THE BLOODS OF BOLTON | GAME OF THRONES

CHAPTER 17

THAT EVENING, DOMERIC retired early to his chambers and spent the night in contemplative solitude. No visitors. No disturbances. The guards saw to that. There he took his supper alone, a modest meal of beef-and-barely stew served with fresh bread, cheese, and wine, and he ate but little.

"Is there something wrong with the food, m'lord?" asked the servant when she came to clear the table. 

"Not at all," answered Domeric with a tired smile. "I'm just not very hungry." Food had no taste when his mind was so erratically occupied with other thoughts. Small wonder why his lord father never seemed to enjoy his meals, with all his plotting, leeching, and self-obsessing.

Domeric walked across the room and drew open the tall, narrow windows, allowing the cold night air to fill the chamber. The wind swirled around him. The fire rippled and crackled. Outside, the wolves were singing beneath the half moon. Domeric closed his eyes and breathed it all in. There was nothing like a Northern summer night.

In the distance loomed the Torturer's Tower. Domeric remembered how small and frail the bastard Ramsay Snow had looked inside his cell, held down by heavy irons, bruised and bleeding. And yet he spoke no ill of the Boltons.

"I brought this upon m'self," he'd said. "Mother warned me not to seek you out. Just be glad you're still alive, she said. A bastard like me can't hope for much else in this world." He hung his head. His black greasy hair was matted with dried blood. "I knew the risk well enough, but I just couldn't help m'self. There's an emptiness inside of me — a big gaping hole — but I wouldn't expect you to understand that, m'lord. I just wanted to see my brother, my true brother."

But Domeric did understand, better than he cared to admit. That's why he couldn't get the bastard out of his head.

Don't do it, whispered the voice in his head; then he heard those words again, this time with his own ears.

Domeric turned and saw the dark silhouette of his younger sister in the doorway. Not even a great brute like Horace Heartcleaver could prevent Drucilla from entering if she wished it. She walked in and silently closed the door behind her. 

"I know what you're about to do," she said as she stepped into the candlelight. She was wearing a long grey robe over her nightdress, and her brown hair was woven into a loose braid. When the light caught her eyes, it gave them an eerie sheen that made Domeric shiver.

She was glaring right through him.

"Don't do it, Domeric," she said. "Father told you not to seek him out. He forbade it."

"I know what he said, Drucilla," Domeric answered, "but he is our brother, our flesh and blood. Were you not just lecturing me on the importance of family? He is our family, a Bolton in all but name. We cannot just abandon him."

"He's not our brother. He's a bastard!" The force of her words knocked her off balance, her bony legs wobbling beneath her. She caught herself on the edge of the table and gave her head a gentle shake. When she spoke again, her voice was weak and desperate. "We don't owe him anything, Domeric. He's lucky to even be alive. You've shown him mercy when he deserved none. Whatever debt you think you owe him has been repaid, I promise you. Now let it go. Let it end and forget about him. Please, Domeric."

Domeric could see her arms trembling, her breathing labored. Something was wrong.

"Drucilla, are you all right?" He approached her and offered her his hand, but she slapped it away and retreated from him.

"Promise me you won't seek him out," she said with a madness in her eyes. "Promise me, Domeric."

He frowned. "You know I can't make that promise."