A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

9: Domeric

Domeric winced.

"Are you alright?" Sansa's face creased in worry.

"I'm fine," he answered her for the umpteenth time, but he didn't mind her concern, he appreciated it.

A look of relief flickered across her face. "Good."

They had returned to Winterfell upon reuniting with Lord Stark and his father's hunting party. When they arrived, Domeric was taken straight to the Maester turret where Luwin treated his wound.

That was where a worried Sansa had found him. She was quick to make sure his injury wasn't severe and was relieved to see it was not. She then had asked Luwin to instruct her on what to do wanting to tend to Domeric herself. Luwin obliged her.

Sansa's face hovered inches away from him. Her hand pressed against the side of Domeric's face where she had applied the salve under Maester Luwin's instructions. She was holding a cold compress to help lower the swelling on the side of his face from where that wildling had hit him.

Domeric could breathe in her sweet scent. Her lips parted slightly, begging to be kissed. There was nothing he wanted to do more then to cut the distance between them and press his lips to hers. He stayed his desire aware of the lingering Maester Luwin who watched Sansa tending to him with a proud smile.

"Well done, Lady Sansa," The maester praised.

Sansa smiled at his compliment. "Thank you, Maester Luwin."

"Yes, indeed," Domeric agreed, "You have a wonderful touch, my lady."

A pretty bush came to her cheeks, but she regained herself quickly. "Do not think that I'll be pleased if I discover you injured again."

"I know, my lady," Domeric had the decency to look sheepish at her threat. He then placed his hand on top of her hand that had been resting on her lap while the other one remained holding the compress to his face.

"How are you feeling, Domeric?"

He knew the Maester was not referring to the cut on his face, but of the events that transpired during the hunt. Sansa's hand had frozen in place at the mention of the hunt. Domeric noticed the curiosity shimmering beneath her bright eyes, but her courtesies kept her quiet.

Domeric had been expecting this. To kill a person was no easy thing, a lesson he saw Robb and Jon struggling with. It was a lesson Domeric had already learned.

Before he set out to the Vale, he accompanied his Lord Father who had been called to dispense justice. When they arrived, they found a man who was guilty of murder. It was the headman's axe. It fell on Domeric to deliver his father's verdict-death.

It wasn't until later did Domeric discover that the man was never offered a chance at taking the Black. His father did not allow it because of him. He wanted him to kill that man before he left for the Vale. He wanted him to understand what it meant to take a life. The man was sacrificed so that his father could impart Domeric with that lesson.

That was not the only time. He encountered death during his stay in the Vale. Mountain clansman had ambushed Lord Redfort's party. It had been bloody, but quick, bodies on both sides. Domeric hadn't killed any of the clansman, he had been protected by Lord Redfort's men. It was after the attack when Ser Creighton, Lord Redfort's second son had bested one of them, a warrior woman and had decided to be merciful and make her his prisoner.

When Creighton had gone to bind her hands, the woman revealed a knife tucked away within her clothes and slashed at him. It had been Domeric and Ser Jasper, Lord Redfort's eldest and heir that intervened. Domeric ran her through with his sword without hesitation while Jasper went to protect his brother. Creighton's injury thankfully wasn't severe, but it made an impact on Domeric and the others.

"It weighs on me, Maester," Domeric said softly, realizing he had been quiet for some time. He wasn't comfortable revealing that he had killed before. "But I did what needed to be done." His eyes found Sansa's. "I had to return."

She squeezed his hand. "Always return to me."

Her words were a whisper, but Domeric heard them and he gave her a solemn nod.

"Lord Bolton," Luwin's voice broke the peaceful privacy Domeric had found him and Sansa sharing.

His father was standing at the door. His pale eyes were taking in the scene before him.

"Lord Bolton," Sansa's hand slipped from his. She stood from her seat to give the Lord of the Dreadfort a proper curtsey.

He regarded her silently, "Lady Sansa," he inclined his head towards her. "Your civility does you great credit."

"Thank you, Lord Bolton."

He then turned to Maester Luwin. "How is my son, Maester?"

"The swelling is nearly gone, my lord," Luwin informed him. "And the bruise will fade in time."

"Good," His father's quiet voice dominated the room. "I would like a moment alone with him."

"Of course, my lord," Luwin bowed his head.

Sansa too didn't need to be told again. She offered Domeric a warm smile before following the Maester out of the room.

"What happened with the wildlings?" Lord Bolton had waited until the door had closed before speaking. "I know details were vague and the boy, Robb couldn't meet my eyes when he told the story to myself and Lord Stark."

He should've known his father would be suspicious of Robb's story. His father wasn't a man to be easily duped. He paid attention to facts. He was always well rehearsed in people's habits to help him better understand when they were being truthful or misleading.

"He omitted certain bits," The Lord of the Dreadfort observed.

In his foolish attempt at protecting my honor, Domeric thought to himself. His friend's retelling was done due to his foolishness into thinking that he had done some terrible thing. As if Domeric needed to be ashamed for how he acted.

Domeric Bolton felt none of those things when he recalled putting his sword through that wildling woman. He did it because it was the sensible thing to do. Honor and chivalry make a poor shield when your enemy doesn't heed to your sort of character.

"He told it mostly true," Domeric began, "The only part he altered was my part in the fight."

"And what was your part?"

"I fought the wildling woman," Domeric admitted, "but I didn't kill her in the heat of combat." He met his father's pale eyes, "I killed her after she surrendered." He used the word loosely.

"And why did you kill her?"

"I didn't trust her," was Domeric's honest answer. "Man or woman, she was a wildling. They aren't to be trusted." It was one of the first lessons he learned as a boy growing up in the Dreadfort. "She was my enemy. She had to be dealt with in a manner befitting that."

"Wise," his father's words were soft, but the praise was deafening.

"The others didn't think so," Domeric wasn't sure he'd ever forget the stunned looks that Robb and Jon sent him. The accusatory eyes they gave him as if he had just murdered every servant at Winterfell.

How could they not see the truth when it was right in front of them? It was so simple, so evident. She was the enemy. He dealt with her. That was it. There was nothing more needed to be said or done. They didn't see it that way. He wasn't sure if they ever would.

"You haven't forgotten our family's words."

"Our blades are sharp," Domeric recited with pride.

"It's good that your time with the Starks hasn't dulled your judgment." Lord Bolton sounded pleased when he spoke. "Lord Stark's honor is famous throughout the kingdoms, but it will not protect him in most of them."

"What of the wildings, Father?" Domeric wanted to change the subject. He didn't want to dwell on the subject of Lord Stark. A man who he admired, but he knew better then to defend him in front of his father. Domeric knew how he would react to was also curious about the wildling situation. It was not common for them to come so far down from the Wall without being spotted. It was disconcerting.

"Lord Stark has sent a raven to Castle Black." He informed him. "It appears that the Night's Watch is incapable of handling the wildlings."

"Father?" Domeric could tell there was more that his father wasn't saying.

"This is not their first encroachment," his father revealed. "I've had to put some down myself and I've heard of similar stories from the Last Hearth and Karhold."

"They've grown bolder," Domeric muttered in disbelief. These reports of wildlings were surprising. If the Night's Watch could not uphold their duty, Domeric knew it fell on Lord Stark and his bannermen to repel the wildlings from advancing onto their lands.

"Do not fret about the wildlings," Father told him, "They are no concern of yours."

They are of every concern to me, Domeric wanted to rebut. I will one day be Lord of the Dreadfort. It will be my duty to defend my people from wildling attacks.

"You have done well, my son." His father's words cut through Domeric's thoughts on the wildlings.

"You've done everything I've asked."

"Thank you, Father," Domeric was certain he saw approval in his father's pale eyes.

"You have united our house with the Starks." He placed a hesitant hand on Dom's shoulder. "Bringing our family an amount of power and influence it has not seen since we ruled the North as Red Kings."

"Ahh Dom," Lady Barbrey Dustin greeted him warmly.

It was an odd, but a welcoming sight for Domeric the next morning when he stepped into the Guest House of Winterfell to see his Aunt sitting at the long table, eating alone. She was dressed all in black. A perpetual state of mourning for the husband she lost during Robert's Rebellion, Willam Dustin, Lord of Barrowton. Her hair was equal parts brown and grey and had already been put up in a widow's knot.

"Aunt Barbrey," he smiled in greeting.

"Come to break your fast with me?"

"If you'll have me, Auntie," he replied.

She smiled at that. "You are always welcome at my table."

Domeric nodded his thanks before taking the bench across from her. They sat alone at the long table, a Stark Banner hung proudly on the stone wall behind his aunt's seat.

A few smaller tables were scattered around for the servants and soldiers of the visiting lord, they were mostly empty. He noticed a few men milling about at one table, spotting his aunt's personal sigil stitched into their jerkins.

"Your father has already eaten and has gone back to his chambers."

Domeric suspected as much. He knew his father's habits as a boy in the Dreadfort and wasn't surprised to see they hadn't changed much over the years.

"Will your betrothed not be joining us?"

"She is eating with her family," Domeric picked up one of the loaves of hot bread, breaking it in two. "She'll likely visit afterwards."

"She's a pretty little thing."

His Aunt's tone caused him to look up from his plate. She met his inquisitive stare with a sharp smile. Domeric knew her well enough to sense a criticism in her tone. To anyone else's ear her previous words were an expected compliment, but to him they rang hollow.

"She is."

"She looks more trout than wolf," his aunt observed in an innocent tone, but her eyes conveyed her judgment. "I noticed the Sept in Winterfell," the word was spoken with simmering disgust, "That southern faith in the heart of the north."

His aunt was always a bold woman with a sharp tongue, and that would not change whether she was in her own Barrow Hall or here at Winterfell.

"It isn't right," her eyes looked hawkish when they met his. "Should I be expecting one at the Dreadfort for your pretty wife?"

"No," Domeric answered, "Sansa follows the old gods."

"Truly?" The genuine surprise in her tone sounded genuine. "Good, here I was afraid that your father agreed to let you marry some southern girl who'd frighten at the sight of the flayed man."

Her words and tone stung.

Domeric loved his aunt, cherishing his time with her in Barrowton and looking to her for wisdom and a maternal figure after his mother died. It was his aunt who had helped raise him as a boy, taking him from the Dreadfort to serve as her page for years in Barrowton. He respected her judgment and sought her council so to hear her say such things about his future wife and a woman who he cherished, hurt.

"You do not like her." He was careful to mimic a casual tone and to keep his face from revealing how his aunt's words had affected him.

"It's hard to judge her, Dom," She seemed to sense his discomfort. "She's sweet and pretty," the complimentary words were said blithely and dismissively. "She does seem to have good hips for bearing children and will be plenty fertile if her mother is any indication," she conceded, though her tone changed when mentioning Lady Stark.

She reached over and placed her hand over Domeric's free one, "I only want the best for you."

"I'm happy with her," He knew he chose his words poorly as soon as he spoke them.

"Happiness is for fools," his aunt's features sharpened, "It won't keep you warm or fed when winter is upon us."

"Sansa is strong," Domeric insisted. He had witnessed such acts countless times during his first year at Winterfell.

"I thought I taught you better then to be fooled by a pretty face," she sounded disappointed.

"You did," Domeric replied, "So mayhaps you should trust my judgment on her."

His words came out harsher then he intended and saw the briefest flicker in his aunt's eyes of surprise at his tone. He never spoke to her in such a way, but he wouldn't have her speak about Sansa in such a way either.

"I see a girl who parrots pretty words and bland compliments, but what's beneath that flawless skin?" She asked in an effort to defend her previous remarks on Sansa.

"Steel," Domeric answered without hesitation.

"We shall see, Dom."

Domeric stood alone in front of the Heart tree in the Godswood.

His Father and Aunt had left Winterfell. His Father was pleased and proud at what Domeric had accomplished in his first year here. His conversation with his Aunt was still fresh in his mind. He loved and respected her, but she was wrong about Sansa.

Domeric knelt before the tree, feeling the power of the old gods as his knees sunk into the earth. He revered their presence and sorely missed them during his time in the Vale. He found solace in their stare and found it the only true place to sort his thoughts and give his prayers.

A year ago he had done something similar to the Heart tree that resided in the Dreadfort in his family's Godswood. Tired and conflicted he sought strength and guidance from them at the task his father had put before him. Doubt had filled him when his father had put forth his plan of him fostering in Winterfell.

The Boltons had never come to Winterfell to foster. They came at the front of armies. Twice have Red Kings sacked and burned Winterfell to the ground during their wars with the Starks. They came as hostages too, in failed attempts at rebellion against the Starks, the last one being just when the Andals had begun landing on the shores of Westeros.

So much has changed.

Boltons and Starks were no longer enemies. With this betrothal there could be no doubt that the Boltons stood firmly behind the Starks.

Domeric felt a bit overwhelmed in the part he played in all of this. He was the catalyst to secure his family's future with the Starks. His fostering at Winterfell had brought with it many blessings for him.

He had formed a bond of brotherhood with Robb. The Heir to Winterfell, and future Warden of the North, who looked like his mother, but had all of Lord Stark's honor and character. Domeric was grateful for the friendship they forged at coming of age together. They were both excited and nervous at the prospect of following their powerful fathers in succeeding them as Lords when those days would finally come.

With Jon, he found an unlikely friendship. He was thankful that he never degraded himself in judging Jon by his status instead of his character. If he had he would've missed an opportunity at a friendship that Domeric cherished. He felt protective over him and wondered was this the feeling that older brothers had over their younger brothers. Knowing the dreary sort of fate that lay ahead for most bastards, Dom was determined to make sure that did not befall his friend.

For the first time, he found himself with a sister in Arya. He enjoyed indulging the youngest Stark daughter in stories of famous women or letting her ride Shadow. She had courage, confidence, and a spirit that Domeric admired greatly.

Then there was Bran. The young man yearned to be a knight. Domeric wasn't sure he had a practice which the young Stark hadn't attended. He was always there afterwards with questions on different techniques and methods. He had been a bit overwhelmed by the boy's eagerness, but did his best to answer his questions.

He couldn't forget Rickon, who his family affectionately called the wild wolf. To Domeric he resembled more a blur than any wolf. Their difference in ages made Rickon the one Domeric knew the least. He was filled with such energy. He was always so eager to play with Bran and Arya. He may be wild, Domeric thought, but his adoration to his siblings could not be questioned.

Looking back at the bonds that he had forged with the Stark family culminating of his betrothal to Sansa during this past year, he not his father was the most thankful. His father may be pleased with how the Bolton family had solidified its hold in the north through the Starks. Domeric, however, would always believe that it was him who got more out of this then his father.

He turned to meet the stare of the heart tree.

Domeric could only wonder would this be where he and Sansa would one day make their vows to become husband and wife. Here at her home, Winterfell the seat of the Starks, and the power of the north; where all of the north would attend to witness the union of Bolton and Stark. Domeric found himself liking the idea and knew it would mean more to Sansa too.

A twinge of soreness bloomed in his legs causing him to blink. He readjusted himself to keep himself from getting too stiff. He bowed his head once more, finding his thoughts were drifting more on his family's seat and sigil since the betrothal was announced.

The Dreadfort often conjured dark thoughts and terrors that were only strengthened by histories and tales of the Boltons who came before him. The flayed man was a testament to the cruelty that his family wielded without hesitance.

He sighed.

The history of his family churned so many emotions and thoughts for the Bolton heir. He sometimes wondered if his family's sigil was an outdated symbol of a practice that has long since been outlawed. That it was a dark cloud that would loom over his family and its seat for the remainder of time.

How could he cloak someone as fair as Sansa with the flayed man?

He too could not ignore the idea of what he would say to their future children when they asked about their family sigil. Domeric remembered his own reaction upon truly understanding the history and malice behind his family's personal coat of arms. He had been sick and ashamed.

Those feelings were eventually tempered as time passed. He learned to value the influence that the flayed man could bring. He understood the effect it had on the people. The reputation it carried brought with it certain rewards that Domeric had taken advantage of.

Domeric wondered if his Aunt had the right of it. How her personal banner paid homage to her husband's house: The Dustins and her family: The Ryswells.

She often told him that he was just as much a Ryswell as he was a Bolton. That he should be proud of his mother's family, and the history it carried. Mayhaps, he should do something similar. Create his own personal banner that quartered the Bolton flayed man and the Ryswell horsehead.

That idea did not last because he knew at once his father would be opposed to such a thing. The Lord of the Dreadfort would call such a creation an abomination and an insult to their family's history. That the Bolton name was never anything to be ashamed of, that the actions of their ancestors should not be forgotten. The accomplishments of their predecessors should be celebrated not ignored.

"Dom?"

He smiled quickly at the sound of Sansa's voice. Her soothing voice eased away the headache that had cropped up when he started thinking about his family's name and history.

Those were of the past.

What he cared for now was the family that he and Sansa would one day be. That enticing thought only made his smile grow.

"My lady," he moved to greet her.

"I'm not interrupting am I?" She sounded worried.

"No, I was just thinking," he assured her.

"What about?"

He didn't want to dwell or discuss his family's past. "I was thinking of the blessings that the gods have bestowed upon me." He emphasized his point by taking her hands in his.

She smiled, a faint redness coloring her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and warm when they met his. "You are not the only one who is thankful."

"You honor me, my lady." His eyes drifted from hers and then to her soft lips. Remembering the first kiss they shared in the glass gardens the morning after their betrothal had been announced. He had wanted to kiss her again since then, but the times they shared had been few and none of which had they been alone.

They're alone now, he pointed out.

He leaned towards her to see she was mirroring him and soon their lips connected. He breathed in her sweet aroma. Unlike, the first one that lasted a few seconds, their lips lingered, becoming accustomed to the feelings and sensations that were coursing through them. After what felt like a minute, they broke the kiss.

He was unable to stop from smiling. Sansa's face was a bit flushed, but still she was smiling. Their hands were still entwined.

He looked to the weirwood tree, its melancholy face staring back at him. The rustle of its leaves sent an unfamiliar shiver through the heir to the Dreadfort. It was almost as if he could feel the old gods giving their blessing to their union.

That thought gave him more comfort then he could ever describe.

"We should head back," Sansa's words stirred him.

"Yes, we should," Domeric turned his gaze away from the weirwood tree. "Your father may send a search party after us."

"You sound worried?"

"I know better than to upset a Stark."

"And don't forget it," she reminded him in a feigned haughty voice that had the both of them laughing.

In that moment of levity Domeric found clarity. Seeing his lovely betrothed with him, he knew where his focus should be.

So he allowed his thoughts on his family's past ebb away. He could not change his family's history.

He shouldn't fret over the future; so he put aside his concerns for things that have yet to come. The future would wait.

Sansa looped her hand through his arm while they began making their way back to the castle.

Domeric was going to embrace the present.

A/N: So I wanted to close out this story arc with some reflection. So much of Martin's universe is focused on families and their histories in how it shapes the characters and the world. I wanted to explore that depth by Domeric confronting his own family's history while trying to form his own identity. I think it would be a waste if it wasn't explored.

Next chapter the Game of Thrones will be starting…

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire

P.S: To clear up confusion from the last chapter: That was not Osha who Domeric killed. It was just a random wildling woman. The thought that people would mistake her for Osha hadn't crossed my mind until I saw some of the reviews. So I'm sorry about that.