Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite the languid pace of his horse, the winds whipping around were biting and viscerally cold. The surrounding hills were bleak, the forests were wild, and a thin layer of snow always coated the ground. It was so unlike the verdancy of the Vale of Arryn, which at least had the warmth of the sun despite the cool air flowing down from the mountains. After spending five years there, three as a squire to Lord Horton Redfort and two as a wandering hedge knight, Ser Domeric Bolton had grown spoiled.

The North as a whole was like a different world from the south, and not just because it was snowing during the summer. The lands were wild and untamed, mostly untouched by humans and inhabited primarily by the wildlife. Everywhere he went he could see deer, rabbits, foxes, birds, snakes, and, of course, wolves. As he approached the Dreadfort, however, the signs of life started to dry up. Fewer and fewer animals poked their noses out onto the dirt roads. As for people, there were no villages within a dozen miles of the ancient castle.

As he approached the castles front gate, he took in the sight of the fortress and tried to imagine himself living there. It was, technically, his home, having been passed down through House Bolton for over a thousand years. Nonetheless, he had trouble picturing himself as a long term resident.

The castle itself was situated in an open field of tundra, revealing everything that approached for miles in all directions. It was born of a dark gray stone that seemed to drink in the natural sunlight. The outer walls were thick and formed a rough hexagon, the six towers round and wide, and the crenellations looked eerily like sharp stone teeth. Domeric spotted archers and crossbowmen peering judiciously down at him from between the merlons. Visible beyond the walls was the keep itself, a dark and imposing block with dozens of barred windows and arrow slits. The pink banners emblazoned with a red flayed man hung in regular intervals from both the walls and the inner keep. 

The main entrance had a silver statue of a crucified man attached to the crisscrossing iron bars of the closed portcullis. Recognizing the Bolton coat-of-arms on his surcoat, one of the men-at-arms standing watch signalled for the gate to be opened.

The destrier he was mounted atop, a beautiful and well-bred grey stallion gifted to him for winning the joust at a tournament in Runestone, stamped impatiently as the gate creaked open. Before he continued on, he turned to one of the men-at-arms, the only one wearing proper half-plate like he was, and spoke.

"Where can I find my brother, Lord Roose Bolton?" He inquired.

Narrowing his eyes and frowning, the hulking man removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and crossed his arms. He peered at Domeric, taking in the sight of his clearly high quality get and fine horse, before meeting his eyes. Seeing the familiar pale white eyes of his lord, his own eyes widened slightly – with panic? – before he gave a deep bow.

"Welcome home, my lord, your father" he twitched at the mention of the Leech Lord, as though just mentioning him might conjure him from the shadows "is likely in the great hall having lunch. I can have a servant lead you there." The guard offered.

Domeric hummed faintly to himself, "That is quite alright goodman. Actually, where might I find my brother – Ramsay, I think his name is?"

An extremely uncomfortable expression crossed the guards face, and he swallowed heavily. Domeric felt the beginnings of tension start to build in his gut. 

"He is somewhere about, my lord, perhaps eating with your lord father." After a few moments of hesitation, the guard continued, "He likes to hang around the kennels."

Domeric thanked the guard before urging his horse forward into the courtyard. Now closer to the keep, the Dreadfort seemed even more imposing and, well, dreadful. He could make out carvings of men in various states of agony embedded in the walls, along with metal spikes and chains sticking out from the stones. He dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a waiting stableboy, his unease growing.

He remembered where the kennels were, he loved playing with the dogs as a boy, and he started taking the long route around the keep towards the rear where the kennels were housed. As he walked, he considered what kind of character makes the grizzled looking soldiers sworn to his house look so uncomfortable. Perhaps Ramsay was a tyrant, a man who loved to push around his subordinates? A group of servants hefting a slain boar passed him, their heads bowed and posture deferential. It was hardly different than they acted in the Vale, but something about their body language made his nerves prickle once more. It reminded him of a book he had read about the outbreak of the Shivers, where everyone lived in an ongoing state of fear that they might soon catch an illness they would not recover from.

Noting the lack of guards in the area, he opened the door to the kennels, a squat and poorly made building constructed with rotting timber and chipped stones. Stepping inside he was immediately bombarded with the scent of shit and piss, almost overpowering his nose. He gagged for a second before he took in an even worse scent, rotting meat.

Shaking his head in an effort to regain his wits, he looked around at the hounds. The social and loyal dogs of his childhood were gone, and in their place was a savage pack of furry black beasts. They were agitated, and started growling and scratching at the wooden hatches that kept them enclosed inside the tiny crates. It was plain to see, they were agitated, hungry, and not taken care of properly. The poor dogs were emaciated, caged and forced to sleep in their own waste.

Domeric set his jaw with a deep grimace and knew he had to say something to his father about this. This was cruel. He called out Ramsay's name, his voice echoing in the building. There was no answer.

At the far end of the kennels, a place Domeric remembered as a storage area for old hunting gear, was a heavy oak door, newly bolted and barred. It was from there that the smell of rotting meat was coming. He walked toward the door cautiously, expecting to find a dead hunting dog, maybe more than one.

He tugged on the lock, the door not budging. With a frown, he stepped back and looked around. Spotting a small mallet on the floor, he leaned over and picked it up. As it came into the light, it revealed dried blood, and his heart sank. He went back to the door and smashed the lock and removing the bar, tossing it to the ground with a clang that sent the dogs into a frenzy of barking and gnashing teeth.

The room beyond was plunged into darkness. The stench of stale blood and human waste was overpowering. He fumbled for a torch from the wall sconce in the kennel, the flickering flame casting dancing shadows that played tricks on his eyes. As he stepped inside, the light fell upon a scene of such utter depravity that it would be forever seared into his memory.

On a pile of blood-soaked straw lay the naked, brutalized body of a woman. Her face was a mask of terror, her eyes wide and staring, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. Bite marks, carefully removed stretches of flesh, fingernails torn out, toes chopped off – her body was a canvas of cruelty. Domeric recognized her, though it took a moment for his mind to reconcile the woman he had known with the broken thing that lay before him. She was his wet nurse, the woman who took care of him for many hours as a young boy, the sister of the castle's cook, a mother of two children.

Domeric immediately vomited before dropping the mallet and stumbling backwards. He took a few wobbling steps away from the room before vomiting again, doubled over at the waist. Closing his eyes, he took in deep breaths as bile and saliva dripped from his lips. Gathering himself, he quickly got out of the kennel, shutting the door behind him and plunging the murder scene back into darkness.

As he finally started to regain control of himself, he felt something build in his chest. An ice cold rage, pure and cleansing, burned through the shock and crawled through his veins. In the Vale, Domeric had faced the depravities of the mountain clansmen, he knew how to deal with rapists and murderers. It was clear, Ramsay needed to face the king's justice.

One hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword so hard his knuckles turned white, Domeric stormed his way into the keep, blowing past fearful servants and guards. Everyone who saw him coming scattered, seeing the murderous rage in his eyes and the blood on his boots and hands. He did not see them. He saw only the face of the dead woman, her mouth open in a silent scream, body damaged and defiled.

He burst into the Great Hall, the heavy oak doors slamming against the stone walls with a resounding crash. The scene before him was one of surreal domesticity. At the head of a long, heavy table, his father, Lord Roose Bolton, sat calmly eating his supper, a sliver of roasted capon held delicately in his fingers. Opposite him, a lanky, ill-favored man with his father's pale, cold eyes and a wet, fleshy mouth, was Ramsay. He was laughing, a coarse, guttural sound that grated on Domeric's already frayed nerves.

"You must be Domeric!" Ramsay exclaimed, a greasy smile spreading across his face. "You have returned! Come, sit, have some wine and tell us about the Vale."

Domeric said nothing. He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the table, his eyes fixed on Ramsay's. The laughter died in Ramsay's throat as Domeric drew his sword, gripping it tightly with both hands.

"What is the meaning of this, Domeric?" Roose asked, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that was more menacing than any shout. He placed his fork down with deliberate precision, his pale eyes unblinking, betraying no emotion.

"I have just come from the kennels," Domeric said, his voice trembling with a barely suppressed rage. "I found the wet nurse. Or what was left of her."

Ramsay's face, which had paled at the mention of the kennels, now twisted into a sullen, defiant sneer. "The girl was a whore. She got what she deserved."

The casual cruelty of the words, the utter lack of remorse, sent the fire in his blood flaring up. Domeric took another step forward, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.

"Enough," Roose said, his voice still quiet, yet carrying an authority that had always made Domeric flinch. "The boy's appetites are a nuisance, I will grant you. But he is a Bolton. And the girl was a servant. It is of no consequence."

"No consequence?" Domeric's voice rose, cracking with disbelief. "A woman is dead, butchered like an animal, and you say it is of no consequence?"

"We are Boltons," Roose said, his voice taking on a didactic tone, as if he were instructing a slow-witted child. "We are the lords of the Dreadfort. The people of this land are ours to do with as we please. It has always been so. It is our way."

He then made a fateful error. In an attempt to forge a bond of shared depravity, to draw his two sons together under the banner of their house's dark legacy, he revealed a truth that would shatter the last vestiges of Domeric's filial piety.

"You are too much like your mother's people, Domeric," Roose said, a flicker of something that might have been contempt in his pale eyes. "Too much softness in you. You think of this," he gestured towards Ramsay, "as some aberration. It is not. It is the Bolton blood. The same blood that runs in my veins. The same blood that I spilled to get him."

"What are you talking about?" Domeric ground out.

Roose looked at Ramsay, a strange, almost paternal pride in his gaze. "His mother was a commoner, a miller's wife. She defied me. So I took her, again and again, under the very tree where her husband hung. I showed her what it meant to defy a Bolton. Ramsay is the fruit of that union. He is a testament to our power, to our right to rule."

The confession, delivered in Roose's calm, measured tones, was more horrific to Domeric than Ramsay's crime. It was the moment he understood that the sickness was not confined to his bastard brother. It was endemic to his house, a poison that flowed from father to son. In that moment, he saw his father not as a lord, nor as a parent, but as the wellspring of all the darkness that had ever emanated from the Dreadfort.

He did not think further. He did not stop to reason.

With a cry of rage and despair, he lunged across the table. Ramsay, seeing the flash of steel, reacted with the feral instinct of a cornered animal. He snatched a carving knife from the table and lunged at Domeric, his face a mask of snarling fury.

Domeric, the trained knight, parried Ramsay's wild, undisciplined attack with ease. He disarmed his half-brother with a deft flick of his wrist, sending the knife clattering across the floor. Ramsay, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and fear, stumbled back, and Domeric's sword, a gift from the very man he was about to kill, sliced open his torso from shoulder to hip.

Ramsay fell without making a noise, his blood staining the stone floor of the Great Hall. Domeric turned to his father. Roose had risen to his feet, a flicker of something akin to surprise, but no fear in his pale, cold eyes. 

"Idiot boy," Roose growled, his voice barely audible, "Do you know what–"

Domeric did not hesitate. He lunged forward, the momentum of his previous attack carrying him onward. He flicked his sword across his fathers throat, the blade grating against bone. Roose's eyes widened, showing fear for the first time in his life, his mouth opened in a silent gurgling gasp, and then he fell, his body slumping to the floor beside his bastard son.

For a long moment, Domeric stood over the bodies of his father and brother, his chest heaving, his fine clothes spattered with their blood. The silence of the Great Hall was broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the ragged sound of his own breathing. 

But as the initial shock subsided, a new, chilling resolve settled over him. He was the Lord of the Dreadfort now. And he would not be the man his father had been. He picked up the carving knife from the floor, wiped Ramsay's blood on the blade, and pressed it into his dead brother's hand. He then dropped it, letting it clatter to the floor beside Ramsay's outstretched fingers.

He took a moment to compose himself, to smooth his tunic, to wipe the sweat from his face. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and then he shouted for the guards.

"Guards! To me! Treason!"

Within moments a dozen guards, their faces determined and ready, came screaming around the corner and rushed into the Great Hall. They stopped short at the scene before them: their lord and his bastard son lying dead on the floor, and his returned heir, Ser Domeric Bolton, standing over them, his bloody sword in his hand.

Chapter Text

The morning sun, pale as it typically was in the North, cast long and eerie shadows across the Dreadfort's training yard. The yard wasn't a paved or well maintained area, it was a field of mud and dead grass with pitfalls and bumps. The chilly air rang with the clashing of steel against steel and the shouting of men pushing themselves to exhaustion. At the center of the maelstrom of coordinated violence stood Lord Domeric Bolton, his fine surcoat exchanged for a rough leather jerkin. With calculated precision, his blunted training sword flickering with deadly grace and impressive speed.

One thing was for certain, Domeric was the not the lord that his men had anticipated. In the week since the deaths of Lord Roose and his demonic bastard, a week that began with great and terrible anticipation, a new order had already been organized within the walls of the ancient fortress. At the new lord's side, demonstrating a complex parry to one of the men-at-arms, was the current master-at-arms of the Dreadfort, a man known only by the nickname Reek.

Reek was an outright disturbing man of clearly lacking moral character. He was lanky and gaunt and wore a perpetual grin that easily showed how unstable the man was. In contrast to Domeric's quiet intensity and unnatural stillness, Reek moved with stilted jerks of his limbs that made him seem like he was physically uncomfortable in his own skin. Worst of all, a foul odor of rotting meat and curdled milk seemed to constantly cling to man like a shroud – it was as if the man was diseased. Domeric only kept the man on as his master-at-arms because he was still identifying candidates to replace the man.

"Martyn," Domeric's voice cut through the noises of controlled chaos. "You need to use your body more, you're only using with your arms. The true power in your movements should come from your core and your legs. Try and put your bodyweight behind the swing." He gave a slow example of a slash, exaggerating the twist in his torso and the crouch of his legs.

The men in the yard continued to drill, sparring and practicing forms. Their faces were all slicked with sweat, their muscles clearly straining as they huffed and slouched. The Bolton Lord moved amongst them, correcting grips and adjusting stances, but he wasn't only playing the trainer, he was also quietly interrogating them. He had earned already their deference and it was time to start cleaning up the house.

"Harlon, right?" Domeric asked a man drinking water with deceptive casualness. The soldier, a grizzled man with scars aplenty visible on his arms and face, gave a hesitant and surprised nod. Domeric continued, "You've served the Dreadfort for a good many years I've been told."

The man lightly worked his jaw and swallowed deeply, aware of the dangerous waters he was entering. "Aye, my lord, I was just starting out when you were born."

"You have no doubt seen much during your time here," there was no accusation in his voice, his tone was perfectly level, but there was no mistaking the severe intensity of the eyes of the Lord of the Dreadfort. "Perhaps, even, you saw some of the… hobbies… of my family."

Harlon's eyes darted nervously towards Reek, who was demonstrating a particularly vicious thrust to a group of recruits. "It isn't my place to see, my lord."

"Well, it is now," Domeric said bluntly. "It has come to my attention that there is some sickness here at the Dreadfort, and so I have decided to do some cleaning – and to do so, I need to know where the rot is. I intend to tear it out, root and stem."

Harlon seemed to find a flicker of courage, some reluctant hope showing on his face as he met the pale and lifeless eyes of his lord. "I know not of your father," he began, his voice a low murmur, "But your half-brother had a few friends among the guards. The 'Bastard's Boys' we call them. They loved to–" he swallowed deeply again, "hunt."

Domeric frowned, "How many?"

Averting his gaze, Harlon answered, "At least dozen that I know of."

Domeric closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to the old golds, before reopening them and staring directly into Harlon's eyes. "I need their names." And so Harlon told him – Ben Bones, Yellow Dick, Damon Dance-for-me, Luton, Sour Alyn, Skinner, Grunt, and, Ramsay's second in command, Reek.

As the morning wore on, Domeric pulled many men aside between drills and questioned them, verifying every accusation with multiple testimonies. As he did, he got a better picture of the depravities committed by the Bastard's Boys. They would kidnap peasant women, ages ranging anywhere from children under ten to elderly in their fifties, and release them into the nearby woods. They would release half-starved hunting dogs to chase them down, and, on their eventual capture, would torture and repeatedly rape them. After their death, Reek would rut with the body and then Ramsay would use their skin to make cloaks and rugs.

The deviancy and perversion of these men was boundless, they could hardly be called human, more akin to the monstrous grumkins and snarks of legend. Through it all, Lord Bolton's face remained a mask of cold composure, his eyes dispassionate, but under the surface his simmering fury was coming to a boil. He had anticipated what he would find, but the reality, the unadulterated evil that men were capable of, the corruption that had festered for millenia within the walls of his home, was still a brutal shock to his system.

The chivalrous ideals he was submerged in for the last several years in the Vale seemed like a distant, half-forgotten dream. Here, in the heart of his own home, he was not a knight fighting for honor and glory, but an exorcist casting out demons.

After an hour his list of the damned was confirmed. It was a grim roll of not only the eight Bastard's Boy, but a dozen other men who were complicit in the activities of his father, helping him find victims or even participating in the crimes. Domeric walked to the center of the yard, his hatred finally breaking through his impassive facade onto his face.

He pulled aside a dozen other trustworthy souls, having them led by the captain of the Dreadfort guards, a man known as Steelshanks Walton. He directed them to return their training swords to the racks and go to the armory to equip themselves. A few minutes later they returned in proper armor with shields and sharpened steel swords.

"Halt!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

The clang of steel ceased. The other men, their chests heaving, their bodies aching, turned to face him, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and apprehension.

"You have trained well this morning," Domeric said, his voice cold and hard. "You have begun to learn the meaning of discipline. Now, you will learn the meaning of justice."

He turned to Walton, the old, scarred veteran. "Walton, here is a list of names. I want them rounded up. Now."

Walton nodded, a grim understanding in his eyes. His group moved through the assembled soldiers, their hands on the pommels of their swords. The first name called was Reek. The master-at-arms, who had been observing the proceedings with his usual unsettling smirk, seemed to shrink in on himself. His grin vanished, replaced by a look of confusion, then dawning terror.

"M'lord?" he asked, his voice a reedy whine. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning, Reek," Domeric said, his voice dripping with contempt, "is that your service to House Bolton is at an end."

One by one, the Bastard's Boys and other criminals were pulled from the ranks, their faces a mixture of disbelief and fear. Some protested, their voices shrill with denial. Others went quietly, their eyes downcast, the knowledge of their impending doom drowning any thoughts of escape.

When they were all gathered, a motley collection of bullies and sadists, bound and kneeling in the center of the yard, Domeric addressed his remaining men.

"For too long," he began, his voice ringing with a newfound power, "House Bolton has been a name whispered in fear and hatred. For too long, my legacy has been one of cruelty and depravity. For too long, you have been ruled by monsters."

He gestured to the kneeling men. "These men were the creatures of my half-brother and my father. They aided Ramsay in his hunts. They were complicit in Roose's crimes. They reveled in their sadism. They are the living embodiment of the sickness that has poisoned my house."

He paused, letting his words sink in. He looked into the eyes of his men, seeing a mixture of fear, confusion, and a dawning understanding.

"That ends today," he declared, his voice rising to a crescendo. "The old ways of House Bolton are dead. The flayed man is not a symbol of our cruelty, but a warning to our enemies. We will be feared, yes. But we will be feared for our strength, for our discipline, for our unwavering justice. We will be a house of order, not of chaos. Of strength, not of sadism. Of honor, not of horror."

He turned to Harlon. "Hang the traitors."

There was a litany of choked gasps, mostly from the dumber amongst the condemned men who hadn't realized what was coming. Hanging was a common punishment, but only for criminals. Traitors at least got the honor of a beheading!

But Steelshanks Walton was a man of action, there was no hesitation in his movements as he directed the men to push the offenders towards the gallows. The gallows were, of course, a grim permanent fixture in the corner of the training yard of the Dreadfort, a constant reminder of the brutality his house was infamous for. 

They cried and sobbed and begged for mercy as the nooses were fastened around their necks. One man made a break for it was but was ruthlessly chased down and tackled. A few men came forward from the crowd and helped wrangle the kicking and screaming soldier back to the gallows. Then, one by one, his men pulled the ropes, dragging up men into the open air by their necks. A rare few were fortunate enough to die instantly, their necks snapped by the sudden heave. Most spent several moments in agony, their faces purpling and spittle flying from their lips as they clawed at the cord strangling them.

Domeric watched, his face stone cold, as the last of them, Reek, met his end. The new Lord Bolton did not flinch nor look away, he wanted to make sure his men knew his resolve to see justice done. When it was over, the bodies done kicking and twitching and hanging limply and lifelessly in the cold morning air, Domeric turned back to face his men.

"This is the new way," he said, his voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the yard. "This is the law of the Dreadfort. There will be no more monsters here. Only soldiers. Being a man of House Bolton will mean something different. Now, get back to your posts."

As the men scrambled away, Domeric allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. He had taken another step down a dark and bloody path. He was a kinslayer, a patricide, and now, an executioner. He was the Lord of the Dreadfort and he would be feared – but he would also, in his own brutal way, be just.

The bodies of the Bastard's Boys and the accomplices to Roose barely had time to cool before Domeric began his work. He set Steelshanks Walton to drill the men-at-arms into a proper, disciplined force, and turned his own gaze to the Dreadfort itself. 

His first decree stunned the long-suffering staff of the castle – he ordered every brutal tapestry, every flayed skin, and every grotesque trophy to be stripped from the walls. For generations they adorned the corridors of the Dreadfort, as well as in dedicated "trophy rooms" and the lord's solar, but Domeric refused to sleep beneath the flayed skin of a Stark or Glover from centuries past.

Under the grim supervision of Harlon, the man-at-arms who was temporarily acting as the Dreadfort's castellan, nervous servants pulled stiff, leathery cloaks from iron mountings and brought them into the courtyard. They worked with an anxious haste, their movements furtive, as if the ghosts of vengeful Boltons would materialize in the dank halls and attack them. Tapestries depicting unimaginable acts of torture and other depravities were rolled up and tossed carelessly into a the growing pile outside the keep. The skeletons, of which there were many, were carefully buried in neat rows in a forest clearing not far from the castle. They were set with unmarked tombstones made of stone taken from the walls of the keep.

Over the course of a few days, Domeric observed and assisted as the graveyard and pyre grew. The graveyard numbered almost half a hundred unknown souls, and the pyre now stood in a heap taller than three men high. He did his best to keep his face an emotionless mask, but a few times his growing sense of satisfaction slipped out. When they could find no more skin pelts, no more tapestries depicting acts of evil, no more preserved hands or feet, and no more skeletons, Domeric lit a torch a personally set the pyre ablaze.

The flames roared to life, consuming the dark history of his house in a maelstrom of heat and light. The old preserved skins curled and blackened, their disturbed faces finally being released from their everlasting agony. The servants and guards watched in silence, their faces illuminated by the inferno – they knew they were witnessing the end of an age, a new era for House Bolton.

From the pyre, Domeric led a handpicked group of men, armed not with swords but with sledgehammers and crowbars, down into the bowels of the castle. They descended into the darkness of the dungeons, a place from which screams had often echoed but from which no one ever returned. He ignored the cells holding common criminals, heading straight for the series of windowless rooms at the very end of the subterranean level.

The air was thick with the stench of old blood, fear, and despair. Racks, iron maidens, cages barely large enough for a dog, and a terrifying array of knives, saws, and implements of torture lined the walls.

"Destroy it," Domeric commanded, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "All of it."

The men, who had entered the chambers with trepidation, set to their work with a grim fury. The clang of hammers against iron echoed through the dungeons as they shattered the racks, broke the wheels, and smashed the sinister tools into unrecognizable heaps of twisted metal. 

"When you are done," Domeric instructed a stone-faced Harlon, "have the smiths melt this scrap down. I want it reforged into plowshares and horseshoes. Let the tools of suffering become the tools of prosperity. These rooms are to be cleaned, whitewashed, and converted into root cellars and grain storage."

His final stop of the day was in the kitchens, where the castle’s servants had been gathered, their faces a mixture of hope and ingrained fear. Domeric stood before them, not as a remote and terrifying lord, but as their new master, his expression serious.

"My father is dead," he began, his voice clear and steady. "My brother is dead. The way they ruled this castle is dead with them. From this day forward, the Dreadfort will be a place of order and discipline."

He looked from the head cook to the youngest scullery maid. "Your loyalty and hard work will be rewarded. Your wages are to be doubled, effective immediately."

A wave of stunned murmurs rippled through the assembled staff.

"You will be treated with respect," Domeric continued, his gaze sweeping over them. "Any man-at-arms who lays a hand on you, who insults you, or who takes from you what is not freely given will answer directly to me. Your quarters will be improved, your rations will be the same as the soldiers, and your children will be taught to read and write."

He was not offering them kindness, not in the southern sense. He was offering them a contract. He was rebuilding his household from the ground up, forging loyalty not through terror, but through kindness and respect. He was making the Dreadfort more comfortable, more homely. Not out of warmth, he told himself, but out of a pragmatic desire for efficiency and stability. A well-fed, well-paid, and secure staff was a loyal staff.

As he left the kitchens, leaving behind a room of servants looking at each other in dazed disbelief, Domeric felt the first stirrings of a satisfying sense of accomplishment.