Domeric XI

Dom was trying to be a good father; really, he was! But to his shame, he'd spent only a few hours total with little Yesenys, his daughter with Mordaena. The girl was nearly one! With Maron Snow, his newborn son with Lady Nym, who came into the world while he was beyond the Wall, he'd only visited the nursery and held him twice. Nymeria was still recovering from childbirth, though Maester Tybald assured him she was making good progress; Domeric still worried. Nym was often weary and retired to bed early. Her slim body had been put through a lot. She seemed happy, at least. If only they could have more time together, but many people had a claim on his time as Lord of the Dreadfort. It didn't make up for it, not even close, but all his ladies had maidservants at their beck and call. Not a one of them had to lift a finger. Labor was cheap, with many a family willing to send surplus daughters to the castle to earn wages.

If only Father lived a little longer, he thought ruefully. The Others would pay, every blue bastard. That was a promise!

Mordaena was pregnant again, which he might have expected. Her body was the opposite of Nym's in every way: short and thick and robust. Ah, and Alyx too. The Bolton heir was in her belly even as he sat here skimming ledgers, but it didn't slow her down at all.

A giant with a mammoth was pretty much a tractor, and Alyx had plans for using them everywhere. The giant king, Mag Mar Something Something, or Mag the Mighty, was terribly fond of her. She and Maester Tybald drew up plans for a great stone citadel in the Lonely Hills, a homeland for giant kind. When they showed Mag, and Tormund explained what it was, the big hairy thing was so taken aback that he swore eternal gratitude. As soon as giant-sized pickaxes and plowshares could be forged, they'd be out there reshaping his land.

Mostly, Domeric only had to sign off on such things, but some matters couldn't be delegated. Justice was his responsibility, for one. Blessedly, they'd had few violent incidents between his people and the Free Folk settlers, but something could blow up at any time.

He was thinking how, if the warm weather held, the huge new fields plowed by the giants would tax the mills of his land to the brink. They'd be grinding corn day and night. It might be wise to look deeper into bottlenecks like that before they appeared.

There was a knock on his chamber door. "Enter."

His steward, Rodrik Walyn, was a grim man, the same age as Domeric's father, but looked twenty years older. They'd mostly kept the chief men in place during the transition, but Alyx was gradually adding her own picked people to the administration, which was her right as his lady. He bowed gravely. "My lord, there is a petitioner to see you, begging justice."

Dom sighed. Here we go. "Did they say what happened?"

"Her son was murdered by a wildling woman, she said."

Fuck! Domeric fought to keep his face neutral. It would be bad to look prejudiced. "Any other pertinent details?"

Rodrik seemed oddly reticent.

"Well?"

"Ah, well, my lord, the murdered lad may have been...Lord Roose's bastard." The steward looked pained to speak such out loud.

Huh, a bastard brother? Dead now, he supposed. Father would keep such well away from the Dreadfort. By the reckoning of the world, his children Yesenys and Maron were bastards, but they were to be raised in the Dreadfort's nursery alongside his trueborn children with Alyx. In this, Domeric was not his father.

There was nothing to do but follow the steward to the great hall. As they wound down a spiral staircase to the base of the tower where he maintained his "office," and continued down an arched stone passageway lined with arrow slits, Domeric caught a whiff of something absolutely rank: rotted meat crossed with stale, sweaty clothes that hadn't been washed in a year. It got worse the closer they got.

"What is that?" Lord Domeric demanded, covering his face with his sleeve.

"Reek, my lord," answered Walyn, the steward.

"Yes, I know it reeks," said Domeric, not comprehending. "What is it? Did one of the wildlings bring us a gift and the servants put it in some forgotten corner?" Oh, they would definitely get punished for that.

"Nay, my lord. He is Reek, Reek the serving man," the old man pointed out a younger one in a stained, faded, threadbare tunic. Two agitated strangers were waiting in the hall, and Reek was one of them, along with a woman in a fine woolen dress, fine for a peasant, anyway. Most of his people had already fled the smell. Only the guards on duty who were not allowed to leave remained.

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Just now, Domeric was about at the end of his patience. "Explain, quickly," he commanded sternly.

"If it please my lord," the smelly man began obsequiously, "a wildling girl young master Ramsay had been courting put an arrow through his gut. He died in my arms, he did."

Died smelling you, a fate worse than death, Domeric thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and not just to ward off the smell. "Why would she do such a thing?"

Reek, very appropriately named, looked uncomfortable and declined to answer. "He was lord Roose's own son!" claimed the middle-aged woman who was leaning on him. She looked appropriately outraged, at least.

"And where is this woman now? The wildling?" She would have to be brought in to get her side of the story, Domeric supposed. These two didn't look particularly trustworthy, and especially didn't smell trustworthy.

That brought Reek up short. "Er, well, I'm sure I don't know, my lord," he answered vaguely. "Might have fled. We lost her in the woods, we did."

"Describe her," he commanded.

"Short, red hair, crooked teeth," the woman went on. "A savage in skins. My Ramsay wanted her; can't imagine why. He's had fairer maidens. That wildling girl was unfit to warm the bed of a lord's son, I'd say."

Proud, wasn't she? "Lord's bastard son, you mean," Domeric corrected.

"He was your own brother!" the woman shrieked.

A sudden anger welled up inside Domeric. His father would never tolerate such insolence. Best to make an example of these two. "You can await my judgment in the dungeons." Then he thought better of it. "Wait," he raised a hand to stop his guards, "take this Reek to the pigsty. I don't want his stink within my walls a moment longer."

He'd speak to Mance about a wildling girl with red hair and crooked teeth. They'd have to bring her in for questioning. Hopefully the brief description was enough.

***

Turned out, yes, it was. Red hair was rare among the wildlings. Tormund was able to track her down and bring her to the castle.

"Bloody hell!" the girl exclaimed. "What great king lives here?"

Domeric sighed. Wildlings were impressed by any building larger than a log cabin. "I do, girl. What's your name?"

"Ygritte," she answered proudly, flashing a crooked grin. The girl was bold, and didn't stink, so Domeric already felt inclined to take her side.

"Let's go to the godswood," he said. "No man, or woman, I suppose, can tell a lie before a heart tree."

"My da thought the same," said Ygritte, seemingly unconcerned.

Once they arrived before the god, Domeric commenced questioning her. "Did you shoot a man with that bow of yours?"

"Aye," she answered, "a fleshy man with wormy lips. He tried to steal me, and I might've let him since he seemed rich, but he chased me with hounds. Them hounds didn't look well-fed, I'd say, and he was a pisspoor hunter, lost my trail and all, no matter the hounds. I decided he wasn't good enough, but this Ramsay didn't take no for an answer."

It was a good thing Domeric talked with Mance before this. Apparently, the wildlings had a tradition of bridal kidnapping, kind of a test to see if suitors were good enough.

"And what did he do after he failed to steal you?"

"Came back with more of his lads. They had steel and torches, said he was gonna take me anyways and feed me to his hounds." She leaned on a tree confidently. "Couldn't catch me, though. Told him to leave off one last time, and when he didn't, I put a shaft in him."

Well, self-defense from attempted rape and murder seemed to be pretty clear-cut in this case. The gods did not object. "You're free to go then." When she didn't leave right away, Domeric got annoyed. "I said you're dismissed."

"Can I live in this palace?" she begged breathlessly, making big doe eyes at him.

Was this what it meant to be a lord, everyone with their hand out? "I gave Mance and his lot their own chambers. Ask him if he'll have you."

"He will! I know he will! The Domeric is as wise and just as they say!" Ygritte ran off happily.

After putting Reek and Ramsay's mother to a sharp question, Lord Domeric learned that his bastard brother had been hunting women for sport for years. Madness. He took their heads at once. What had his father been thinking? He would have to start investigating to see if any other atrocities were being committed right under his nose. Wherever he found them, Lord Domeric resolved to put them right. These were his lands now, his people.