DOMERIC
Barrowton's Great Hall was modestly proportioned compared to other Northern strongholds, but what it lacked in size it compensated for in refined detail. The ancient wooden beams above had been carefully carved with the history of House Dustin—horses and barrows and battles of the First Men—while tapestries depicting scenes from the region's storied past softened the stone walls. Unlike the Dreadfort's oppressive gloom or Winterfell's austere grandeur, Barrowton's seat carried a certain restrained warmth.
Lady Barbrey Dustin sat at the high table, her back straight as a sword blade despite the hall's emptiness. At forty, she remained striking—her dark hair streaked with silver, her features sharp but not severe. She had cleared the hall of servants as soon as Domeric had requested a private audience, leaving only two guards by the main doors, well beyond earshot.
"Sansa Stark," she repeated, her voice betraying neither approval nor discontent. "An ambitious choice for House Bolton."
Domeric sipped from his goblet, giving himself a moment to consider his response. The mulled wine was excellent—spiced perfectly for the deepening autumn chill. Like everything in Barrowton, it reflected Lady Barbrey's careful attention to detail.
"An advantageous alliance for all concerned," he replied, setting his cup down with deliberate precision. "House Stark gains stability on their eastern borders. House Bolton gains connection to Winterfell. And the North presents a united front to the growing Southern pressures."
His aunt's dark eyes studied him with the penetrating assessment he had always respected. Unlike most who surrounded his father, Lady Barbrey never dissembled or softened her observations with false courtesies.
"And what of the history between our houses?" she asked. "The Starks have long memories, and while Lord Eddard may be a reasonable man, there are those in his household who remember older conflicts."
"Old wounds scar cleaner when they're stitched into new cloth," Domeric answered. "The princess's influence at Winterfell has created an opportunity for realignment throughout the North."
Lady Barbrey's fingers tapped once against the table—a gesture reminiscent of his father that suggested careful consideration rather than impatience.
"You believe the foreign princess holds such sway over the Starks?"
"I believe she has introduced new perspectives," Domeric corrected gently. "The North is changing, Aunt. Those who recognize this change early will position themselves more advantageously than those who resist it."
A hint of amusement touched Lady Barbrey's lips. "You sound like your father. Though perhaps with more vision and less caution." She reached for her own goblet, her signet ring catching the light from the hearth. "Tell me the truth of it, Domeric. Why Sansa Stark? There are other alliances that would be less... fraught with complication."
"Because she's being trained by Princess Ruyan," he replied directly, knowing his aunt valued honesty above diplomacy. "The Stark daughter has the princess's ear, and increasingly, her perspective. In three years, in five, she will be among the most influential women in the North—regardless of whom she marries."
"And you wish that influence tied to Bolton interests," Lady Barbrey concluded, nodding slightly. "Reasonable. Though not without risk."
"If there's no risk, there's no return," Domeric acknowledged. "But consider the benefits beyond the immediate alliance. With the Manderlys expanding their shipyards at Sea Dragon Point and the Karstarks strengthening their fleets, new trade routes are inevitable."
Lady Barbrey's interest visibly sharpened. "Go on."
"Barrowton's port has always been limited by the narrow channel," Domeric continued, "but with modest expansion, it could become the primary waypoint for goods moving between the western forests and the inner north to eastern markets."
"Other goods aside from lumber," Lady Barbrey observed, her mind clearly advancing several moves ahead.
"Lumber, ship components, and potentially Yi Tish goods moving inland," Domeric confirmed. "The Rills and Barrowlands have always lacked a strong export market beyond horses and grain. With improved harbor facilities, that could change significantly."
His aunt studied him with renewed appraisal, as if seeing something in him she had not previously recognized.
"You've considered the regional implications thoroughly. This isn't merely about a marriage."
"It never is," Domeric replied simply.
"No," she agreed. "It never is."
She rose from her seat, moving to the hearth where a fire crackled against the autumn chill. For a moment, she stared into the flames, her profile outlined in gold and shadow.
"Your father knows of this intention?" she asked finally.
"He does," Domeric confirmed. "Though he has expressed neither approval nor opposition."
Lady Barbrey's smile was fleeting but genuine. "Typical Roose. Allowing you room to succeed or fail on your own merits, while maintaining his distance from either outcome."
"A lesson I've learned well," Domeric acknowledged.
She turned from the fire to face him fully. "You've dealt with the matter at the mill. Permanently, I hear."
The statement wasn't a question, but Domeric inclined his head slightly in confirmation. They had never explicitly spoken of Ramsay, just as his father never had. Yet she had warned him, in her way, and now acknowledged the resolution with similar circumspection.
"Northern justice was served," he said simply.
"Good." The word carried finality. "The North has enough complications without adding unstable elements to the mixture."
They were silent for a moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the great hall. Domeric watched his aunt's face, reading the calculations behind her composed expression. Lady Barbrey had been navigating Northern politics since before his birth, balancing her position between the powerful houses with remarkable skill. Her assessment of his plans carried weight beyond mere familial approval.
"I will support your suit for the Stark girl," she said finally. "House Dustin's voice may not carry the weight of the Karstarks or Manderlys, but we have our influence. And your plan for the harbor expansion is sound. I'll have my steward prepare the initial surveys."
"Thank you, Aunt," Domeric replied, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Your support is valuable."
Lady Barbrey returned to her seat, her movements graceful despite the stiffness that Domeric had noticed in her gait—a reminder that winter years took their toll even on the strongest Northerners.
"Don't thank me yet," she advised dryly. "Winning the Stark girl's hand will require more than family support and sound trade proposals. Ned Stark may be Warden, but he listens to his lady wife on these matters. And Catelyn Tully has always viewed the Boltons with particular suspicion."
"I'm aware," Domeric acknowledged. "There will be resistance. But resistance can be overcome with patience and demonstrated value."
"Patience," Lady Barbrey repeated, a hint of irony coloring the word. "Not a virtue commonly associated with young men seeking advantageous marriages."
"I was not raised to pursue common virtues," Domeric replied, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
His aunt laughed then—a brief, sharp sound like ice breaking. "No," she agreed. "You were not."
She raised her goblet in a toast, her eyes meeting his over the rim. "To the future of House Bolton. May your blades remain sharp and your plans sharper still."
Domeric raised his own cup, the familiar sensation of measured satisfaction settling in his chest. Not triumphant, not certain, but advancing with purpose. Every piece moving into position for the game to come.
"To the future," he agreed. "Of all our houses."
WINTERFELL-STARKS
The fire in Lord Stark's solar provided the only sound as Maester Luwin finished reading Domeric Bolton's formal request. Robb sat beside his father at the great oak table, watching the subtle shift in his mother's expression as she absorbed the implications of the letter. Unlike their regular councils on Northern development, Ruyan was not present for this meeting—a deliberate choice, as matters concerning Stark marriage alliances remained firmly within the family's private purview.
"So," his father said finally, breaking the silence. "The heir to the Dreadfort seeks permission to court Sansa."
It wasn't a question, but Robb answered regardless. "Yes. His intentions have been increasingly clear during his recent visits."
Lady Catelyn set aside her needlework, her blue eyes revealing a mother's caution rather than outright rejection. "Sansa is just thirteen," she noted. "And the Boltons... are not known for gentle histories."
"Have a complicated history with our house," his father finished for her. "Though Domeric himself has shown admirable restraint and courtesy in his approaches thus far."
Robb leaned forward slightly. "He's not what one might expect from House Bolton," he observed. "His fostering in the Vale has given him different perspectives than his father. His interest in trade development and regional infrastructure suggests a forward-thinking approach to Northern governance."
"Or a calculated effort to appear so," Lady Catelyn countered, though her tone lacked true conviction. She sighed, meeting her husband's gaze. "Still, we cannot deny that such an alliance has undeniable utility."
"The eastern houses would view it favorably," Maester Luwin confirmed, rolling the parchment carefully. "Particularly given Lady Dustin's recent overtures regarding harbor development. A Stark-Bolton alliance would create stability along our eastern borders at a time when much of our focus has been directed westward."
Robb nodded. "The balance is important. Our efforts at Sea Dragon Point and with the Manderlys need to be complemented by similar arrangements in the east. The Bolton proposal for Barrowton's harbor expansion shows genuine interest in regional development, not merely house advancement."
His father's gray eyes studied him with characteristic intensity. "You support this match."
"I do," Robb acknowledged. "For both political and personal reasons."
"Explain," his father requested simply.
Robb gathered his thoughts, knowing his assessment would carry weight in this decision. "Politically, it addresses concerns about maintaining balance between eastern and western Northern houses as our development projects advance. It brings House Bolton more firmly into the cooperative framework we've been establishing. And it ensures that one of the North's most powerful houses remains aligned with Winterfell's interests rather than forming competing alliances."
"And the personal considerations?" his mother pressed, her expression revealing maternal concern beneath her political pragmatism.
"Sansa has changed significantly in recent months," Robb replied carefully. "Her education with Ruyan has given her insight and political awareness few Northern lords would value properly. Domeric Bolton is perhaps uniquely positioned to value her capabilities—he's educated, cultured from his time in the Vale, and has demonstrated interest in her thoughts rather than merely her station."
Lady Catelyn's eyebrow arched slightly. "You believe she could be... content with him?"
"I believe she could build a partnership with him," Robb clarified. "One founded on mutual respect and common objectives, even if not immediate affection. Much as you and Father did," he added, meeting his mother's gaze directly.
Something passed between his parents then—a silent communication built on years of shared experience. His mother's expression softened fractionally, acknowledging the truth in his words. Their own marriage had begun as a political arrangement yet had grown into something far deeper over time.
"There is wisdom in what you say," his father acknowledged, his fingers tapping once against the table—a rare external sign of his internal deliberation. "Though we must consider how this fits with our other arrangements. Young Ned Umber's fostering here has created a notable connection to Last Hearth, particularly through his friendship with Arya."
"And Bran's planned fosterage at White Harbor will strengthen our Manderly ties," Robb added. "These connections create a balanced network of influence across the North."
"The Manderlys have proven enthusiastic partners in our western developments," Maester Luwin noted. "Lord Wyman has agreed to several joint initiatives, including the betrothal of his granddaughter Wylla to Junren."
His father's brow furrowed slightly. "Your wife's steward? The one overseeing the Yi Tish settlement on the White Knife?"
"Yes," Robb confirmed. "The arrangement ensures the enclave maintains strong connections to Northern interests while providing the Manderlys privileged access to Yi Tish trade knowledge. It's a prudent consolidation of our existing alliances."
His mother rose, moving to stand beside the hearth. The firelight caught the auburn of her hair—the same color Sansa had inherited—as she considered their options with careful deliberation.
"Sansa should have some voice in this matter," she said finally. "Not the final decision, perhaps, but her feelings should be considered."
"Agreed," his father said. "Has she given any indication of her thoughts on Domeric Bolton?"
Robb considered this carefully. "She finds him well-mannered and intelligent. She appreciates his knowledge of music and history. Beyond that, she has maintained appropriate reserve during their interactions."
"As she should," his mother acknowledged, a hint of pride warming her voice. "Though I've noticed her taking particular care with her appearance before his visits."
"Which suggests at minimum that she is not opposed to his attentions," Robb observed.
His father rose, moving to join his wife by the fire. "A courtship period would be prudent," he said after a moment of contemplation. "Not an immediate betrothal, but permission for them to become better acquainted under proper supervision."
"This gives us time to assess his true character," Lady Catelyn agreed. "And gives Sansa opportunity to look beyond initial impressions."
"It also demonstrates our willingness to consider the alliance without committing House Stark irrevocably," Robb added. "A measured approach that honors both houses' dignity."
His father nodded slowly, his decision clearly forming. "The pattern you propose has merit," he acknowledged. "Sansa potentially eastward with the Boltons. Arya building connections northward through her friendship with young Umber. Bran fostering at White Harbor to strengthen our Manderly ties. Each arrangement balances the others, creating stability across the North."
Maester Luwin cleared his throat softly. "And young Rickon?"
"Remains at Winterfell," his father replied. "As insurance against unforeseen developments." The last words hung heavy in the air—a reminder that even the most carefully laid plans could be disrupted by fate or circumstance.
His mother returned to her seat, gathering her needlework with practiced hands. "I will speak with Sansa tonight," she said. "Not to influence her unduly, but to gauge her true feelings beyond what propriety allows her to show publicly."
"A wise precaution," his father agreed. He turned to Maester Luwin. "Draft a measured response to House Bolton. Courteous but not effusive. Indicate our willingness to permit a formal courtship period, with appropriate conditions and supervision."
"Yes, my lord," the maester acknowledged, already reaching for parchment and quill.
"And inform Lord Manderly that we accept his proposal regarding young Wylla and Junren," his father continued. "The marriage should proceed when preparations for Bran's fosterage are complete."
As Maester Luwin noted these instructions, Robb observed the subtle shift in his father's demeanor—the slight relaxation of tension that signaled a decision had been reached after proper consideration. It was a quality he had always admired in Lord Stark: the ability to weigh options thoroughly without allowing indecision to paralyze action.
"You've given these matters considerable thought," his father observed, his gaze returning to Robb. "More than I would have expected."
"I've had responsibilities thrust upon me earlier than anticipated," Robb replied simply. "As did you, once."
The reference to his father's own sudden ascension to lordship—following the deaths of his father and brother in King's Landing—was not lost on anyone present. For a brief moment, the shadow of past tragedies seemed to hover in the air between them, a reminder of how quickly fortunes could change.
"You speak like a lord," his father acknowledged, a rare hint of approval warming his typically reserved tone. "Not merely an heir."
The words carried weight beyond their simple meaning—a recognition of Robb's growth over the past two years. The boy who had once thought primarily of swords and hunts now proposed strategic alliances with the confidence of someone who understood their long-term implications.