Exiled Dragons: A Viserys Targaryen Quest

What do You Want Viserys' Goal's To Be?

  • See Yourself on the Iron Throne

    Votes: 202 36.2%
  • Find Dragon Eggs

    Votes: 221 39.6%
  • Become A Wealthy Man

    Votes: 136 24.4%
  • Have a Family (A Wife and Children)

    Votes: 218 39.1%
  • See Dany Grow Up Well

    Votes: 302 54.1%
  • Become a Great Warrior

    Votes: 159 28.5%
  • Explore The Great Cities of the World

    Votes: 146 26.2%
  • Return To Westeros

    Votes: 71 12.7%
  • Become Fluent in Several Languages

    Votes: 101 18.1%
  • You have No Goal

    Votes: 18 3.2%

  • Total voters
    558
He would rather fight, but understands what needs to be done.

As for Dany and Beshka being safe... Well, believe me, there is risk involved everywhere, and doing anything.

That is all I will say.
Well, yes. I did expect that. It's more of asking Jaime "would your father guarantee their safety, and would you believe him?" If his answer isn't an emphatic yes to both, I'm voting for sending them to Dorne
 
It is somewhat frustrating that Tywin manages to fall once more into a position where he can easily play kingmaker. Hopefully Danaerys can find a way to dislodge him from that rut and place him in a more controllable position.
 
It is somewhat frustrating that Tywin manages to fall once more into a position where he can easily play kingmaker. Hopefully Danaerys can find a way to dislodge him from that rut and place him in a more controllable position.
I agree, but this feels like the wrong side of risky for a Tywin move. Although, that could be a miscalculation on his part, assuming Robert understands he cannot afford to alienate House Lannister ... and that Robert remains capable of the objective reasoning needed to reach that conclusion. Or maybe not, maybe he has a better handle on Robert than we do.

This is what I liked about Silver King -- no objection to anything here or what you're doing, Magoose, just to be clear -- we had Tywin on our side from the get-go so we didn't have to worry ... well, as much ... about what he was doing or thinking. Here, though, he's such a damn wildcard that I don't know if he could be persuaded by Dany, or if he'd send her giftwrapped to Robert as a ticket back to the inner circle. And, at the same time, we can't afford to dismiss or ignore him 'cause then he will go all-in for Robert and things get much messier.

Urrrgh, why do you have to be such a Magnificent Bastard, Tywin. Bastardy bastardface.
 
Urrrgh, why do you have to be such a Magnificent Bastard, Tywin. Bastard.
Because Tywin is being exactly who he is in canon... mostly.

And that is, a man who is willing to do anything to protect his legacy.

And that legacy is split between two different kings.

one will live, and the other will die.

If he chooses to do nothing, either way, he wins.
 
@Marlowe310811 are you planning on putting together a plan? I was waiting for yours before deciding whether to make one of my own
Yeah, I was hoping to see if there would be any response to the last question I had for Jaime:
It's more of asking Jaime "would your father guarantee their safety, and would you believe him?" If his answer isn't an emphatic yes to both, I'm voting for sending them to Dorne
 
If we are going to send Dany to Casterly Rock then I think regardless she should be sent with Garrett. He's not a martial character, in either Command or Combat, but he is an excellent escape artist. I mean...breaking into and out of ridiculously rich places is his whole shtick.

(Although Davos could be a decent alternative.)

I may or may not be advocating for this in the hope that if Tywin decides to swing to Robert not only to save Dany...but so we can steal Brightroar too though it's pretty secondary to Dany (and Jaime). I'm not sure if succeeding at doing that would count as an assassination attempt just from the heart attack/stroke that'll ensue.
 
If we are going to send Dany to Casterly Rock then I think regardless she should be sent with Garrett. He's not a martial character, in either Command or Combat, but he is an excellent escape artist. I mean...breaking into and out of ridiculously rich places is his whole shtick.

(Although Davos could be a decent alternative.)

I may or may not be advocating for this in the hope that if Tywin decides to swing to Robert not only to save Dany...but so we can steal Brightroar too though it's pretty secondary to Dany (and Jaime). I'm not sure if succeeding at doing that would count as an assassination attempt just from the heart attack/stroke that'll ensue.
I like it. I'm gonna steal that, if you're cool with it.
 
I shall say this.

they will be guests.

whether or not Tywin will betray those traditions will entirely depend on who we send.
 
I like it. I'm gonna steal that, if you're cool with it.
Do it.
I shall say this.

they will be guests.

whether or not Tywin will betray those traditions will entirely depend on who we send.
Totally forgot about Guest Right...hopefully Tywin's obsession with the Lannister's image will keep him to it. He used the Freys and Boltons to break it in Canon so he'd most likely use a catspaw who's not under his roof...it's when they are going there and leaving that's most dangerous probably
 
[X] Personal (and Personnel) Management Style
I still need a better title tho.

Who shall lead the Golden Company Detachment in the Stormlands:
[X]Jon Connington

Who will go with another detachment of The Company to assist the Dornish break through the Marcher Lords:
[X]Davos Seaworth
-[X]Dany
-[X]Beshka

Who will go with the Mercenaries Going to the Claw Pennensula:
[X]Warrek

Who Will Go to the Riverlands to Link up with Hoster Tully and the Northern Lord's:
[X]Viserys Targaryen

Who will Lead the Diplomatic Envoy to Tywin Lannister?:
[X]Jaime Lannister
-[X]Garret

Do You Lead From Dragonstone:
[X]No (You must state this if you wish to lead.)
-[X] Give Stannis overall command from Dragonstone.
-[X] Aegon can hopefully aid or learn from Stannis

Do You Follow Stannis' Plan?:
[X]Yes: We shall launch a multi-pronged invasion at several different landing locations
 
The End of the Beginning By Marlowe310811
The End of the Beginning

Domeric Bolton was a young man of sixteen, kneeling before his liege lord in a pale red cloak and deep red leathers. Eddard Stark looked him up and down, and thought first that to look at him was, at first glance, to see the exact image of his father Roose at sixteen. Only the slightest alteration of the image existed, being that Domeric's eyes were not as close together as his father's, and he was slightly taller. But that first glance alone lent the impression, and it was quickly undermined by looking for one second more.

Long before learning what he had of Roose, Ned had never liked or trusted the man; merely thinking of him sent a shiver up Ned's back, like a chilled leech crawling up his spine. He'd always had blank, lifeless eyes, like sunbleached stones on the western shores, and an emotionless manner that had made Ned wonder once or twice if the man possessed any emotions at all. What Jorah told him made clear the man possessed drives, desires, impulses, but nothing that suggested emotion or feeling. Some lords (and even a few ladies) had expressed in confidence their opinion that the leeches Roose so devotedly attached to himself (and praised the benefits of aloud) had sucked not merely his blood but all passion and natural drives out of him long ago. He hadn't given the idea much credit before, but now Ned wasn't so dismissive.

And none of that could be found in Domeric Bolton. His eyes were the exact shade of his father's, true, but they sparked with intelligence, passion, and a joy for life that shone through whenever he spoke on or thought about something that didn't involve his father. Talking about Roose dimmed his eyes to a more Bolton-like appearance, but even then emotion and feeling were clearly present in Domeric, just subdued by the subject and the circumstance. His cloak and leathers were of a colour to what Roose had worn, but no blood drops were embroidered into his cloak, and the roundels securing his cloak were solid red disks with lopsided 'x' markings on them vaguely evocative of the infamous flayed man upon their banners, rather than detailed carvings or human faces frozen in terror as Roose was wont to wear. He didn't hide from his family's past, but neither did he revel in it. Ser Jorah's intelligence had reported that Domeric was a musician almost as good as Rhaegar had been, a horseman almost as good as Lyanna and Brandon had been, and a chainless historian (though it was Mormont's estimation that the young lord could earn a handful of copper links from the Citadel without much exertion). It was almost as though all passions and liveliness had skipped over Roose and passed into his son instead.

And now Domeric Bolton was Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Rise, my lord." Ned extended a hand, which the young Lord Bolton took to help him up, with a grateful nod. Domeric had been on his way from the Barrowlands to squire with the Redforts for a time, when Ned's men met him at Moat Cailin with the unwelcome news, and escorted him to Winterfell with all haste.

Ned could admit to himself, even if to no one else, that the timing was of great service to him and the North; war would be declared likely any day now, and it would not do to have a powerful lord in the Vale to be held for ransom ... and he hated himself a little, both for thinking that way about a young man whose father was dead, and that things had reached the point where he truly believed the Vale, under Jon Arryn, might take a lord of the North hostage against him. He could also admit to himself, with less self-loathing than the other thoughts brought on, that he was grateful to not have to call Roose Bolton's banners, nor ask the man to serve him when all he would wish would be to run the demon through. That would have been even more messy and damaging than a trial, Ned mused. He was much less concerned about young Domeric, even if he wasn't proven in war the way his father had been.

"You've been most gracious, Lord Stark," Domeric spoke, the words seeming to come more naturally to him than the standard, stilted and dry oaths of allegiance had. "My aunt hasn't had many kind words leave her about most folk, but I find she may have outright misled me about your character," he said with a harmless smile. Ah yes, Barbrey Dustin, Ned recalled her hate-filled eyes the last he saw her and felt his smile falter. "I don't, erm, take her at her word about you, my lord," Domeric hastily added, clearly seeing Ned's expression. "I know that the wound there is old and pains her deeply, but it's my hope that my getting on well with you and your family will let that wound heal some."

"I would that all were well, but I fear that will never be," Ned answered truthfully. "I suspect our civility is at the height. Some wounds," he mused, "are too old and too deep to heal."

"I appreciate your honesty, my lord," Domeric replied. "I think my aunt believes she is honest, but I often find her honest about what she feels to be true and not what is true."

"I don't wish to make you feel unwelcome, Lord Domeric," Ned began, "but I don't wish to strain your relationship with Lady Barbrey, either. If it will keep peace between you and her," and the standing bitter detente between her and me, he thought, "you need not linger here to convince me of your fealty. And I imagine, whatever else, you likely wish to go home."

Domeric's eyes were kind, so unlike his father's that it made Ned wonder how a man like that produced a son like this. And how anyone related to Barbrey Dustin might produce such a man. "I'm sure my aunt would have had me ride past Winterfell altogether and take my seat at the Dreadfort without so much as a by-your-leave to you, my lord. There's little I could do to make her feel less heated towards you. By the same token, I feel there's little I could do to alienate her," and his smile gained an edge of japing to it, "save perhaps abdicate my seat and become your squire, or wed one of your daughters. That might be a road too far with her, even for me."

"Have you had offers yet, my lord?" Ned had no intention of offering Sansa unless Sansa expressed an interest in Domeric, and Arya was far too young, but there were many other ladies in the North, and Lord Domeric had just become the most eligible bachelor north of the Neck. No doubt when he arrived at the Dreadfort, there would be several missives from noble houses -- likely more than the average Bolton might have gotten, given his sterling reputation.

"For how short a time I've been Lord Bolton, I've already heard offers aplenty." He seemed bemused, as though not fully grasping the rush, but Ned suspected it was more to do with how quickly and vigorously daughters were being thrown at him; he was certain it hadn't escaped young Domeric that he was the sole heir of House Bolton, and a line going back thousands of years was standing now on thin ice. "I was considering asking Lord Mormont about his niece Dacey, but I don't want to be too forward."

That took Ned off-guard. "Dacey Mormont?" A young woman older than Robb but younger than Domeric, Dacey was known to be high-spirited, inclined to violence, and a force of personality much like her mother. When people thought he couldn't hear, Ned had heard her name and Lyanna's uttered in the same breath. In short, she did not seem the obvious choice for an intellectual, artistic soul like Domeric.

Then he was thrown again by Domeric nodding enthusiastically. "There have been very few offers to hold a higher appeal than Lady Dacey. The last I met her, she was as lovely and clever as she was dangerous, and she's every bit the horserider as me. In better times, I think it would make a fine challenge to win her heart ... and," he continued after hesitating a moment, "in these times, a woman of her talents could be vital."

Ned was careful to give away nothing, not knowing what he might have heard from his father or aunt or his travels on the road. " 'In these times', my lord?" He asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Forgive my directness, Lord Stark," Bolton answered, "but to travel across these lands is to see a kingdom in the preludes to war. Even my aunt can sense something coming in the air, though she knows not what. And I'm no fool," he said as he looked at himself. "I am many things, but I am neither a warrior nor a commander. I feel like Lady Dacey could help me get better at both, and be both a cunning advisor and a competent sword at my side. But," he finished, "I don't know that she'd have me. And I have my line and lands to think of now, not merely myself."

"If you would like," Ned offered, "I could ask Lord Mormont to reach out to her. The worst she could do is say 'no', after all."

At that, Domeric laughed. "I apologize, Lord Stark," he forced out through some remaining chuckles, "but if you imagine that's the worst she could do, you must not have seen Dacey in combat before." Ned smiled at that; he had indeed not seen her work firsthand, but being Warden of the North he could not help but hear of it. Domeric's face lost its mirth then, as he spoke again, "I'm sure my father would never have approved. I wish he were a man more given to writing down his thoughts; I suppose I'll never know who he would have approved of, or what he might have hoped for, for me."

"I am sorry for your loss, Lord Domeric," he said sincerely. And Ned was; monstrous or not, Roose was still the man's father, and Ned was intimately familiar with the pain of losing one's father before his time.

"I thank you, Lord Stark," Domeric nodded. "If it's not too bold to say, I think yours are the only sympathies I've actually believed. And I'm deeply sorry that you know what this feels like. I wouldn't wish this on anyone ... save perhaps my father's killers," he added, and Ned worked to keep any reaction from his face. "Even then, I don't know that I truly would."

"No?" Ned felt some confusion. "Believe me when I tell you, I would understand the feeling. You need not be circumspect with me."

"I appreciate that, my lord," Domeric answered with a sad smile, "but no man dies without reason, and I don't believe someone would kill my father over a horse or some coin. I fear his killers may have had good reason to see him dead, though I cannot prove it."

Ned scarcely dared to breathe.

"My father liked to say 'a peaceful land, a quiet people.' The older I get," and it made Ned's joints ache just a little to hear a man not yet twenty talk about getting older, Seven Hells, "the more I think he meant that the other way around; not that having peaceful lands kept his people content, but keeping them quiet made his lands seem peaceful. I ..." and the young lord's voice faltered, "I cannot prove anything, I never heard more than the faintest whisper when smallfolk thought they were alone or I was out of earshot ... but I fear he might have preyed on them. He always had to know who was marrying and when, and they had to ask his permission. It was his right to do all this, I know," he hastily added, "but I've never seen any other lord be so ... invested," he struggled to find the word. "If ... if he was hurting people, and someone stopped him ... I still have to try and find who did this, see justice done; no man should be able to kill a lord of the North and walk away unscathed," and Ned again schooled his features carefully, "but I think justice would be enough, to have the truth out in the open. I won't make a slaughterhouse of my lands just to avenge a man who may well have had it coming to him. I think ... I think of the old Targaryen kings sometimes," Domeric seemed to veer off into another subject, but Ned gave him patience, expecting the young lord had a reason for the odd divergence, "how Maegor mistook 'fear' for 'respect', how Baelor confused 'peace' with 'quiet'. The old maester at the Dreadfort would tell me sometimes, in confidence, that he thought me a joy to teach, that I was much more curious and attentive than others he had taught. I didn't need to be clever to know he meant my lord father. I think my father never paid attention to the mistakes of the past, so he never learned from them. And when he did, I fear he learned the wrong lessons." A bitter tone entered his voice. "I think he did not learn from our family's infamy to not hurt innocent people, but to do it quietly. I hope I am wrong," he added, "but Maester Anselm was always happy to point out how rarely that happened."

Ned breathed slowly through his nose once, twice, three times before speaking. "If you seek the truth of a man, my lord, there are few better to ask than his servants. Most highborn don't look their servants in the eye, much less think they have eyes or minds of their own. In confidence, Lord Domeric," Ned spoke softly, "I learned much about my father and brother from their servants, things I never would have known or believed were the witnesses not there before me and speaking in the sight of the gods. I offer this caution," Ned continued, "as one man who lost his father too soon, to another; you may wish you did not look for answers. Sometimes your intuition and suspicions are enough, and you may regret seeking to confirm them."

"In confidence, Lord Stark," Domeric returned, "do you?" His grey eyes were hesitant, but unrelenting. "Can you have peace without justice, or justice without truth?"

"...no," Ned finally answered, "to all. I regret that what I learned of happened, that these things and worse were true. But I would be lying to you if I said that trying to correct the errors of my family's past, and avoid making them myself, had not made me a better lord than if I had remained ignorant. I might not have made the same errors in ignorance, but with knowledge, I know I will not."

Domeric nodded. "Then I must do the same. And hope to become a better lord, as you have," he finished with a sad yet genuine smile. It was so strange to see a smile on a Bolton face, after so long of seeing Roose's humourless, emotionless expressions.

Perhaps this is a change for the better, a chance for some good to come forth ... though I played most foully for it, Ned thought in self-recrimination. "All men keep secrets from their families, all fathers fail their sons in some way," he counselled the young lord. "Let not the faults or failings you might find dim the good memories you possess, nor let nostalgia mask whatever truths you learn. Mind your own balance in these, Lord Domeric," Ned finished, "and you'll be alright."

Young Domeric, the Lord Bolton, gave him a much brighter smile in return. "In all sincerity, my lord, your advice and example are more help than anyone else could have offered. If it isn't too great an imposition, I would ask your leave to write you sometimes, for advice and input. I expected to have a lot longer to learn about lordship, and I don't believe I could ask for a better advisor in these times."

Ned did his best to ignore the guilty weight in his heart, and took Domeric's extended hand. "Anything you wish for or need from me, my Lord Bolton, I will do my utmost to aid you."

It was perhaps the most inopportune moment in Ned's life for some time, so naturally that was the moment that Maester Lewyn charged into Ned's solar unannounced, out of breath and looking stricken, clutching some crumpled scrolls in his hand. "My lord -- my lords, forgive me," he gasped out. "The Crown has declared war against Viserys Targaryen, who has responded in kind. Both call their banners. It has begun, Lord Stark."

Ned glanced over to Domeric, before commanding Lewyn, "Send ravens to every noble house: the banners are called. All will rally to Moat Cailin. We march for the Neck and the Trident."

Domeric looked down for a moment, then nodded, and asked, "With your leave, my lord, I will ride to the Dreadfort and rally my men and levies. And I would send a letter to Lady Barbrey, if you'll permit."

"What about?"

Domeric set his jaw, and for the first time Ned saw some of Roose in him beyond his looks. "My lord calls me to arms, and I mean to ride with him. If my aunt values my safety, she'll send as many men as she's able. If she tries to short you as I expect she intends, and I fall, my loss is on her head and not yours. This is no time for old grudges to get in the way, and I will make her understand that."

Ned respected the ruthlessness in such a move, and thought to himself, he just may do well as Lord Bolton. If we all survive this. "Do all, with my blessings." He added, "I will still feel out Lord Mormont about Dacey, and advise you regardless of that to consider being wed before going to battle."

"You and your family are a fine example, my lord," Domeric replied, "and yours is one I endeavour to follow. Lord Stark." He gave a brief yet formal nod, which Ned returned, and the new Lord Bolton departed, the maester following with a mission of his own, leaving the Warden of the North with his thoughts and turmoil. Now, he sighed, it starts.
 
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The End of the Beginning

Domeric Bolton was a young man of sixteen, kneeling before his liege lord in a pale red cloak and deep red leathers. Eddard Stark looked him up and down, and thought first that to look at him was, at first glance, to see the exact image of his father Roose at sixteen. Only the slightest alteration of the image existed, being that Domeric's eyes were not as close together as his father's, and he was slightly taller. But that first glance alone lent the impression, and it was quickly undermined by looking for one second more.

Long before learning what he had of Roose, Ned had never liked or trusted the man; merely thinking of him sent a shiver up Ned's back, like a chilled leech crawling up his spine. He'd always had blank, lifeless eyes, like sunbleached stones on the western shores, and an emotionless manner that had made Ned wonder once or twice if the man possessed any emotions at all. What Jorah told him made clear the man possessed drives, desires, impulses, but nothing that suggested emotion or feeling. Some lords (and even a few ladies) had expressed in confidence their opinion that the leeches Roose so devotedly attached to himself (and praised the benefits of aloud) had sucked not merely his blood but all passion and natural drives out of him long ago. He hadn't given the idea much credit before, but now Ned wasn't so dismissive.

And none of that could be found in Domeric Bolton. His eyes were the exact shade of his father's, true, but they sparked with intelligence, passion, and a joy for life that shone through whenever he spoke on or thought about something that didn't involve his father. Talking about Roose dimmed his eyes to a more Bolton-like appearance, but even then emotion and feeling were clearly present in Domeric, just subdued by the subject and the circumstance. His cloak and leathers were of a colour to what Roose had worn, but no blood drops were embroidered into his cloak, and the roundels securing his cloak were solid red disks with lopsided 'x' markings on them vaguely evocative of the infamous flayed man upon their banners, rather than detailed carvings or human faces frozen in terror as Roose was wont to wear. He didn't hide from his family's past, but neither did he revel in it. Ser Jorah's intelligence had reported that Domeric was a musician almost as good as Rhaegar had been, a horseman almost as good as Lyanna and Brandon had been, and a chainless historian (though it was Mormont's estimation that the young lord could earn a handful of copper links from the Citadel without much exertion). It was almost as though all passions and liveliness had skipped over Roose and passed into his son instead.

And now Domeric Bolton was Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Rise, my lord." Ned extended a hand, which the young Lord Bolton took to help him up, with a grateful nod. Domeric had been on his way from the Barrowlands to squire with the Redforts for a time, when Ned's men met him at Moat Cailin with the unwelcome news, and escorted him to Winterfell with all haste.

Ned could admit to himself, even if to no one else, that the timing was of great service to him and the North; war would be declared likely any day now, and it would not do to have a powerful lord in the Vale to be held for ransom ... and he hated himself a little, both for thinking that way about a young man whose father was dead, and that things had reached the point where he truly believed the Vale, under Jon Arryn, might take a lord of the North hostage against him. He could also admit to himself, with less self-loathing than the other thoughts brought on, that he was grateful to not have to call Roose Bolton's banners, nor ask the man to serve him when all he would wish would be to run the demon through. That would have been even more messy and damaging than a trial, Ned mused. He was much less concerned about young Domeric, even if he wasn't proven in war the way his father had been.

"You've been most gracious, Lord Stark," Domeric spoke, the words seeming to come more naturally to him than the standard, stilted and dry oaths of allegiance had. "My aunt hasn't had many kind words leave her about most folk, but I find she may have outright misled me about your character," he said with a harmless smile. Ah yes, Barbrey Dustin, Ned recalled her hate-filled eyes the last he saw her and felt his smile falter. "I don't, erm, take her at her word about you, my lord," Domeric hastily added, clearly seeing Ned's expression. "I know that the wound there is old and pains her deeply, but it's my hope that my getting on well with you and your family will let that wound heal some."

"I would that all were well, but I fear that will never be," Ned answered truthfully. "I suspect our civility is at the height. Some wounds," he mused, "are too old and too deep to heal."

"I appreciate your honesty, my lord," Domeric replied. "I think my aunt believes she is honest, but I often find her honest about what she feels to be true and not what is true."

"I don't wish to make you feel unwelcome, Lord Domeric," Ned began, "but I don't wish to strain your relationship with Lady Barbrey, either. If it will keep peace between you and her," and the standing bitter detente between her and me, he thought, "you need not linger here to convince me of your fealty. And I imagine, whatever else, you likely wish to go home."

Domeric's eyes were kind, so unlike his father's that it made Ned wonder how a man like that produced a son like this. And how anyone related to Barbrey Dustin might produce such a man. "I'm sure my aunt would have had me ride past Winterfell altogether and take my seat at the Dreadfort without so much as a by-your-leave to you, my lord. There's little I could do to make her feel less heated towards you. By the same token, I feel there's little I could do to alienate her," and his smile gained an edge of japing to it, "save perhaps abdicate my seat and become your squire, or wed one of your daughters. That might be a road too far with her, even for me."

"Have you had offers yet, my lord?" Ned had no intention of offering Sansa unless Sansa expressed an interest in Domeric, and Arya was far too young, but there were many other ladies in the North, and Lord Domeric had just become the most eligible bachelor north of the Neck. No doubt when he arrived at the Dreadfort, there would be several missives from noble houses -- likely more than the average Bolton might have gotten, given his sterling reputation.

"For how short a time I've been Lord Bolton, I've already heard offers aplenty." He seemed bemused, as though not fully grasping the rush, but Ned suspected it was more to do with how quickly and vigorously daughters were being thrown at him; he was certain it hadn't escaped young Domeric that he was the sole heir of House Bolton, and a line going back thousands of years was standing now on thin ice. "I was considering asking Lord Mormont about his niece Dacey, but I don't want to be too forward."

That took Ned off-guard. "Dacey Mormont?" A young woman older than Robb but younger than Domeric, Dacey was known to be high-spirited, inclined to violence, and a force of personality much like her mother. When people thought he couldn't hear, Ned had heard her name and Lyanna's uttered in the same breath. In short, she did not seem the obvious choice for an intellectual, artistic soul like Domeric.

Then he was thrown again by Domeric nodding enthusiastically. "There have been very few offers to hold a higher appeal than Lady Dacey. The last I met her, she was as lovely and clever as she was dangerous, and she's every bit the horserider as me. In better times, I think it would make a fine challenge to win her heart ... and," he continued after hesitating a moment, "in these times, a woman of her talents could be vital."

Ned was careful to give away nothing, not knowing what he might have heard from his father or aunt or his travels on the road. " 'In these times', my lord?" He asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Forgive my directness, Lord Stark," Bolton answered, "but to travel across these lands is to see a kingdom in the preludes to war. Even my aunt can sense something coming in the air, though she knows not what. And I'm no fool," he said as he looked at himself. "I am many things, but I am neither a warrior nor a commander. I feel like Lady Dacey could help me get better at both, and be both a cunning advisor and a competent sword at my side. But," he finished, "I don't know that she'd have me. And I have my line and lands to think of now, not merely myself."

"If you would like," Ned offered, "I could ask Lord Mormont to reach out to her. The worst she could do is say 'no', after all."

At that, Domeric laughed. "I apologize, Lord Stark," he forced out through some remaining chuckles, "but if you imagine that's the worst she could do, you must not have seen Dacey in combat before." Ned smiled at that; he had indeed not seen her work firsthand, but being Warden of the North he could not help but hear of it. Domeric's face lost its mirth then, as he spoke again, "I'm sure my father would never have approved. I wish he were a man more given to writing down his thoughts; I suppose I'll never know who he would have approved of, or what he might have hoped for, for me."

"I am sorry for your loss, Lord Domeric," he said sincerely. And Ned was; monstrous or not, Roose was still the man's father, and Ned was intimately familiar with the pain of losing one's father before his time.

"I thank you, Lord Stark," Domeric nodded. "If it's not too bold to say, I think yours are the only sympathies I've actually believed. And I'm deeply sorry that you know what this feels like. I wouldn't wish this on anyone ... save perhaps my father's killers," he added, and Ned worked to keep any reaction from his face. "Even then, I don't know that I truly would."

"No?" Ned felt some confusion. "Believe me when I tell you, I would understand the feeling. You need not be circumspect with me."

"I appreciate that, my lord," Domeric answered with a sad smile, "but no man dies without reason, and I don't believe someone would kill my father over a horse or some coin. I fear his killers may have had good reason to see him dead, though I cannot prove it."

Ned scarcely dared to breathe.

"My father liked to say 'a peaceful land, a quiet people.' The older I get," and it made Ned's joints ache just a little to hear a man not yet twenty talk about getting older,), "the more I think he meant that the other way around; not that having peaceful lands kept his people content, but keeping them quiet made his lands seem peaceful. I ..." and the young lord's voice faltered, "I cannot prove anything, I never heard more than the faintest whisper when smallfolk thought they were alone or I was out of earshot ... but I fear he might have preyed on them. He always had to know who was marrying and when, and they had to ask his permission. It was his right to do all this, I know," he hastily added, "but I've never seen any other lord be so ... invested," he struggled to find the word. "If ... if he was hurting people, and someone stopped him ... I still have to try and find who did this, see justice done; no man should be able to kill a lord of the North and walk away unscathed," and Ned again schooled his features carefully, "but I think justice would be enough, to have the truth out in the open. I won't make a slaughterhouse of my lands just to avenge a man who may well have had it coming to him. I think ... I think of the old Targaryen kings sometimes," Domeric seemed to veer off into another subject, but Ned gave him patience, expecting the young lord had a reason for the odd divergence, "how Maegor mistook 'fear' for 'respect', how Baelor confused 'peace' with 'quiet'. The old maester at the Dreadfort would tell me sometimes, in confidence, that he thought me a joy to teach, that I was much more curious and attentive than others he had taught. I didn't need to be clever to know he meant my lord father. I think my father never paid attention to the mistakes of the past, so he never learned from them. And when he did, I fear he learned the wrong lessons." A bitter tone entered his voice. "I think he did not learn from our family's infamy to not hurt innocent people, but to do it quietly. I hope I am wrong," he added, "but Maester Anselm was always happy to point out how rarely that happened."

Ned breathed slowly through his nose once, twice, three times before speaking. "If you seek the truth of a man, my lord, there are few better to ask than his servants. Most highborn don't look their servants in the eye, much less think they have eyes or minds of their own. In confidence, Lord Domeric," Ned spoke softly, "I learned much about my father and brother from their servants, things I never would have known or believed were the witnesses not there before me and speaking in the sight of the gods. I offer this caution," Ned continued, "as one man who lost his father too soon, to another; you may wish you did not look for answers. Sometimes your intuition and suspicions are enough, and you may regret seeking to confirm them."

"In confidence, Lord Stark," Domeric returned, "do you?" His grey eyes were hesitant, but unrelenting. "Can you have peace without justice, or justice without truth?"

"...no," Ned finally answered, "to all. I regret that what I learned of happened, that these things and worse were true. But I would be lying to you if I said that trying to correct the errors of my family's past, and avoid making them myself, had not made me a better lord than if I had remained ignorant. I might not have made the same errors in ignorance, but with knowledge, I know I will not."

Domeric nodded. "Then I must do the same. And hope to become a better lord, as you have," he finished with a sad yet genuine smile. It was so strange to see a smile on a Bolton face, after so long of seeing Roose's humourless, emotionless expressions.

Perhaps this is a change for the better, a chance for some good to come forth ... though I played most foully for it, Ned thought in self-recrimination. "All men keep secrets from their families, all fathers fail their sons in some way," he counselled the young lord. "Let not the faults or failings you might find dim the good memories you possess, nor let nostalgia mask whatever truths you learn. Mind your own balance in these, Lord Domeric," Ned finished, "and you'll be alright."

Young Domeric, the Lord Bolton, gave him a much brighter smile in return. "In all sincerity, my lord, your advice and example are more help than anyone else could have offered. If it isn't too great an imposition, I would ask your leave to write you sometimes, for advice and input. I expected to have a lot longer to learn about lordship, and I don't believe I could ask for a better advisor in these times."

Ned did his best to ignore the guilty weight in his heart, and took Domeric's extended hand. "Anything you wish for or need from me, my Lord Bolton, I will do my utmost to aid you."

It was perhaps the most inopportune moment in Ned's life for some time, so naturally that was the moment that Maester Lewyn charged into Ned's solar unannounced, out of breath and looking stricken, clutching some crumpled scrolls in his hand. "My lord -- my lords, forgive me," he gasped out. "The Crown has declared war against Viserys Targaryen, who has responded in kind. Both call their banners. It has begun, Lord Stark."

Ned glanced over to Domeric, before commanding Lewyn, "Send ravens to every noble house: the banners are called. All will rally to Moat Cailin. We march for the Neck and the Trident."

Domeric looked down for a moment, then nodded, and asked, "With your leave, my lord, I will ride to the Dreadfort and rally my men and levies. And I would send a letter to Lady Barbrey, if you'll permit."

"What about?"

Domeric set his jaw, and for the first time Ned saw some of Roose in him beyond his looks. "My lord calls me to arms, and I mean to ride with him. If my aunt values my safety, she'll send as many men as she's able. If she tries to short you as I expect she intends, and I fall, my loss is on her head and not yours. This is no time for old grudges to get in the way, and I will make her understand that."

Ned respected the ruthlessness in such a move, and thought to himself, he just may do well as Lord Bolton. If we all survive this. "Do all, with my blessings." He added, "I will still feel out Lord Mormont about Dacey, and advise you regardless of that to consider being wed before going to battle."

"You and your family are a fine example, my lord," Domeric replied, "and yours is one I endeavour to follow. Lord Stark." He gave a brief yet formal nod, which Ned returned, and the new Lord Bolton departed, the maester following with a mission of his own, leaving the Warden of the North with his thoughts and turmoil. Now, he sighed, it starts.
+10 to the rolls.
 
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