way.

"When we camp, it's more like ten camps instead of one." Domeric snorted. "More like twenty or thirty, actually. I had hoped we'd be able to support each other in the event of an attack. In some ways, my campaign in the Mountains of the Moon was easier. Most of the time, there was only one way in and one way out." He eyed the trees around them suspiciously. "The woods could conceal hostiles until they were almost on top of us, attacking from anywhere."

"Likely we would hear them, my son," Roose pointed out. That was a good point. Even silent Nymeria made noise as she loped through the underbrush.

Domeric adjusted the mail coat on his shoulders. They were more lightly armed than usual, ringmail over boiled leather, riding shaggy, sure-footed garons instead of monstrous destriers or swift coursers. The terrain all but required it. In many ways, it was the Vale all over again, but different in a bad way.

Things are different now, he thought darkly. There was power in this place, the power he usually only felt in a godswood, was everywhere, and his squire had been having prophetic dreams. Last night, she dreamt of a crystal city, blue and cold. The folk there, Arya said, were beautiful and cruel. "They see men the way we see rats," she reported. Those were her exact words. His hand drifted to the sword of red Valyrian steel hanging from his belt. Well, some rats bite back.

Gradually, the trees thinned, giving way to not quite a clearing, but ground that wasn't so restrictive. He could fight here, if need be. Domeric and Roose came upon the Old Bear, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who was sweating under his black cloak and talking with Lord Stark. "It's unseasonably hot," he complained. "In early autumn, we should be facing driving sheets of icy rain, and our horses should be struggling in six-inch mud."

"Perhaps we are fortunate," Lord Stark suggested. He always was an optimistic sort.

"Perhaps the weather will turn against us once we're too deep to turn back," muttered Mormont. He noticed them approaching at a trot. "Lord Roose, Ser Domeric, I am glad to see you both. The Watch is grateful for your donation, more than grateful."

Father smiled mildly. He knew when somebody was kissing his ass. "Quite a lot of coin, I'm told." It was almost a rebuke.

"We have coin to spare, Father," Domeric defended himself. "Those castles on the Wall must be made habitable before they are defensible. That means granaries, kitchens, and a barracks at a minimum. The Nightfort, Deep Lake, and more must be able to house and feed men. The wages of masons and carpenters are not so dear. At the Dreadfort, we have food and fodder for a ten-year winter set aside, and a vault of gold besides, but gold is nothing by itself. It's what gold buys that matters."

Roose Bolton inclined his head deferentially. "My son the merchant," he said, gently chiding. Nobody dared to laugh at the joke but Domeric. Really, Father was funny sometimes!

They even looked alike, Dom noticed, though Roose grew his hair longer. Personally, Domeric preferred to keep his hair short. Helmets fit better that way. And really, the leeching thing wasn't that weird. He seemed to remember reading that excess iron in the blood was bad for you, and that you should donate as often as you were allowed to keep levels manageable. Maybe there was something to it. The man was in his forties but didn't look a day past thirty-five if Dom was any judge.

"Anyway, the next village is just as empty as the last," said the Old Bear. "My scouts tell me it is called Whitetree."

"Oh?" That sounded interesting to Domeric. "Does it have a heart tree?"

"A great big one," Mormont confirmed. "The town is based around it."

That pricked Domeric's interest. He had learned that the so-called wildlings kept the same gods as civilized men, and they burned their dead. These facts boded well. Most likely, they were not in league with the dead things. Perhaps a common cause could be made. Moreover, and this was the most shocking thing of all, the Night's Watch had a standardized response to contact with the Others. Three blasts of the horn meant them. He could see the crystal city with the cold, cruel, beautiful people in his mind's eye. Three blasts. They could be out there even now. The red comet still burned over their heads, visible in the daylight, though it looked more vivid at night.

"Where's Arya?" Domeric asked.

Lord Stark looked a bit uncomfortable. "With the van. She rides with the rangers."

"Rides well, my men say," added Mormont. It was flattery, but Domeric could tell the words were sincere. She ought to ride well. They'd hunted across the Bolton lands and Barrowlands and back thrice. They'd hunted men on Harlaw. She could easily keep up with that wolf of hers whenever Nymeria caught a trail.

"Let's see if she's found anything," Dom suggested. He noted with approval that there was already a fire burning and a tight perimeter around the abandoned village. Its heart tree shaded a few tiny cottages and a sheepfold, hardly worthy of the name "village." The great god was broad and gnarled, with a huge jagged mouth you could crawl into if you were of a mind. He knelt before it respectfully, and some men about took a cue from him and did the same.

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Bold Nymeria was padding alongside him when he rose from his stolen moment of silent prayer. Her mistress was not far behind.

"Not a thing, Ser," Arya reported dutifully. She dismounted with easy grace, making hardly a sound, though the ground was a bed of autumn leaves, in browns, golds, and reds. They were dry and crinkled slightly, but no more. "There is a lake beyond, and a little pier where men might've fished, once, but no sign of anything alive or dead."

"Alive or dead," Domeric repeated. "That's the question, isn't it? Did the cold things kill the wildlings and march their corpses away, or did they flee of their own will? If so, what were they running from? Might be we'll run into it." He sat down on a tree stump that was covered in moss. "Any more dreams, Arya?"

She shook her head. "No, Ser. That one of the ice crystal city was the last." The girl leaned forward and whispered. "Do you think such a place could really exist?"

"Yes," Dom answered immediately. "There are as many kinds of places and kinds of people as stars in the sky. Here, in the far north, we hardly know anything. It's a new world out here. You feel it, don't you?"

She nodded and chewed on his words for a moment. "Is Brad well? Al, Elia?"

He smiled. "Yes. I'd like us to all share a tent tonight, if Nymeria isn't out hunting. Still no luck?"

Arya frowned. "No, Ser. My wolf is getting hungry, actually. The wild game is as gone as the people. It's wrong. I don't even hear birds in the trees!"

Now that she mentioned it, the silence all around them started to seem oppressive, even unnatural. Domeric strained to hear something, anything, but there was nothing but the sounds men made. Boots crunched the dry leaves underfoot, horses whickered, and quiet talk drifted a long distance. A man of the Night's Watch brought up some hounds, but Domeric knew they would find nothing if Nymeria didn't.

Just then, the wolf's playful padding froze, and she went straight as a spear, pointing toward the lake Arya told him about.

"Nymeria! What is it?" his squire asked in alarm. She tried to take hold of her wolf, but the animal suddenly bolted away.

Dom drew his sword at once. "Fire! Torches!" he cried. Men scrambled to get their torches out and rushed to the firepit their advance party had made. He did the same, getting a flame lit before he ran after his squire and her wolf. He could feel the heat on his face as he rushed to the waterline, where Nymeria was still pointing with her snout.

"Arya, watch out! Dead men could come pouring out of the lake any second!" he shouted, bracing himself for just that.

The girl didn't turn back to look at him, instead looking where her wolf looked. The waters stayed still.

"There's definitely something there, Ser, but I don't think it's dead men," she said after a long look. "I...get the sense it's something important." There was a queer moment where Arya and her wolf looked at him, and their heads moved together, almost as if they were a single person.

"Did you dream about this?" he asked. Domeric still had a torch in one hand and his red sword in the other, ready for anything.

The girl had to think about it. "Kind of a waking dream, I think. Nymeria knew something was there, and then I did. Can I go and get it?"

At first, he wanted to refuse, but Domeric should have more faith than that. "Take off your armor and clothes, best to keep them dry."

So Arya stripped and dived into the still lake beyond Whitetree. The first time she surfaced, she reported that something was stuck. His squire had to come up for air twice and dive down again before she could pry the thing, whatever it was, loose. By then, more men with burning torches had arrived.

"Ser Domeric, what is it?" demanded the Old Bear. He was covered in sweat, and not just from the heat.

"Arya found something," he explained. "I thought it was an attack at first, but it's important, I'm sure."

The girl emerged at last with a box caked in mud. Dom took her clothes himself, and they returned to the firepit so Arya could dry off. Lord Stark looked quite angry as he shooed men away.

The damn box was sealed tight! Wherever Domeric wiped away the river mud, he saw queer markings etched into the sides. It would not open for him, no matter how hard he tried, but Arya was able to pry the hinge apart with the thin dagger she carried.

Every man around gasped! The black blade drank the sunlight, and there wasn't a smidge of rust or wear. Even the handle was pristine!

"That leather grip should've rotted," one man said in wonder. "How was a sword buried at the bottom of a lake?"

How indeed? By now, Domeric was familiar with the telltale signs of Valyrian steel. The pommel was a dragon head of all things. After Arya dried off a bit, she dressed again and held the weapon aloft for all to see.

Domeric's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Arya, you better not be thinking what I think you're thinking."

"I'm not!" she argued. "Ehe, what do you think I'm thinking?"

"This is the second Valyrian steel sword you've found," Domeric pointed out.

Lord Stark looked thunderstruck. "It is?"

"It is," Dom confirmed. "The gods plainly mean for you to have one, so you're keeping it. See there? The handle is thin, perfect for a woman. Try and grip it."

Arya did so, taking up the blade with both hands and trying a few experimental swings. "It's so light!" she said in wonder.

Some men looked pleased, others discomfited, the Old Bear most of all. "Your wolf led you to that blade?"

"She did!" Nymeria gave a short bark of agreement.

Mormont looked at the sword in Arya's hands, then looked up at the red comet above, saying nothing.