Apologies for the late updates. Been at class and had been doing some other works. I know I have been neglectful with the updates and I apologise.
"I would have my men temporarily staff twelve of the other castles along the Wall fifty men each with additional masons and carpenters to bring them back to full functionality. If the war on the other side is truly so imminent, with these wildlings and dead things walking, then we must be ready. And House Bolton will stand in support of the Night's Watch," Domeric declared from the high table.
Seated with him were Maester Aemon, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, Master-at-Arms Ser Alliser Thorne, First Ranger Ser Jaremy Rykker, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, Lord Steward Bowen Marsh, and the commanders of Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower.
Domeric had not only encamped his army around Castle Black; he had brought wagons upon wagons of supplies for the black brothers , grain, rum, wine, steel, sugar cubes, lumber, winter clothing, boots, cement, oil, salted fish, and pork. Enough to make even the most skeptical man pause.
"We thank you for your continued support, Lord Bolton," Jeor Mormont said, his deep voice carrying through the hall. "Amongst the northern lords and even the lords of the wider realm you have proven the only one to come to our direct aid , time and time again. This will not be forgotten."
Nods of agreement followed around the table.
"You are most welcome, Lord Commander," Domeric replied. "As the Warden of the North, it is also my duty to see that the Wall and the men who serve upon it shall want for nothing."
"Hear, hear!" shouted one of the rangers, and the cry spread, echoing off the stone and timber.
Domeric smiled as the hall erupted.
Varro stood to the left of the raised platform, never far from his lord, another of the red plated Praetorians beside him. Around the hall they were placed with careful intent, two by the doors, three along either flank of the high table with Varro among them, and five lining the rear walls, statues of crimson steel, ever watchful of the sitting crowd before them.
"Then let us feast tonight," Domeric called, raising his cup, "and go about our duties with vigor in the morn!"
That won him another roar.
The Bolton lord had brought cooks south with him, and they wasted no time displaying unfamiliar wonders. Rice with curried pork, beans cooked with onions and bacon, loaves, roast chickens rubbed in fragrant seasonings, and fresh bread still steaming from the ovens.
Mead flowed freely, alongside wine from the Summer Isles and Dorne. For those who preferred something stronger, there were harsher spirits that burned all the way down.
Yet amid the cheer, not all were pleased.
Jon Snow sat in silence, his dark eyes fixed upon Domeric Bolton.
News had traveled even to the edge of the world. It had been weeks now but Robb was dead. Betrayed. Slaughtered at a wedding feast. And whispers said Lord Bolton was implicit in this treachery.
Now the Dreadfort ruled the Twins. Three quarters of House Frey's household were said to be dead or gone, the remaining boys scattered as squires across the North. The daughters had been sent away as ladies' maids, hostages in all but name.
His brothers, Bran and Rickon, were in Bolton custody. Living at Winterfell their home, but still under bolton rule. Arya was still missing and Sansa… Sansa remained in King's Landing as a hostage, now wed to the Imp.
Jon's jaw tightened.
He could not trust Lord Bolton. His father never had, not truly. Yet Father had always said he was a servant of the North all the same.
Lord Domeric Bolton had long been praised by the smallfolk. Wealthy. Courteous. Pale, yes, but striking. Some called him the finest sword in the North.
There were tales of the Red Wedding, of Frey men trying to cut him down and Bolton cutting through them like wheat, leaving bodies piled high like a barrows.
A singer's story, Jon suspected.
He wouldn't even believe it if he saw it and he saw a-lot already beyond the wall.
And As if feeling the weight of his stare, Domeric turned.
Their eyes met across the hall.
The Bolton lord inclined his head, almost as if saying "Well met".
Jon returned the gesture stiffly.
Officially, they had never met, yet Jon remembered him from a visit to Winterfell years ago. Well mannered. Soft spoken. Respectful to nearly everyone, though it had been plain he bore little like for Lady Catelyn.
——— ———- ———-
Ghost lay beneath the bench at Jon's feet, red eyes half-lidded, ears twitching at every rise in noise. Jon scratched behind the direwolf's ear, grateful for his steady presence.
"Brooding won't sour the wine any faster, Snow."
Jon glanced up to see Pyp sliding onto the bench opposite him, a cup in each hand. Grenn followed, already chewing on a heel of bread and a leg of chicken in the other.
"I'm not brooding," Jon muttered.
"You're glaring," Pyp corrected, passing him the drink. "At the man who just brought us half a harvest and enough boots to keep our toes from falling off."
Jon took the cup but didn't drink. "Gifts cant buy my silence."
"Aye," Grenn said around a mouthful, "but they can buy arrows and full bellies."
Before Jon could answer, a hush rippled from the far end of the hall.
Ser Alliser Thorne had risen.
The stern spiteful master-at-arms lifted his cup towards Domeric. "To House Bolton. May their steel prove stronger against the wildlings as ours have".
It was not quite praise. Not quite insult either.
Yet Domeric didn't seem to take it as such. He raised his own goblet. "I would expect nothing less than to stand where the fighting is thickest, Ser Alliser. Should the day come."
A murmur of approval ran through many of the rangers.
Jon noticed how the man they called Varro the Qohorik shifted slightly at that, just a fraction.
The feast rolled on. Brothers approached Bolton's table, some to thank him, others merely to look upon the man whose name now stirred half the realm. Domeric greeted each with the same careful courtesy.
He listened.
He asked names.
He remembered them.
Jon hated how effective it was.
Finally, Bowen Marsh leaned toward the lord commander. A moment later, Mormont beckoned.
"Snow," the Old Bear called.
The word struck like a thrown stone.
Jon rose, Ghost rising with him, and made his way toward the high table. He felt eyes follow him, black brothers, Bolton men, red-armored guards.
Domeric watched his approach with open interest.
"Lord Commander?" Jon asked.
Mormont gestured. "Lord Bolton wished to meet the son of Eddard Stark."
Silence pressed close.
Jon met Domeric's pale eyes.
"Well," said the Warden of the North, offering neither smile nor frown, "it seems we are overdue for a meeting, you are the oldest remaining son of Lord Eddard afterall."
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