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Stark Lands 297 AC
—-Some Roadside Tavern
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My mother told me
Someday I will buy
Galleys with good oars,
Sail to distant shores.
My mother told me
Someday I will buy,
Galleys with good oars,
Sail to distant shores.
Stand up on the prow,
Noble barque I steer.
(Steady) steady course to the haven,
Hew many foemen,
Hew many foemen.
My mother told me
Someday I will buy
Galleys with good oars,
Sail to distant shores.
Stand up on the prow,
Noble barque I steer.
(Steady) steady course to the haven,
Hew many foemen—
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
Hey.
——- ——- ——- ——— —-
"T'was some damn fine tunes there, bard," the tavern keeper said.
"Some of the men—and the girls—are asking when you'll come through again."
"As long as there's coin again you'll see me," the young man replied without turning, " And I'll be happy to oblige."
He passed a sack of grain to his companion, who stowed it farther on the horse-drawn cart.
"Tell you what," the bard went on, turning at last with a smile.
"When I pass through these parts again, I'll give you a discount. Fifteen silver stags this time, and you give me three barrels of that salted pork you've got tucked away."
The tavern keeper scratched his beard, thinking, then nodded. "Done."
He studied the bard for a moment. "But where'd you learn a song like that? In my five decades I've never heard such a shanty."
The bard—Brenden—chuckled. "It's no secret. I was commissioned by Lord Bolton himself."
"Lord Bolton?" the man echoed, startled.
"That's right. He had me sing it on his four-and-twentieth nameday. Wrote the verses himself."
Old Milden burst into laughter, his great belly shaking with it. "Hah! You're a bard, I know—but I never took you for a jester too. You expect me to believe that Lord Bolton? The young lord known for his frugal brutality? Sitting about writing songs?"
"I do not jest," Brenden said mildly. "Lord Bolton is a man of Cheer, integrity and honor. Some of you folk would do well to remember that."
"So you all say," Milden replied, snorting. "I hear he's more bad than good. They say he shits silver and gold like a Lannister—and I've yet to see a man shit copper, much less silver."
Brenden laughed at his words. "But say what you will. Many of you benefit from Lord Bolton's hands, whether you know it or not."
"I know my grain and spices come from his lands," Milden allowed. "But songs? From Lord Bolton?" He waved a hand. "You've made my morn, boy. Be on your way."
"As you wish you stubborn mule," Brenden said cheerfully as he climbed into the open cart.
"But next time it's twenty silver stags."
"Twenty?" Milden barked. "Now wait—"
"Farewell," Brenden called as the cart lurched forward. "Till next time."
—— ——— ——- ———
Winterfell
"Lord Bolton has always paid his taxes early," the man said. "As he has for years. He intends to continue doing his duty, to the kingdom, to its king, and to his name." Treygar Caro says diligently.
"And he has," the man continued. "He has brokered a trust and alliance with neighboring lords and even southern houses something unprecedented by his house for a few decades. He has done right by his bannermen and by himself."
"He tries," another added. "My lord Bolton shall and will always prefer friends in his yards than enemies at his gates."
Eddard Stark's eyes narrowed at his statement and the man.
Catelyn had warned him of this, more than once. So had Maester Luwin.
House Bolton, the flayed man,had become the richest and even more influential than in the east than any other houses in the North.
From every report laid before him, their ambitions had showed no sign of waning.
White Harbor had grown particularly closer to the Dreadfort. Trade flowed heavily between them, and word had reached Winterfell that Lord Manderly had offered one granddaughter after another to the young lord with each proposal being politely yet, diplomatically being refused.
Ned had met Domeric Bolton only once, during a dispute involving himself , the Umbers and Karstarks.
And back then he saw his personality for himself, the young lord had been calm, soft-spoken like his father before him and also lacked the elder Bolton's corpse-pallor.
He would laugh at joke, he accepted jests without offense, he was fair and stern. And yet, behind his eyes, Ned had glimpsed something familiar—something he had seen in men who hungered to be more than they were.
Domeric Bolton was no green boy struggling beneath a lord's mantle. He ruled for further ambition and power. Everything within his borders were weighed and measured like bushels of grain . Everything accounted for and known.
He governed his lands like a merchant governed a market, wringing profit from fields and forest alike. He leased lands from neighboring lords, stripping them of timber and ore, and selling the yield in distant ports with names he forgot to even remember.
The Dreadfort, alongside White Harbor, had become something greater especially the former.
And Ned Stark did not know whether the North would be stronger for it or broken by a house that were generational enemies of his house.
House Manderly were loyal and always had been but with the premise of Gold and coin in tow allegiances could break. But he wouldn't question Wyman's Honor as he knew the man personally.
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