A/N: Thanks for all the support you've given this story. It means a lot to me.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

5: Domeric

Domeric groaned.

He found himself with his back on the ground, looking up at the grey skies above Winterfell. He heard voices around him, but his ears were ringing so he couldn't quite discern whose voices they belonged to or what they were saying. Pain had bloomed in his chest from where the lance had struck him.

"Lord Domeric?"

Domeric recognized the voice. A second or so later, Jon Snow came into view, staring down at him with a concerned look. "It's Domeric," he wheezed.

"Domeric," He said hesitantly, "Are you hurt?"

"Only a little," Domeric made a move to sit up, regretting that movement as pain wracked his body. He gritted his teeth and continued until he was in a sitting position where he then let out a tired breath.

"You didn't listen, Domeric," Ser Rodrik was standing in front of him with his arms crossed.

Domeric had exerted all of his energy and strength, and hadn't taken Ser Rodrik's advice to stop when he did. In his pride, he thought he could do one more tilt. He was proven wrong, failing and falling hard to a skilled Stark guardsman.

"No, I didn't," Domeric admitted.

Ser Rodrik didn't look impressed that he acknowledged his mistake. "If this was a battlefield, you'd be skewered, bleeding in the mud and left to die." He pulled at his grey whiskers, "That is unless the knight meant to finish the job."

"I'll do better," Domeric pushed away that haunting possibility.

Lord Redfort boasted that he had the skill to be a tourney champion in the south. Domeric had the skills to ride and just needed to hone his talent with lance. His father after listening to Lord Redfort's report insisted that Domeric continue such work while fostering at Winterfell.

Domeric was thankful his father wasn't here now to see his son and heir on the ground. The pale red flayed man on his armor dented and dirtied.

"Not today," Ser Rodrik told him gruffly. "We're done," he waved off an approaching page. "Domeric will tend to his own horse and weapons."

"You don't have to stay, Jon," Domeric looked to see Jon was still crouched down beside him while the others had left the training yard.

Jon shrugged. "I don't mind." He stood back up before offering Domeric a hand.

He gladly took it, as Jon helped pull him to his feet where Domeric felt more pain and soreness within his chest and along his back from where he had hit the ground, "Thank you."

Domeric envied the Starks. The strong bonds the siblings had forged with one another that were even extended to their half brother, Jon. It reminded him of Lord Redfort sons, all of whom he considered his brothers after his years spent in the Vale. Lord Redfort had married three times and only two of his sons were brothers who shared the same mother, but the four of them never treated or acted like they were anything else, but true brothers.

He saw how the Stark children interacted with Jon especially Robb and Arya. Domeric knew if he was unkind to Jon then he'd risk souring his relationship with the other Starks. Not that he wanted to, who was he to be rude to Jon, because he was a bastard when Domeric too had a bastard brother.

My brother is out there, Domeric thought. Ignored or forgotten, he wasn't sure, but Domeric would change that. True born or bastard, he would not turn his back on him. That was why he treated Jon the way he did.

I will treat my brother the same way. Domeric had made that vow in front of the imposing weirwood tree in Winterfell's Godswood. He prayed to the old gods just for the opportunity.

Jon had already proven a helpful friend by providing Domeric a better understanding and learning more about his potential betrothed, Sansa Stark. There was not much he knew about her and his interactions with her had been limited his first days in Winterfell.

Wanting to know more, he went to Robb and Jon, conscious to be casual and subtle with his questions about their sister and not wanting to draw any suspicion or attention. He didn't go to Bran or Arya believing them too young and unreliable to provide him with anything useful.

When he had been told about his father's plan to secure a betrothal between him and Sansa, Domeric had been resigned to the decision. He knew nothing about the Stark's eldest daughter. He had been pleasantly surprised when he first spotted her. Even young, on the cusp of womanhood, she was pretty with her long copper curls, shimmering blue eyes, and pretty smiles.

He had no doubt that when she became older she would be the most beautiful woman in Westeros. She was only a few years younger than him. He was thankful that the age difference was not worse. Domeric would've found the task a bit awkward if she had been Arya's age.

"I need to thank you, Jon."

"Pardon?" Jon asked.

"About your sister," Domeric clarified, "You were right. She has a lovely voice."

"Aye," Jon agreed, but his grey eyes were hooded, looking him over carefully. "I heard about Septa Mordane," he stopped there waiting for Domeric to respond and clarify.

Domeric held up his arms. "It was only a song," He stood straighter, "I would dare no insult on either your sister or your family's honor especially within your home." He understood Jon's suspicion and it proved another example of how the Starks looked after one another including Jon who was a Stark by blood if not name.

"I am a guest in your family's home," Domeric pointed out. He'd say on my honor as a Bolton that nothing had happened between him and Sansa, but he wasn't certain that would support his words or intentions given his family's history.

That seemed to placate Jon because he nodded slowly, "Good." He was looking at him critically, but didn't seem to have the courage to ask the question he wanted to ask.

"I didn't plan for it," Domeric told him. Knowing he had guessed the question right by Jon's reaction.

Domeric understood the suspicion based on the convenience. After all, after he asked Jon about his sister and learning that she could sing only for him to find out about Septa Mordane catching them in his room with no chaperone. Him playing his harp and while she was singing.

"I was playing when she found me," Domeric admitted, "I was not expecting her arrival."

He moved over to where Shadow was, his destrier was lingering in the training yard, uncertain what to do since Domeric had been knocked off. He greeted the horse with a small smile, "You did well today, Shadow." He gently brushed Shadow's mane, "It was I who failed." He then gingerly took the reins and guiding him towards the stable.

Domeric returned his attention to Jon. He walked slowly as to not further upset the soreness that he felt settling into his muscles and bones. "You may not believe me, Jon, but I miss my home."

To the rest of Westeros it was the infamous Dreadfort, the seat of his family, where they kept the flayed skins of defeated enemies in secret rooms. To Domeric it was simply home.

"So you played the harp?" Jon asked respectfully, but was unable to hide the dismay in his tone.

"Yes," Domeric answered, "It is at the Dreadfort where I have the strongest memories of my mother."

So on the days when the ache of missing his mother was too great he would play his harp. The music helped drift him away back towards sweet memories of her. In those peaceful moments, she was more than a memory or a shade of herself.

Then Sansa had appeared.

He had not been expecting her, but he'd be lying to himself if he said, he hadn't enjoyed their time together. It sounded foolish, and perhaps it was, but in that short time with her, talking and smiling, singing and playing music together, Domeric thought the potential betrothal between them could be more of a gift then a burden.

Do not stray, Domeric stopped himself before his thoughts lingered too far ahead of himself. Such thoughts were an unwelcome distraction. The topic of a betrothal hasn't even been broached let alone agreed.

It was a nice first step, nothing more.

Domeric led Shadow into his pen, closing the gate so as to remove the horse's saddle.

"I don't know my mother," Jon confessed softly.

Domeric looked over to see Jon was leaning on the railing of Shadow's pen. His face forlorn, while his tone was wistful.

"I'm not even sure if she's alive or dead," he ducked his head, "Or if she knows or even cares about me."

Does my brother think this too? Domeric didn't like the idea of his brother feeling so dejected especially as he saw how much it clearly bothered Jon.

You'll know your family soon enough, brother, Domeric would make sure of it.

Turning his attention back to Jon Snow."You may not have your mother, Jon," Domeric picked his words carefully, "But you do have a Father and brothers and sisters who love you." Jon had looked up at that. "It isn't perfect, I know, but it's still a family who cares for you and will protect you."

"You're right," Jon nodded, "I am thankful for them," he said quickly as if he was afraid he sounded ungrateful, "but I can't help but want to know who she was."

"I'm sure someday you will, Jon."

After finishing up in the stables, Domeric and Jon went their separate ways. Domeric headed back to his chambers to prepare for dinner that even fall with the Starks. He was hopeful he could scrub himself clean and rest shortly before his presence was required.

A noise broke through his thoughts on his coveted rest. He was approaching his chambers. It was when he noticed that his door was open did he hear the noise again. It was coming from within.

Carefully, Domeric stepped inside the doorway of his chambers. Looking inside to see the trunk by his bed was opened and that was he spotted a small someone going through his things. The messy dark hair and scrawny body made him realize who it was at once.

"I keep the flayed skins in my other trunk."

The words might as well have been a bolt of lightning since they seemed to shock Arya Stark.

She froze where she was, crouched in front of his trunk. Looking over her shoulder, her young face marred in fear at being caught by him. Her eyes darting to the doorway he was currently standing in. No doubt, she was wondering if she could slip past him to make her escape.

"Is this a Stark tradition?" He crossed his arms, "Because if so, I'm afraid I wasn't told."

Arya ducked her head. "I'm sorry."

He should have been angrier. Yet, he couldn't even muster the feelings to be mad. Domeric had a soft spot for the wild Stark girl. He had barely been around her, but when he did he could only smile or laugh at the whirlwind of energy she was.

"Why are you in here?" He moved into his room, but remained between her and the doorway. Domeric may not have been angry with her, but he wasn't going to let her dart out of his room without so much as an explanation of what she was doing here.

She chewed on her lower lip. "I shouldn't tell."

"I disagree," he countered, "You're in my room. I caught you going through my things," he pointed out, "if anything telling me the truth may help me decide whether or not I should tell your Septa." He let the threat hang.

Domeric wasn't actually going to tell Septa Mordane. The woman had been suspicious and cold towards him since she came upon him and Sansa. He was certain the old woman was watching him closely to make sure that incident didn't repeat itself.

His threat seemed to work. Arya winced at the mention of the Septa. "It was Theon."

Why was he not surprised? Domeric hid his frown from her. He felt the prickle of annoyance in his gut. The arrogant ironborn ward had been rude to Domeric since he arrived. Theon had made some snide comments about his family and his father at the welcome feast.

Domeric had ignored them. He hated them, but they were not new to him.

It would not serve him to make a scene in the Great Hall. To bluster angrily at perceived family insults in front of everyone. No, take them with a nod, and a look of indifference. But do not forget them. An outburst would be quick and pointless. His time for retribution would come, and it would be on his terms not Theon's. Then the ironborn would know not to cross the Boltons.

He had only let slip of them to Robb because he wanted to gauge the Stark heir on Theon. Domeric had been disappointed to learn that Robb considered the ward a friend.

"What did he say?" Domeric questioned the youngest Stark girl after realizing he had been quiet for some time.

"He was telling some of the Stark guards that you keep flayed skins in your trunks and leeches in jars," Arya confessed. "They were all laughing."

Her story didn't surprise her. Domeric was use to it. No, what surprised him was the hard look in Arya's expression.

"But I didn't believe them," Arya admitted, "I knew better. I came in here because I wanted to prove Theon wrong."

That caught him off guard. He was actually touched by her desire to want to help him. He barely knew her, and already she was defending him.

"Why?"

"You never laughed at me when I tried to use the swords," she was looking at the ground, "you even encouraged me that one time."

It took Domeric a few seconds to remember what she was referring to. It had been after one of his lessons. Robb and Theon had gone off together, Domeric had stayed behind. While Rodrik and Jon left to the blacksmith to see how some repairs were going.

He had caught her with one of the blunted swords. She had been trying to sneak off with it so that she could get some practice with the weapon.

Against his better judgment he made an agreement with her. She stayed in the shadows of the stables while Domeric tended to Shadow. It was easy for him to clear the stables. Domeric was after all the son of Lord Bolton.

He watched her with the sword and realized that this wasn't her first time. She had some raw skill and Domeric could detect she had been given some lessons and advice. If he were to guess who was responsible he was certain it was Jon. He had noticed how close they were.

Domeric had feared he had made a mistake. Even in the relative silence and solitude of the stables a passing servant or guard could've spotted them and then Domeric would've been in trouble. He had inwardly scolded himself for making such a rash decision without thinking it through. Yet, when he watched her with the sword, seeing how happy she was he couldn't help but think he might have made the right choice.

"I am fortunate to have such a loyal friend."

She smiled at that. "So you're not mad?" She looked up shyly.

Not at you, but he kept that to himself. Domeric wasn't going to let anything slip about his current feelings towards the Heir of the Iron Islands.

"No," he smiled at her which seemed to alleviate her concern. He walked passed her. He no longer felt the need to block her exit. He moved to one of the seats by the hearth.

She made no move to leave. "Why did you help me?"

"Tell me, Arya," he gestured to the empty seat beside him, "Do you know the story of Nymeria, the warrior queen?"

He was in the stables when it happened. Domeric made his way out of them when he had heard the yelp of pain. He moved closer to see what was going on.

In the training yard he spotted Theon Greyjoy on his arse. His hands were covering his nose to try to stop the blood, but it was seeping through staining the front of his clothes. A broken bow lay at his side.

A confused Robb was right beside him trying to offer some sort of assistance, but seemed clueless onto what to actually do.

Ser Rodrik took charge of the situation. He shouted instructions to Robb to have him take Theon to see the Maester who would tend to the injury.

Robb lifted his friend off of the ground. A cursing, and bleeding Theon Greyjoy was led to the Maester's turret.

He would later find out that Theon had broken his nose. The smelly salve that was applied to his injured nose would stink up the halls of Winterfell for some time. And the story that detailed the accident would be a popular tale to tell that entertained the Stark guardsmen and castle servants for far longer.

Domeric turned away. He made his way back to the stables. No one saw him smiling.