For the last eight months, the heir to the Dreadfort moped. If he was not in the training yard sparring with Theon or teaching Jojen, he was in the library reading or in his chambers brooding.

Domeric had never brooded as much before. Then again, he felt no need to. He had a glittering future, his betrothed was no stranger and he had foster brothers. Now his future seemed bleak, his betrothed was a stranger and he felt alone in all the corridors and rooms of Winterfell. Domeric had expected to be summoned to the Dreadfort seven months earlier, but his father hadn't sent for him. He had not sent any letters either. That was more alarming as Father would usually send one or two letters a week.

"Domeric." Domeric looked at his chamber door. Maester Luwin was shuffling in. "Maester," Domeric greeted. He stood up and offered the maester a chair. "You should have sent for me."

"It is good exercise," responded Maester Luwin, gratefully taking a seat.

"I see."

"I received a letter from your father, Domeric. He desires for you to ride to the Dreadfort. Apparently your future wife has finally arrived."

"Oh. I thought Lady Arrana was to arrive at the Dreadfort months ago? Did her father change his mind briefly on the match?"

" I am afraid I do not know, Domeric. Whatever had hindered your marriage to the Lady Arrana Umber for a number of months was between your father and the Lady Arrana's father. Perhaps with the wildling war it is dangerous for a lady like her to set out for the Dreadfort until now. According to the letters, wildlings have attacked Last Hearth and with Lord Umber here, his brothers and sons must be a tad bit more occupied than usual. Whatever the case, Lady Arrana has arrived at the Dreadfort now and you will soon be a married man."

Domeric nodded expressionlessly. "I will have my bags ready on the morrow. I don't require a farewell feast. I will probably visit Winterfell from time to time on behalf of my lord father. Winterfell is my second home after all."

"We will be happy to see you here again Domeric." Maester Luwin hesitated. "I do not mean to question your lord father's orders Domeric, but I didn't recognise his handwriting. Oh I did see the seal, but his handwriting…" He handed the piece of parchment to Domeric. "Perhaps you recognise it?" Domeric glanced at it. "It's written by Maester Tybald," he said shortly. Odd. My father always writes his own letters to me, he thought as Maester Luwin began to speak again. He doesn't really like Maester Tybald but considers him useful. However, he still would never dictate a letter and ask Maester Tybald to write it. Father would write his own letters and send them himself…unless his right hand's injured in some way. Yes, that explained it. How did he injure himself though?

"…and I will ensure you have enough food and drink for the journey," Maester Luwin was saying. "Will you ride to the Dreadfort alone?"

"Yes Maester," Domeric answered. "I know the way and I do not think that I'll be harmed on my father's lands."

"Will you bid farewell to Robb at least?"

Domeric paused. For eight months, he had not spoken to Robb Stark. How he'd managed to do so was a miracle. He'd talked to both Arthur and Rickon and even Lady Gwenysse who arrived two months ago; it was only Robb and his lady wife that he did not speak to. Domeric had nothing to say to them; they had nothing to say to him either. "I suppose I will," said Domeric stiffly. "He's my liege lord's heir after all. It will be discourteous if I leave without saying goodbye to him."

"Will you sup with him tonight, Domeric? I couldn't help but notice you hadn't dined with Lord Robb and his family in months."

"I discovered I enjoyed solitude." It was an obvious lie, but Maester Luwin had seemed to accept it without argument. Domeric tapped the stack of books on the table. "I also like reading when I eat."

"Surely you can spare one night in the Great Hall?"

"I will." For your sake, Maester Luwin. The maester had done so much. Taught him, healed him, advised him…he had done so much for him. "Do you think I can borrow these books for a while? I will return it once I finish reading them."

"Of course." Maester Luwin rose. "Maybe one day you and Lord Robb will talk and discuss politics and war strategies in the Great Hall. Mayhaps another pact of peace and uniting Houses." Domeric almost flinched. He was still unwed and the maester was suggesting marriage between Robb and Daenerys's still unborn son or daughter and his firstborn future child. What if the Lady Arrana was unable to birth a child? Highly unlikely as her own mother Lady Caryse Umber bore seven children, Lady Arrana's brother the Smalljon a father of four (currently) and her sister Jocelyn pregnant with her second child within the span of a year.

Shaking his head, Domeric abandoned that thought and slowly walked back to the training yard. It was possibly the last time he would see it. As he watched the Greyjoy heir attempt to teach Jojen a complicated slashing technique, he spotted Lady Gwenysse eyeing the spear Jojen left on the ground. Though she was only a girl of eight, she knew how to wield a spear as well as how Arya brandish a small sword when she was Gwenysse's age. It seemed that Gwenysse's fostering in the Water Gardens at Dorne had guided her towards martial pursuits. Domeric then almost laughed. One wild girl would be enough to any father and mother; what in the old gods' would Lord and Lady Stark say to two warrior girls?

Domeric watched the youngest Stark girl twirl Jojen's abandoned spear in her hands before launching into a sort of Dornish martial dance. She spun, kicked the air and did a stabbing motion with her spear…all while wearing a dress. Abruptly she looked up and her Stark grey eyes met Domeric's. Domeric looked away. She already had Lyarra's long, dark hair. If she had her purple eyes too, he'd have run straight to the Dreadfort even if Father didn't summon him. Pull yourself together, Domeric scolded himself. Stop thinking about Lyarra. She is happily married and I will be a husband soon too. You moped for eight months. The time for moping is at an end. What will Father say? He hurriedly walked away, his lips tightening. He'd be disinherited if he continued acting like this.

Returning to his chambers, Domeric hurriedly packed his bags. There wasn't a lot to pack these days. Clothes, books, weapons and papers…He looked around. It was his last day in this chamber. When he next visited, he'd probably stay in one of the guest chambers. He was no longer Lord Stark's ward after all.

For the rest of the day, Domeric wandered in Winterfell's corridors, smiling as he remembered the good memories. There were bad ones of course, like the time Waymar Royce almost pushed him down the stairs. Everyone had a supply of bad and good memories.

When the time for supper came, Domeric headed to the Great Hall. The Starks were already there, sitting patiently at the dais. So was Daenerys Stark, her hand always caressing her round belly, her eyes sparkling with happiness. A twinge of annoyance touched Domeric. Yes, she was heavy with child. Yes, it was a brilliant sign of her fertility. Yes, it secured the Winterfell succession. Also yes, most of the northern lords are still angry at her and Robb, even with her visibly with child. It was no surprise after all. Domeric smiled at the younger Starks who beamed with joy at him. Though Domeric maintained silence towards Robb, he held no grudge against the other Starks.

"Domeric," said Robb, almost cautiously. "You have not supped with us in um, some time. You know you are always welcome to."

"It is my last night," Domeric said icily. "I am leaving tomorrow at dawn."

Arthur's happy expression melted into a look of horror. "You are leaving? Who will help me train now?"

"There are plenty of people here that can help you," Domeric told him, patting his mop of light brown hair. "Theon, Jojen, Ser Rodrik, Robb…"

"It won't be you." Arthur pouted. "You told me once that we are brothers. Will you come back? You used to go to the Dreadfort with Lyarra and always return a short while later." He brightened up. "It's a brief visit isn't it? You'll be gone for a few weeks and then you'll come back!"

Domeric shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry Arthur. Not this time. Lady Arrana is waiting for me in the Dreadfort and I am long overdue home. When you are older, you are more than welcome to visit me."

Arthur stared at his empty plate. "Everyone goes away," he said forlornly. "Jon, Bran, Lyarra, Arya, Father and Mother…"

"I came back," Gwenysse pointed out.

"As Lady Gwen," Arthur muttered, not looking at her.

"She is still your sister," said Robb, exasperated. He turned to Domeric. "Don't be a stranger. Come and visit whenever you can." Words of a host to a guest; not the words of a foster brother to another. "I will send you a raven when my son or daughter is born," Robb promised, smiling tentatively. "There will be a ceremony and a feast – I um, I want you here for that. Your father is more than welcomed to come as well. I hope it will lead to peace between our families."

Of course it will, thought Domeric sarcastically. "Those feasts are to celebrate a birth of a male heir," he said bluntly, "not a girl."

The Great Hall's doors opened and a cluster of ladies walked in, headed by the Lady Lyanna Mormont. With her were Meera Reed and Alys Karstark. The latter Domeric had remembered from social events. Lady Alys was tall and still skinny as a colt. Her face was long and she had a pointy chin. Her brown hair was woven into a long braid and her blue-grey eyes carried naught but worry.

"Jojen has gone to pray in the godswood," Meera informed everyone. "Theon is off to the tavern again."

Robb nodded. "Theon always goes to the tavern nowadays."

"Every child is important." Daenerys had fixed her violet eyes on Domeric. "It doesn't matter if it is a boy or girl." She touched her belly again. "Robb promised that our firstborn will have a grand feast. All the lords will be invited."

Domeric gritted his teeth. She was more intolerable than ever.

"What will you name the baby?" asked Gwenysse.

Daenerys smiled. "If it's a girl, Rhaena. If a boy, Torrhen."

Rhaena? What sort of northern name was that? A couple of northern lords had been unhappy when Lord Stark announced Gwenysse's name at birth. To them, it was too Dornish. When Arthur was born, Greatjon Umber suggested for Lord and Lady Stark to change Arthur's name to Artos, the northern version of his name. It bothered Domeric that Robb would rather follow his lady wife's whims than that of his maester's. Was Rhaena the name of Daenerys's mother? It was common to name one's daughter after one's mother or grandmother, but in this case, it'd be wiser if Robb's future daughter was not named after his or Daenerys's mother. A northern name might even save Robb from further trouble.

It was Lyanna Mormont who frowned. "Rhaena Stark? Do you mean Raya?"

Robb shook his head. "Rhaena is Dany's mother."

Lyanna Mormont's frown deepened. "You intend to name your daughter after a whore who opened her legs to a Dornish lord?"

"Lyanna!" said Domeric, suppressing a smile. "You shouldn't say that."

Lyanna shrugged. "My mother says better the truth than lies. It is the truth is it not? If I have children, I'd never name one after my former good-aunt."

"It's rude to say such words in front of your hosts my lady."

"It's rude to lie too."

Domeric sighed. Arguing with Lady Lyanna Mormont was pointless. She was a girl who was willing to argue all day and night until her point was proven. Theon had made the mistake of quarrelling with her the other day in the training yard – he said her battle stance was wrong when she insisted it was right. Domeric was the unwilling decider. Considering that Lyanna Mormont was holding her spiked mace at the time with a murderous look in her eye, Domeric agreed with her. She wasn't standing incorrectly, but it could use a small adjustment.

"Father and Mother will be back soon," Gwenysse said to Robb. "They have to attend two weddings before they are allowed to come home. Maester Luwin told me that Lyarra is pregnant. Is it true?"

Clang.

Everyone's eyes swivelled to Domeric. He hastily bent down and picked up the knife he had dropped. Lyarra is with child. Prince Orys's child. He stood up hastily, his right hand shaking. "I must go and pack," he said swiftly. "Early start at dawn. I must also write a letter to Lord Stark, thanking him for everything he'd done for me. I wish you all well for the future." He walked down the dais – only to find the crannogwoman at his side.

"You are leaving?" Meera asked.

Domeric nodded. "My father summoned me home."

"I have a message from Jojen. He says he received another green dream in his sleep and it concerns you."

"Doesn't Jojen's green dreams concern all of us at one stage?" Domeric kept on walking. "Is it important, Lady Meera?"

Meera Reed sped up and stood in front of him, blocking his exit. "Yes," she said flatly. "It's of the utmost importance. If you return to the Dreadfort, not all of you will come back."


Silence accompanied Domeric from the Hornwood to the Dreadfort. He stayed at the Hornwood for a night where he was reacquainted with the Hornwood heir Daryn, and his lady mother. Throughout the night, Domeric could not remove the words Meera Reed said from his mind. What did she mean when she said that he would return to Winterfell, but not all of him? Would he lose one of his legs or an arm in battle and seek refuge in Winterfell?

As Domeric rode through the soundless woods towards the iron portcullis, his thoughts inadvertently dwelled on Lyarra. Every time his companion was silence or solitude, he would think of her. He tried many times to cease; it never worked. His thoughts would always return to Lyarra Stark. It's wrong, Domeric pondered, waiting for the iron portcullis to raise. Lyarra is a married woman now – a soon-to-be mother too. I'm a fool to pine after her. He shivered as the cold breeze chose to nip at the back of his neck. Life is no song. "And I have been acting the part of a lovesick fool," Domeric said aloud. The trees rustled in response. "Not anymore," Domeric muttered to himself. He would no longer be a lovesick fool, aching for an impossible woman. No, he was a Bolton of the Dreadfort.

Domeric entered the courtyard. He frowned. There was something…unnatural. Something odd. The Dreadfort was always quiet and eerie, but this…there was an unusual feeling hovering in the atmosphere. His red steed, Crimson, neighed with apprehension and pawed the ground. Domeric dismounted and patted him in an effort to calm him down. Crimson had never done that before…

There was definitely something afoot.

Leading Crimson to the stables, Domeric glanced around. Where were the two stable hands? There was usually one of them tending the horses or cleaning all of the stables when he'd arrive. Besides, it was the middle of the day. Ensuring that there was enough water and some carrots for Crimson, Domeric strode away and headed straight for the doors of the Great Hall.

"My lord Domeric." Maester Tybald was waiting for him. He looked paler and a little nervous even. "I…I didn't expect you here so soon."

Domeric arched an eyebrow. "You wrote the letter didn't you? I believe it was in your handwriting. You wrote to me saying my father wanted me here. Surely it is expected that I'd come here as quickly as I can, especially as I have little reason to remain at Winterfell. Where are the stable hands, Maester? Were they both by chance kicked to death by the horses?"

"N-n-not at all m-my lord," stammered Maester Tybald. "Both are actually ill – a cold I believe. They will be back at work tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow morning. I'd thought you would visit your uncles and aunt, Lord Domeric. I didn't think you'd come straight here. It isn't too late to-"

"I'd like to meet my betrothed," Domeric cut in. "We can talk later if you wish. I do desire to talk to Lady Arrana Umber though. I have not met her before and as I am to marry her, I would like to speak to her, dine with her even before we stand in front of the heart tree in the godswood and wed in the eyes of the old gods. It's not too late now. Where might I find Lady Arrana?"

"A visit to Lord Ryswell is wiser my lord," insisted Maester Tybald. "It is not at all late to leave now."

Domeric's lips tightened. Usually the maester was never this persistent. In fact, he was never unyielding in anything before. The Great Hall's doors opened wider. Maester Tybald seemed to have turned a shade paler as Reek shuffled forward, a smile on his face. "Milord," Reek said, bowing at Domeric. "Lord Bolton is waiting for you in his solar milord. Shall I take you to him?"

"Yes," said Domeric, glancing at Maester Tybald again. "Maester, please tell the Lady Arrana that I will sup with her tonight."

"As you wish my lord." Looking worried, Maester Tybald walked away. With a frown remaining on his face, Domeric followed Reek to the solar.

"When did Lady Arrana arrive?" inquired Domeric.

"A few weeks ago milord Domeric. There were months of delay due to the loss of ravens, miscommunication and the lady's dowry. Also the wildlings of course. I saw Lady Arrana wandering around the castle a number of times milord. She is a beauty milord. A northern beauty."

"My father speaks to you about Lady Arrana's dowry?" Domeric didn't like the sly glimmer in Reek's eyes. Knowing unreliable servants, Reek probably listened at doors and was proud of it. As Domeric expected, Reek didn't reply.

"Lord Bolton is expecting you milord," Reek said again, his wormy, meaty, wet lips forming a cunning smirk. He pushed open the door and gestured for Domeric to enter. Giving him a suspicious look, Domeric cautiously walked in, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He hoped he would not use his it.

Crunch.

Domeric looked down, his heart pounding twice as fast. He stepped on a hand. His eyes widened. It was his father's pale hand. His grip tightening on the dagger, Domeric moved closer to his father's chair. Domeric paled. Placed on Father's old chair was a flayed body. Upon taking a closer look, Domeric felt ill.

It was Father.

"He tried to strangle me." Reek's voice echoed in the Dreadfort solar. His cold, maniacal laughter rang out loudly. "Can you believe it milord Domeric? He'd tried to strangle me! He was too slow though. I cut off his hand. Cut off his feet too. You know he attempted to call you here so many times, milord? Every time one of his letters was about to be sent out, the raven mysteriously died."

"You…" Domeric shook with rage and horror. "You…you monster!"

His oddly pale eyes shining with delight. "Monster? Me? My dear brother! You have no idea who the true monster is! Me? Oh no, I'm the true Bolton, not you. All the Boltons of old mastered the superb art of flaying. I did too. Can you flay a man who begs for mercy? Do you know how to flay?"

Domeric stared at Reek, speechless. "What?" he managed to say. "Who are you and why did you call me your brother? You are my servant!"

Slap!

"I AM THE TRUE HEIR OF THE DREADFORT!" Reek screeched, slapping at him and kicking him. Almost immediately, Reek calmed down and smiled again. "How silly of me," he said softly, his eyes staring at Domeric's. "You don't know do you? Our father didn't tell you. Our father didn't tell you…" He rubbed his hands as he leant forward. "I'm your half-brother," he whispered into Domeric's ear. "Ramsay. All those days that I played as your servant, I watched you. You're no Bolton. I am. You're weak Domeric. What have you ever done? I flayed our father, strangled all the ravens but one and hunted down that Umber bitch in the forests. That's what a real Bolton would do, not play the harp and weep."

"You're a bastard," said Domeric sharply. "True Bolton or no, I am Lord of the Dreadfort now, not you."

Reek – Ramsay now – leant even closer. Pain shot through Domeric's spine. He cursed as blood slowly seeped out his mouth. That bastard.

As Domeric stumbled, his grip on the dagger hilt loosened. He slowly slumped against the wall. Grinding his teeth to suppress the intense agony, he glowered at his cackling half-brother. "Not for long," Domeric heard Ramsay crow wildly and victoriously. "Not for long my dear brother…"


Sorry I didn't upload it earlier! Swamped with assignments. Like SWAMPED. One assignment done, another pops by. I did try to update on Wednesday, but something strange happened - this error message showed up and I didn't receive the email for it. I ended up deleting it so I'm trying again today. I wrote Daenerys deliberately like that this chapter because it is in Domeric's POV and he still isn't in a forgiving mood towards Daenerys or Robb.