A/N: If you're interested in rating/reviewing this fan fic, by all means, speak your mind! This is my interpretation of the last few weeks of Domeric Bolton's life. It is a look into what could have been. Roose's son was a prodigy and if he had survived, he could have been one of the most influential men the North has ever seen. It is only fitting that somebody tell his story. Hopefully I am qualified enough to do so... sooo enjoy!


They were seven days from the Dreadfort, the taste of blood getting stronger in the air with every passing mile. The others, the men of the Vale, claimed that they didn't taste anything but Domeric knew what blood tasted like and he was certain. It tasted of home, of the Dreadfort, of the dark smokey halls of my youth.

Ser Martyn spat a wad of phlegm into the ground and trotted forward, keeping up with Domeric's speed. "You've been quiet since we left that town. Didn't see you with the rest of the men either. Most were off with a whore, maybe grabbing a drink. You were nowhere to be seen, Dom."

"I was sleeping," Domeric said. "Not every man has a constant desire to fuck whores, ser."

"The normal ones do," Martyn laughed. He was a knight, raised up during the War of the Ninepenny Kings after being no more than a Riverlands peasant. He kept quiet of his rise to knighthood, never sharing the details, which left Domeric with his doubts. But either way, the man was good with a mace. He was tasked with teaching Domeric the art of cracking skulls and beating opponents bloody with the heavy-handed tool. "Don't tell me you're worried about returning home?"

Domeric gave him a sideways glance. He didn't like being cross examined by Ser Martyn, let alone any of the men from the Vale. Some were Lord Redfort's men, but he still did not trust them. Nor did he trust the north – in all of its cold and decrepit splendor – he yearned for the Vale once again. He knew those kind of feelings would never sit well with his father, but Domeric felt lost without his brothers. Jasper and Creighton, Jon and Mychel. They were not his blood but they treated him all the same. They were Lord Redfort's sons and the only family he knew during his time in the vale. It was Jon, most of all, that he had missed.

They were of the same age, Jon Redfort and Domeric Bolton. The day Domeric arrived in the Vale, he did not leave the room Lord Horton had prepared for him. He stayed there for nearly a week, only coming out when Lord Horton called for him. The Lord of the Redfort was close to sending Domeric back home to his father, but one day the master-of-arms brought news of seeing Domeric in the training yard. He was found arguing with Jon, which led them into a spar. Ser Martyn was there to witness it and laughed his arse off when Jon brought Domeric to the ground, and it was then that the northern boy decided he couldn't let it happen again. He trained and worked at sword, but found the mace was more apt for him, and soon he was learning how to fight. The rivalry he had with Jon Redfort, blossomed into a friendship.

They played together, they worked together, and Jon became his closest friend. A brother, Domeric repeated. "Jon wanted to come see me off, to take the ride to the Dreadfort. Lord Horton refused to let him go."

"That's what has your tongue in a knot?" Ser Martyn chuckled. "The Lord of the Redfort is a superstitious man, probably didn't want to send one of his sons into the Dreadfort. Rightfully so... lad, your birthplace boasts quite a fearsome history."

"I know the tales, Ser Martyn. But they are just that. Tales." Even Domeric could feel the lie slipping past his lips. The Dreadfort had a long, dark history. House Bolton bore the flayed man as their sigil for a reason and their words, Our Blades are Sharp was as clear as day. Though the Starks outlawed the act of flaying a man, Domeric knew it was still practiced within the walls of the Dreadfort. No man could deny the screams that echoed along the long hallways and chambers were men who had crossed the Lord of Bolton, perhaps stolen from him. Domeric swore that when he was the Lord of the Dreadfort, he would never allow such acts to be committed under his roof. Domeric would be a different kind of lord. But for now, Roose Bolton ruled.

Hours of riding rolled by with Domeric keeping to his silence, Ser Martyn yapping incessantly and the men of the Vale growing colder with every passing minute. They were used to the chill of the Eerie, but the North was a different kind of cold. It settled in your bones and hung there, the frost tightening around every muscle and joint. If you weren't smart, it would take you in an instant before you even realized you were dead. The Starks bore their words for a reason, Winter is Coming. The cold of Winter is something to be feared.

Domeric was dressed properly for the weather. He wore wool over his leathers, fasted with two straps across his breast. Moleskin boots and gloves sat on his appendages while wolf's fur lined his cloak. The cloak was long and shimmered in the light, faint hues of silver and pink dancing before your eyes. The flayed man of House Bolton was sewn onto the back – any man they passed would know who Domeric was after one look. But it wasn't his attire that would tell them, it was his eyes.

He had his father's eyes. Small, pale things. They were like pools of ice, reflecting back anything that looked into them. Cold and calm, never showing what exactly the man behind them was thinking about. Domeric knew what kind of eyes he had. The eyes of a killer.

Tears streamed down his eyes as the cold bit into them and he wiped at his pale cheeks with the back of his glove, "Ser Martyn, we should rest soon. This wind is getting tiresome."

But before Ser Martyn had a chance to respond, an arrow sent him sprawling off of his horse. A scream followed as his horse whinnied and charged off, the men of the Vale scurrying to avoid and locate the attacker.

Domeric lowered his head and rode ahead, his eyes peeled for the slightest movement. "Ser Martyn," he yelled. "Ser Martyn!"

Ser Martyn cursed. "I'm alive, I'm alive. Seven Bloody Hells... they're in the trees."

Another arrow exploded from the brush, bouncing off the shield of a Vale soldier. He leaped from his horse and charged ahead into the trees, disappearing into a fight. More figures sprouted up, one after the next. "Outlaws," Domeric growled.

He drew his mace and felt the weight of it in his grasp. He rode his horse forward and swung at a shadow, sending the man to the ground. "Kill them! Kill them all!" one of the outlaws shouted before launching another arrow into the crowd.

Domeric jumped from his horse and met one of the attackers, a square-jawed man with a shaggy black beard. He raised his sword and brought it down towards Dom, but the boy was too fast. He sidestepped and brought his mace into the outlaws face. The sound of it stuck with Domeric like an old wound, the wicked cracking of bone and mush of flesh. He remembered that sound with every swing. In battle, it was wise to remember just who reigned supreme in the end. No matter what, death was always the winner and Domeric accepted that.

Another man of the Vale fell with a spear in his belly, but his killer was quickly slayed. The attackers thinned out, their numbers waning to only four or five.

Domeric grabbed one of the men from the ground and slid a dagger from his hip. He pressed it against the man's neck and leaned in close. "Who are you? Why did you attack us?"

"Go fuck yourself you southern swine," the man spat. He smelled of shit and grime.

"Do you know who I am?" Domeric asked.

The man cursed but did not answer.

He spun the man around on his knee and titled his head up and for a brief second, Domeric stared into his eyes. "Do you know who I am?" he asked again, his voice as cold as steel.

Never before had Domeric seen such fear in a man's eyes. It was like seeing a small animal about to get slaughtered, the way his eyes widened and jaw dropped. Something passed his lips, maybe a word or two. Perhaps he was praying? Domeric did not care. "Good, then you do know."

"Please, my lord... kill me and be done with it. I beg of you."

He thinks I am my father, the thought amused Domeric. "Why did you attack us?" Domeric asked.

"You had good steel with you, warm clothes, good horses... we thought you were just travelers, I swear, my lord," the man gasped. Spittle was dribbling down his lips, his hands twitching ever so slightly. "Please, my lord..."

He doesn't even know what he is begging for, as long as it is merciful.

But I do not know mercy.

Domeric pressed the blade against the man's eye and pried it from the skull and when he collapsed and started screaming, Domeric called two of the men of the Vale to hold him up. He stabbed the man once in the stomach, and again. He felt the warmth of his blood, even through his gloves. Domeric took no pleasure in his kill – not until the last moment.

He leaned in close and whispered.

"I am not Lord Bolton," he said. He saw the confusion in the man's face. "I am his son, Domeric Bolton, heir of the Dreadfort. And I will show you mercy."

He cut the man's throat with one quick move.