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298 AC
Kingsroad South of Moat Cailin
"My lord Bolton, Lord Karstark has arrived," Vanee said, bowing low.
Domeric gestured with his hand, giving the man leave to allow him into the large tent.
Four of his twelve Praetorians stood posted at each corner of the pavilion along with their commander, Varro the Qohorik, who stood stout at his lord's side. All were outfitted in regular crimson armor, with Varro's own being a little differeNt as it bore three golden crosses across the chest plate, a mark that signified his rank as Grandmaster of the fanatical bodyguards.
Their numbers had increased to thirty seven and the remaining twenty five had been left behind at the Dreadfort. A few had been assigned to members of the High Council as additional protection and, more importantly, as a visible signal to both court and commons that these men held Domeric's favor: Caro, Rigmond, the Vandross, the Marqalen brothers, and Marlo Horan among them.
Lord Rickard entered. He was gaunt and tall, with a thick grey beard and hair hanging loose past his shoulders. His face was narrow and his features shaped into a naturally grim countenance.
Rickard was clothed in black; the glint of chainmail could be seen beneath his gambeson.
"Lord Karstark," Domeric greeted as the man approached.
"Lord Bolton," Rickard nodded back.
"I thank you for seeing me at this hour, my lord. I have ale, wine, beer—northern fire, if you prefer. Any refreshment you wish, I have it."
"I'll take some beer."
Vanee poured two mugs, one for the Karstark and one for his lord.
Domeric tasted his drink, then took his seat behind a portable desk, gesturing for Rickard to take one of the chairs set before it.
"Best we get straight to it, then," he said after another sip.
"When we last spoke," Domeric began, "I mentioned making you a richer man than before. Our last agreement saw you gaining more wealth than your Umber neighbors to the west. I aided the development of several of your infrastructures, and in turn we trade. We buy your lumber, you sell us your ice and other wares, and of course we provide coin and other means of support."
"Indeed. And at that time I also offered my daughter's hand in marriage—yet you refused."
"I meant no disrespect, Lord Karstark. Lady Alys is among the most beautiful women in the North. It would, however, break a promise I made to another if I told you yes." Domeric lied smoothly.
"Of course you did not," the man grumbled, sarcasm evident.
"But I present you an opportunity nonetheless. One of my banner lords—Stout—has become one of the richest men in my domain, if not the richest besides myself. His eldest son, Gothric, is long of age, clever, and a good fighter. He is here among the camp, and I propose we unite your houses. You would send Alys to a good match and tie your line to wealth and prosperity. Lord Stout oversees some of the largest sugar-beet farms in my lands. Surely you see where I'm going."
"I do—yet you propose I marry off my daughter to some secondary house," he replied.
"Your daughter is your fourth child. What castle will she inherit when you are dead? What lands? What holdfast will she possess? None. I offer a compromise. Your youngest son, Torren, has also found himself in favorable company, even in my grandfather's lands."
"You have children who will inherit little and few. I offer the chance to secure a longer and greater legacy for them all."
Rickard remained silent for several seconds, staring directly into Domeric's eyes before speaking.
He had come to know the young Bolton somewhat well. The boy was neither weak nor foolish—that much was certain. He did not go back on his word, nor was he the sort to forget or forgive the gravest insults. Yet whenever he wanted something, he ensured he gained greatly in return. Now Rickard wondered what such a marriage would truly bring his house. Economically, very little—Alys would be marrying into House Stout, not Bolton. And though there was no hostility between their houses, neither could one say they were as close as the Starks and Manderlys.
"I need time to think on this, Lord Bolton," he said at last, setting his empty mug upon the table before rising.
"Please do, Lord Karstark. I envision our houses growing through further collaboration and alliance," Domeric said, rising as well.
Karstark's eyes shifted briefly to Varro at Domeric's right, surprised to find the man appearing a few inches taller than he remembered. Perhaps it was the armor, he thought.
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The journey further south was arduously slow and endlessly annoying.
No one argues or complains quite like a lord swollen with pride and ego. They grumbled about how House Bolton did this and that, and how House Bolton's soldiers caused trouble along the camp's lines.
Among the twenty thousand men riding with us, many had already taken it upon themselves to form a wall against my house, shielding themselves behind the Stark name. As if Robb, in all his honor and undiplomatic tendencies, would ever publicly stand against me or mine. Ned Stark never took such a stance and he would follow in his father's foot steps more than his mother's.
And for the moment though, he was also the main supplier for half the army's food. The same was true for steel, weapons and arrows.
Back at Winterfell, I had convinced Robb with effort, of the immense responsibilities and resources a war would demand, especially if it became prolonged.
Trade would be choked off, and that did not bode well for me nor for any of the mercantile houses. I told him that a swift and decisive outcome would be required before everything unraveled into something far worse. And considering how events had played out in the books and the show, I knew Joffrey would have Ned executed… and hopefully he still met the same fate.
A cruel thing to say but a guy had to look out for his own. This was the law of the world. A rule of power.
After Ned's death however the boy Robb would be crowned the King in the North. And how difficult it would be trying to usurp a king.
But if I played my cards correctly and continued to gather support as I had been, dissent among the northern forces would be inevitable.
And when it came time, I could seize not only the crucial crossing held by the Freys, but wipe their house clean of its rot or perhaps even from existence altogether.
The Manderlys' could be tempered from their reverence towards Ned Stark and the stark line without damaging our friendship. But it goes to say what I'd do with the other Starks. With Bran with Rickon, Sansa and Arya.
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