The morning cold still clung to the stones as stink to dung , and with him descended into the courtyard, his breath misted in the chill air. Stablehands and servants halted in their work as he crossed the yard, bowing their heads quickly before returning to their duties with twice the haste. Whether out of respect or unease, he didn't care. Either would serve him but most preferably the former.
Today would mark the beginning of what he envisioned—the first steps toward reshaping the Dreadfort from a gloomy fortress into the heart of a thriving, disciplined domain.
Coleman approached cautiously, clutching a wooden tablet and quill with both hands.
"My lord," he puffed up, "your schedule, as you requested…"
Domeric took it. The tablet listed the day's audiences, disputes, petitions, village representatives, peasantry matters and two minor lords who had arrived unannounced.
He handed it back. It was quite a roster amd he intended to have it all completed today. "Let's begin."
—— —— ——- ——- ——
The great hall felt drafty even with the braziers lit. Domeric sat in his father's chair, not sprawling lazily as Roose had, but upright, sharp, and articulate. His retinue of foreigners lingered against the walls, silent observers to the matters of the court with one of them sitting close by as a court recorder of official matters as his duty required of him to complete accurate written records of all spoken testimony, arguments, and rulings in the hall.
This was a duty the man loved and it was all he lived for.
The first petitioner, an elderly crofter, shuffled in with cap in hand.
"Lord Bolton," he began, trembling, "'tis about th' river rights near Crow's Bend. My neighbor, Tam Weller—he's diverting water from the stream for his own mill without leave. And mi fields've been dryin' up."
Domeric tapped his fingers thoughtfully.
A petty feud was always major between small folk, but he couldn't over look the fact of a dry field. This meant low yields, and low yields meant less taxes to collect and hunger peasants which was never good especially in this part of the north.
"Summon this Tam Weller," Domeric ordered.
The neighbor, a stout man with calloused hands and the stubborn eyes of northern stock, was dragged in shortly after. He bowed stiffly.
Domeric clasped his hands while resting his elbows on the chairs armrests.
"You divert water that feeds your neighbor's fields?"
"My lord," Weller insisted, "my grandfather built that mill. Always took water from that stream, always. His fields lie higher up. Mine lie lower. It's but nature."
Coleman whispered, "These disputes are common, my lord. Traditionally—"
"Tradition is worth nothing if it weakens my land and food supply," Domeric whispered back to the man .
The hall fell silent.
He studied the two men, the old and the older. Both heads of households. Both reliant on the same river. Both had sons—future soldiers, future laborers, daughters that were also contributing somewhat to the land.
He needed to play this right.
"You will share the water equally," Domeric declared. "Weller, you will divert no more than half the flow at any time. In return, you will grind Crofter Harl's grain for free in winter."
Weller balked. "My lord—!"
Domeric's gaze turned stern.
"That, or I will take the mill under lordly control." That ended his objection.
The man bowed in defeat , grumbling but obedient.
The two men were directed away and back through the doors they came and the clerk had notated all of this quickly with a quill and ink with methodical ease.
A small victory. Imperfect, but logical . Stability mattered more than fairness at times. They needed to understand this.
The next petition came from a woman in a frayed cloak, cheeks red from cold. She carried no weapon, no sigil, only the look of desperation.
"My lord… our village of Stonebridge is starving."
Coleman stepped forward to whisper again. "Stonebridge lies forty miles east. Sparse farmlands, but poor soil."
His knowledge of better farming techniques and that of one of his cadre to the side could definitely assist in resolving such issues like this but the time was still too ripe. He still needed agricultural equipment better ploughs and seeders. Better Mills and even more horse if not oxen to drag these tools.
Domeric gestured for her to speak.
"The early frost killed our crops. Half the sheep died. And now… now the road is unsafe. Bandits from the northern woods take what little we have. If no help comes, we'll not survive the winter."
Then there's the matter of crops ill suited for the northern weather this issued needed to be resolved throughout his entire domain. And this era was heavily dependent on agriculture, which served as the absolute backbone of the economy, society, and daily life. With the vast majority of his population, typically around 85%, being peasants or serfs who relied on cultivating the land for survival and Lords like himself derived most of their income from agricultural output, collected as labor services, a share of the produce, or rent.
Agricultural production was essential for sustaining the population. Periods of surplus food enabled population growth and the expansion of towns and trade networks, while poor harvests often led to famine and social unrest. Which was usually common in these parts.
A small food issue and then their was the insult to his rule, bandits. An embarrassment to any lordship. But they were also proof of what he already knew—the Boltons ruled by fear and cruelty, not administration or order. People obeyed Roose not because he was their lord, but because they feared him. And now they obeyed Domeric… because, the reasons of duty and social hierarchy demanded it.
He was new no one knew anything about him and no doubt these bandits took the opportunity when news of rooses's death reached them to attack the village.
Yet through thus all fear alone would not build roads, granaries, or prosperity. Respect and loyalty needed to be ingrained in their veins.
"How many bandits?" he asked.
"Seven, maybe eight, my lord. But well armed. And bold."
Well armed he highly doubted.
Varro the Qohor native spoke up from his right. "I and my men can handle them."
His men were the 15 Qohor natives that arrived at the Dreadfort two days ago, they were sworn to him through some form of religious pact and they followed the man and did his bidding no matter what, but in all if not previously before meeting him they were all mercenaries, experienced fighters especially Varro with his oily black hair and braided beard which stopped at his chest.
Domeric shook his head. "Tempting it was but no. Bolton men must do it. Yet I want your best trackers to assist them in finding these filth and making an example of them."
A foreigner killing bandits would help nothing. A Bolton banner riding out and returning victorious, that built some form of legitimacy.
"Walton," Domeric called out. Walton known as Steelshanks Walton, was the captain in service to Lord Roose Bolton and now his successor Domeric.
Walton was a tall and dour man , his alias Steelshanks was not without truth for he wore steel greaves over his long legs. Steelshanks was loyal and brutal, but not cruel.
"My lord", he answered his voice gravelly as usual.
"See to it that we get some of our best riders out to this village as quickly as possible to track and capture these thieves, varro will provide you with one of his own to help them."
"It will be done my lord", the Captain said as he nodded to a second of his who understood the gesture . Varro himself left in tune to see the right man appointed to this hunting team.
"And Stonebridge?" the woman asked softly.
"You will receive a cart of grain from our stores," Domeric said. "And next harvest, you will repay half. Your village will also send two workers to help repair the western road come spring."
She gasped, bowing deeply. "Thank you, my lord. Thank you!" She almost prostrated.
As she left, Coleman gently cleared his throat. "My lord, the grain stocks—"
"I am aware," Domeric answered. He need not be reminded. But grain was the least, he had enough gold acquired through theft, magic and treachery to buy and full his grain stores ten times over.
Coleman stared as if seeing him anew.
—- —— —— —— —- ——
After midday, two minor lords waited in the hall. Donnor Bount and Serwen Stout, both thick-coated from travel, both frowning before Domeric even reached them.
Bount spoke first. "My lord Bolton, we come regarding… troubling rumors."
Domeric arched a brow. "Rumors?"
Stout crossed his arms. "That you are tearing apart every ledger, reevaluating every village, reorganizing your bannermen, and demanding more unnecessary information than any lord in a hundred years."
Bount added, "It is… unsettling."
Domeric studied them peculiarly.
"Do accurate records unsettle you, Lord Bount?"
Bount flushed.
"N-none whatsoever my lord but this is unusual, it intrudes on our personal privacy without proper warning nor oversight," He voiced.
"Then take comfort in the fact that the general population and housing census will take factors like house accounting, "ledgers" as part of its standard information collection process. We are merely focusing on demographic and social data, not monetary accounting records." He advised him , them both.
"This would give me a proper understanding of the land and my peoples. An idea of the domestic, structural and economic troubles we face and how best we can fix these issues. Proper roads, increased if not better farms, lumberyards, mills , aqueducts, mines , bakehouses , granaries, mottes etc. Do better roads and bridges unsettle you, lord Bount ?"
"Nothing of that sort my lord , you have provided clarity and have now rest our minds at ease." He nodded.
"I hope so cause if you fear change," Domeric said simply. "Because you profited under my father's neglect then we will have a huge problem."
Bount stiffened. Stout's eyes also narrowed cringing visibly at the young lord's statement.
Domeric rose slowly from the table, cloak settling around him like a shadow.
"But Roose Bolton is dead. And under my rule, none will grow fat by letting the land rot. You will assist in the census wherever you can and without further complaint and both of you will provide the necessary assistance needed , whenever called upon."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And never dare barge into my abode again without proper notice or I shall not be this courteous again." He warned with the last sentence.
"You may leave"
Neither man spoke.They bowed stiffly, muttering empty courtesies as they withdrew.
Drako Rogerrio approached once they'd left.
Drako Rogerrio was once a spy of a wealthy Lysene Magister and now spymaster for Domeric. Drako was a master of disguise and could alter his voice, gait, smell, and overall appearance, employing different wardrobes, make-up and wigs, to become unrecognizable.
Secrets were his trade, and his skill at acquiring them has earned him a reputation for being seemingly omniscient to those who knew him in the other side of the world.
Even in the tundras of the North Drako wore rich silks , velvet, and damasks.His attire includes on one occasion a vest of woven gold thread over a azure silk robe.
"You push them hard," he murmured.
"They are northern lords, stubborn as mules," Domeric replies . "Push them lightly and they never move."
—- —— ——- ——
When the hall finally emptied, Domeric retreated to the solar. Maps lay sprawled across the table—roads, villages, borders, forests dense with danger and opportunity alike, rocky hills and mountains all ripe for proper exploitation.
Sera, the Pentoshi woman, entered with parchment covered in numbers.
"We've compiled initial population estimates," she said. "Crude, but useful."
Domeric took her document and scanned its contents.Too few farmers.Too few craftsmen.
Far too few soldiers and potential levies.
Dilapidation everywhere.
He exhaled gently.
"We will fix it," he said.
"Slowly," she reminded him gently.
"Slowly," he agreed with a small smile almost chuckling.
But surely.
The Dreadfort's nor his domain's future would not be built in a day. Nor in a moon's turning. But he could begin. Brick by brick. Village by village. Road by road. Bridge by bridge and in time…
The richest, strongest domain in the North. A manufacturing agricultural and technological power house. He could already see it.
And then?
What came after was not yet written.But he intended to write it. As the architect of a new era.