A/N: With the last chapter this story has passed over 1400 reviews. This is truly humbling. This was my first ASOIAF story and I wasn't sure if I could do this fandom justice and deliver a story that people could find engaging and believable. It started with an idea that I hoped some would find interesting, and from the beginning, the response has been universally supportive.

So to all those who took the time to support this story by leaving a review, you have my utmost appreciation. To those who haven't, you're dead to me. But seriously, come on, why not? Okay, my unseemly begging aside, here's the next chapter:

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

48: The Keeper

"Well struck, m'lord," He panted. The pain from that last strike lingered in his side where he took the strike.

Domeric took the compliment with a nod. Relaxing his stance, and lowering his axe. "You nearly had me."

Robard let out a weak laugh, "Nearly," he took a step back, "You fight better with an axe then I was led to believe, m'lord."

Something that could have passed as a smile flickered over the face of Lord Bolton's son and heir. "That is why I won, Bitter."

After years in the service of Ramsay, and in the employ of Lord Bolton, Robard found it strange to finally be in the presence of Domeric Bolton. The man he had often heard of, but had never seen or met. Ramsay was always volatile and condescending. The bastard had despised Domeric and constantly plotted to seize what he thought should be his. In his time with Lord Bolton, Robard suspected that Domeric was the only person who the Lord of the Dreadfort held any fondness of.

The heir did not have the striking pale eyes of his bastard brother or father. No, his eyes were dark, but Robard found them just as intimidating. They were black pits that showed nothing behind his gaze. Lord Bolton had tasked him with helping to train his heir in combat, but in their lessons together, Robard found the heir to the Dreadfort well versed in both axe and mace.

"Mayhaps, you should be training me, m'lord."

Domeric handed his blunted battleaxe to his squire. "I don't have the patience."

He hid his frown, unsure if that was a jest or an insult. The young lord's inflections were difficult to decipher and his impassive expression did Robard no favors in trying to read his mood. He's more like his father than I thought, Robard couldn't help but think.

Calm, and impassive, he listed, patient and quiet. In seeing Domeric, he believed he was more Lord Bolton's son than Ramsay ever aspired to be. The Bastard was loud and brash, blunt and arrogant. Traits he'd never saw in Lord Bolton and in his limited time with Domeric had not observed either.

Ramsay was cruel, and Robard could not deny Lord Bolton was not, but they hid it under different masks. The bastard was his, a monster, uncaring of his approach or reputation. He only yearned for the hunt, for the flaying, for the killing, his stomach roiled, for the raping.

Lord Bolton hid his cruelty behind his title. He flayed and he raped, but it was hidden, out of sight. He did not draw eyes to his behavior. He masked his intentions, keeping his urges to the shadows instead of the light.

And Domeric, Robard watched him walk towards the huge and waiting direwolf, Lady. A jape of a name, Robard thought, as the creature was nearing the size of a small pony, and still growing. The direwolf swished her tail at his approach, licking his outstretched hand, and a flicker of a smile came over Domeric's face before it melted away. He petted Lady affectionately behind the ears to the direwolf's delight.

Is this a man who flays and rapes like his father and brother? Robard could not tell. Domeric wears the Bolton colors proudly, but he could not tell what sort of heart lay beneath.

"Walk with me, Bitter."

"Of course, m'lord," He answered quickly, moving towards the waiting Dreadfort heir and direwolf. He tried not to tremble when the eyes of the creature were on him. A shiver of discomfort went up his spine, the beast's gaze reminiscent of the ones Lord Bolton had given him in the past-calculating. He pushed away that absurd notion, but was relieved when the direwolf made no move to attack him instead wandering off a few yards ahead of them.

"You would not be the first person to soil their breeches at Lady's glare," Lord Domeric spoke plainly.

"Can you smell it?" Robard chanced a glance to see what he thought was a curve of a lip from the heir, but it was more likely that he was projecting what he wanted to see.

Instead, Domeric ignored the jape altogether. "How long have you been in my father's service?"

"A few years, m'lord."

"And how is the Dreadfort?"

As terrifying as ever, he stopped himself, "Quiet, m'lord." In his mind's eye, he could hear Ramsay's screams as his father had him nailed to a cross.

"I have not looked upon my family's castle in several years," Domeric observed quietly, "I miss it."

Robard didn't know much about castles or lords. He was never pleased when he was summoned to the Dreadfort. The sights unnerved him, the sounds rattled him, and the smells nauseated him. "It's your home, m'lord," He was uncertain why a young lord was speaking to him about such matters.

"Is it?" Domeric challenged, "I do not recognize you." He frowned.

He stilled when he felt Domeric's dark gaze on him. Lord Bolton hadn't instructed him to divulge what it was he had been doing these past few years. He hadn't forbidden him either, Robard countered, believing that was done on purpose. A game for him, he thought bitterly, to see which way I chose.

If Lord Domeric was expecting him to speak, he did not show it. "I've spent more years away from the Dreadfort than living in it." His pink cloak billowing behind him, looking more a flayed skin than a piece of cloth. "Lord Stark told me, a lord should know his servants, his guards. If they are to serve your family than some familiarity is needed," Domeric said, "How else can you inspire loyalty? He'd say."

Fear, the answer came to him at once, but Robard wasn't foolish enough to say it aloud. The servants and guards at the Dreadfort were quiet, more akin to shadows than people. They scurried in their tasks. Knowing that unlike Lord Stark, if they were called upon by Lord Bolton, it was not to imbue them with a favor.

"I'm thankful to be in your father's service." The images of skeletal hands holding up torches flickered across Robard's vision.

"And one day you will be in my service."

Robard found himself straightening up. "I hope to serve you as faithfully as your father, m'lord."

"Service that will be rewarded, Robard."

It was the first time he could remember Lord Domeric using his name beyond their first introduction.

"You honor me, m'lord."

Domeric took his words without further remark.

They walked in silence. The only sounds coming from the camps around them. Lady remained a few paces in front of them, but would look back occasionally to make sure they still followed her, with a gaze that unsettled Robard.

"The men seem eager for battle."

"Battle can sate certain urges, m'lord," Robard knew them too well. He wasn't familiar with a battle of this size. He knew only of drunken brawls and the fights he had to partake in under Ramsay's leadership. Nonetheless, he'd indulged himself in the feeling. In the thrill of the fight, at watching the life leave an enemy's eyes. It could be intoxicating.

"They will be sated soon enough," Domeric said calmly.

Robard perked at that. He was not privy to battle councils and strategies, and all he knew was what he heard as gossip between the men around the camp. The men under House Umber were quick to boast of knowing what was to come. It was their liege lord, who had been tasked to lead their forces. A giant of a man that Robard had only caught glimpses of, but he had the look of a warrior. A man that if he saw on the battlefield, he'd try his best to avoid.

"Stay yourself, Bitter."

He blinked. Looking to see he had kept walking while Lord Domeric had stopped. "Forgive me, m'lord," he bowed his head. A mixture of fear and shame thrummed through him, aware that such a breach of his role in front of Lord Bolton would not be ignored or forgotten.

Domeric took his apology silently, before gesturing him to approach which Robard hastily did. "Are you well rested?"

"I am, m'lord."

His expression didn't change, but Robard felt Lord Domeric was pleased. "Can you ride, Bitter?"

"I'm no knight, m'lord," Robard answered honestly, "But I can still stick a man through on horseback just as good as on my feet."

"Good," Domeric clasped his hands behind his back. "My father and the Greatjon have come up with a strategy that should surprise the great Tywin Lannister."

Robard didn't know much of strategy or battles, but he had heard stories of Lord Tywin's prowess. How he handled the Reynes and Tarbecks when they dared defy him. How he sacked King's Landing at the end of the Rebellion. The Lord of Casterly Rock was regarded as a man who understood battles and war.

"That's good to hear, m'lord."

"Are you curious of your role?"

"I only hope to serve you and your family, m'lord."

"A noble sentiment, Bitter," Domeric regarded him and for the first time he looked more friendly than stoic. "A heavy responsibility has been placed upon us."

Lady had joined them, taking a spot beside Domeric where she was quick to sit on her haunches before giving the heir an expectant look.

"Yes, your role is important too, Lady." Domeric indulged her, a note of affection in his voice. "This responsibility no matter how heavy was given to me." He turned to him, "So I need to be aware of the men who will help lead me into accomplishing what we will set out to do."

"I'm honored, m'lord," Robard bowed his head, "And ready."

"Good," Domeric replied, "I am trusting you and Captain Rylen to insure I survive what is to come."

Lady made a noise as if objecting to his words.

A smile managed to come to his features highlighting a pleasant nature that up to this point he had managed to carefully hide. "You as well, Lady," he rubbed her left ear, the direwolf preened at this, looking satisfied.

Robard wasn't sure where he found the sudden courage, but upon looking at Lord Domeric and for the first time, not seeing Lord Bolton in his son's features, but someone else, he found some and asked. "Is it possible to know more, m'lord?"

"It is."

Domeric's answer stemmed any nerves that Robard felt begin to fester at being so bold.

"With me."

He wasn't certain if Lord Domeric was speaking to Lady or to him, but as the heir and direwolf began to walk in what he believed to be Lord Domeric's tent. "You as well, Robard."

He was quick to catch up, apologizing as he did, but Domeric quieted him by holding up his hand.

It did not take them long to reach Domeric's tent. It was bigger given his nobility. The flayed man waved from below, as if welcoming friends but warding off foes. Two guards stood outside of it, both bowed their heads at their approach. However, they smiled when Lord Domeric was close where he greeted them both by their names, and spoke a few extra words to each. Neither flinched at the large direwolf who went into the tent first.

Robard suspected that these were the men Lord Domeric was most familiar with. Some of the men, he heard who had traveled with him and his betrothed to the capital. How else could they not react at the sight of the direwolf if not for familiarity?

Familiarity, The word stuck in his mind returning back to what the heir had told him earlier. When Lord Domeric had reflected on what Lord Stark had tried to instill in him. Robard looked at the guards and didn't see rigidness or fear in their stances or expressions, but something else. It was an unfamiliar sight to a man-at-arms with the Bolton livery on their armor, and one Robard had never seen in all his times at the Dreadfort or in the company of Lord Bolton and his men.

It was contentment. The word finally coming to him. For the first time since he entered Lord Bolton's service, Robard felt hopeful that his future with the Boltons may not be as bleak as he once resigned himself to. It was a strange, but infectious feeling. Mayhaps, his duty to the Dreadfort will not be as bad under the leadership of Domeric Bolton.

"Bitter."

He blinked at once to see that it wasn't Domeric who called for his attention, but the man Robard knew as Captain Rylen. He closed his fist, and then put it to his chest in the proper and expected salute to the captain of the Bolton guard. "Captain," he greeted.

The man stood tall and proud, dressed in his leather armor with the Bolton flayed man stitched into it. In his hand, he carried the narrow nearly cone shaped metal helmet that the Bolton men-at-arms were expected to wear. The tip of the helmet was sharp. Robard had heard stories in the camps during the march down, from some of the veterans, the older men who had seen their share of fights and battles. They claimed you could use the helmet as a makeshift weapon if you found yourself without one. They bragged that it was sharp enough to cut a man's eye out.

That had led to a chorus of Our Blades Are Sharp, quoting the words of their liege lords. Laughing that they all agreed before toasting House Bolton and the unique provisions they gave the men who fought for them.

"Lord Bolton requested you specifically," Captain Rylen said in lieu of greeting.

"I'm honored," Robard found himself surprised that he had received any form of endorsement from the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"You may not be when you hear what it is we are tasked to do," The Bolton captain replied bluntly.

Robard approached the table that Captain Rylen was standing at. Lady made to sit by the fire, but positioned herself as to be able to watch them from where she lay. He saw a crude map was resting on the table, and a few parchments that upon further glance looked to be scouting reports. In looking at the map, Robard noticed that it was hastily drawn making him realize that this was not a prestige map you'd find in castles drawn by maesters with unlimited time but something else.

Regardless of its quality, it was well drawn and had the markings of the different armies. A sketched lion in Lannister colors could be seen resting south of them, a few scribbled words and numbers beneath it.

"We're closer than I thought," Robard was surprised, looking at the two markings of where the two armies were supposedly camped at. He had been expecting a greater distance between them. One that would take days to get to.

"Aye, we are," Rylen agreed.

"We'll need be closer still to catch them unaware," Domeric stood between them.

"M'lord?" Robard looked to see Rylen wasn't surprised by this.

"My father and the Greatjon have agreed to a strategy," Domeric revealed. "A way that accentuates both of their strengths," He sounded equal parts amused and surprised. "My father believes by stealing a night's march we can reach the lions before morning without them realizing it until its too late."

"That would be a great boon to our cause," Robard knew how valuable surprise and stealth could be to an army.

"The Greatjon agreed," Domeric commented, "but this was where my father and him disagreed," Domeric moved his hand to the map. "My father seemed more content on stealing the march, but not engaging Lord Tywin until it was absolutely necessary to distract him so that Robb and his forces could succeed west of us," Domeric's fingers went off the map, but Robard knew he was referring to Riverrun and the area surrounding it which wasn't shown. "Father thinks our primary objective should be to distract so better not to risk ourselves, but the Greatjon is not a patient man."

"No, he isn't," Rylen chuckled.

Robard had heard stories of Lord Umber from the men, and what little he'd seen of him, he was not surprised that the man didn't favor sitting out a fight. The man was loyal to House Stark and had fought for and with Lord Stark. He wouldn't be one to see standing and waiting as helping. No, to him the only way to help his liege lord would be to bloody the Lannisters to show them the north's might.

"According to my father, the Greatjon has wanted to lead the vanguard of our forces since he brought his levies to Winterfell and now he has his chance."

"What is the strategy if we're not waiting, m'lord?"

"Once we steal the march, we'll arrive near the Lannister encampment, but not close enough for them to spot us. I will lead what's left of our horse, and ride ahead to disrupt the Lannister camp," Domeric's fingers trailing along the map as if it was the path he'd take. "We'd fight, pillage make the Lannisters frightened and put them in disarray. We'll start fires and set tents ablaze, cut horse lines, kill any man we come across," Domeric took satisfaction at the role he had been given. "However, upon the first sign of organized resistance, we shall not risk an engagement. We'll retreat back to the flanks of the infantry which would be forming up and marching to the camp."

"It'll surely leave the Lannisters confused," Rylen agreed. "They wouldn't be certain in which way we're attacking. It'll leave them frightened and disconcerted."

Robard saw the merits in the plan. If it was executed properly, they would serve more than just the original purpose they had been given. This battle could serve a meaningful distraction to Tywin's forces, and help to turn the tide in the Riverlands by giving the Lannisters their first if not defeat but retreat.

That being said, Robard was surprised that Domeric would be leading them. It wasn't due to his youth since such roles were expected of nobility. No, it was his father's nature. Lord Bolton was too careful to let his only son and heir lead such a daring attack. He could only wonder how Domeric managed such a feat. One that Robard found more impressive than the actual role the heir had been given or the strategy itself.

"Then the Greatjon and the infantry would be there to welcome them. Descending on their already frightened forces like wolves," Domeric smiled at his choice of word. "You two will ride out with me."

Rylen gave Domeric a swift salute, "And will protect you with my life."

"Aye," Robard added, "With my life if needed."

Domeric nodded at their commitment. "A task I will not forget." He looked back down at the map, "My Uncle Roger Ryswell will be joining me with Ser Wylis Manderly and Ser Donnel Locke too, among others."

Robard knew little if nothing about the men who Domeric had listed, so didn't really react when told. He looked up from his map when he felt a gaze on him, and turned to see it was the direwolf. Those yellow eyes looked shrewd in the firelight.

"And we will have another advantage," Domeric had moved to crouch beside Lady, who was quick to sit up to greet him. "Lady will help to insure no scouts see our approach."

As if on cue, Lady yawned, showing off large, sharp fangs and then stretched out to reveal claws that were dagger-sharp.

Robard didn't doubt that the direwolf would be an advantage. Lady could sniff out scouts, hunt and kill them quietly before their cavalry could be spotted. The direwolf was a natural predator and with her size and speed, he was thankful that she'd be on their side in the battle to come.

"Get what little rest you can," Domeric told them. "It will be the last you'll get for sometime."

"You've spoken to my son."

"I have, m'lord." It had been less than an hour ago.

The Lord of the Dreadfort sat behind his desk in his tent. A few pieces of parchment were scattered upon its surface, but none of it seemed to concern him. One of his maesters stood behind his chair, garbed in grey, and quiet. The only sound coming from him was the soft chimes of his multiple links when they brushed against one another.

"So you know your role in the battle to come?"

"I do, m'lord," Robard kept his head bowed.

"Look at me."

He did, fighting his own hesitance that wanted nothing better but to keep staring at his boots.

Pale eyes, sharp and unyielding were centered on him. His face, usually a carefully placed mask of indifference, showed hints of frustration. The tightness of his jaw, the lines under his eyes, all of which were hard to miss on the usual smooth, plain face of Lord Bolton. When their eyes met, Lord Bolton's lips twitched, pleased with his obedience.

"Be truthful with me," He began softly, "Did you find it odd of my son's role in the battle?"

"I did, m'lord."

His answer was rewarded when Lord Bolton arched one of his eyebrows, "Explain why."

"I-I know how careful you've been with him, m'lord," he answered, "so for him to be in the front of a battle," he trailed off, hoping to have made his point.

"Indeed," Lord Bolton agreed. He then looked over his shoulder at his maester. "You may be a learned man, Wolkan, but you still have much to learn about the north." His eyes turned back to Robard, "he has the right of it." A thin smile came to his lips, "while my new maester fumbles in the dark."

"Forgive me, my lord," Wolkan was quick to apologize. His chain clanging loudly as he scurried to bow his head, fear had made him clumsy in his movements.

"Enough," his voice was a hair softer than a whisper, but it was more terrifying than any shout or roar. "Maester Wolkan thought it an honor for my son, my heir to lead such a charge." His eyes never left Robard, unblinking in their stare while the edge of his voice became as sharp as a flaying knife. "That I should be thankful that the Greatjon chose my son." His mouth twisted at that, "But I see the truth of it, and so does my soldier." He pointed a pale finger at Robard.

"M-my l-lord," Wollkan stuttered in his protest, but it died on his lips when Lord Bolton raised his hand in warning. The maester bowed his head, but not before Robard saw the worry in the man's eyes.

"I'm to teach you something, Wolkan, that the Citadel did not," Lord Bolton said mildly, "The Umbers may be brutes, but they do possess their own form of cunning."

"I-I understand, m-my lord," the maester replied hastily.

"Do you?" That seemed to amuse the Lord of the Dreadfort, "Then explain to me and to my soldier what it is the Greatjon is trying to accomplish by putting my son in such a position of risk?"

"H-he means to remind you of the power he now holds over you by commanding these forces," Wolkan began, "And to also to insure your cooperation in the battle, my lord."

Lord Bolton looked satisfied. "It is true, that my son came up with the plan, but that does not mean, he had to be the one to lead it," He added, "He showed his wisdom by concocting it, let another fool lead it."

Robard had done his best to not react and to just stay quiet. He pitied the maester, but he could not deny the selfishness within him at being relieved it was Wolkan, not Robard that faced Roose Bolton's ire. Was it too much to hope for that this had been the only reason why he had been summoned by the Lord of the Dreadfort?

"Bitter."

His throat tightened, "Yes, m'lord?"

"Do I need to remind you of the consequences that will befall you if harm is to fall upon my son, my heir?" His pale eyes pinned him with a harsh look.

"No, m'lord." His mind's eye was taking him to the deep bowels of the Dreadfort, reminding him of the crosses, and those chained to them who had displeased the Lord of the Dreadfort. Robard felt the all too familiar icy fingers of fear pressing down on his spine.

Lord Bolton regarded him silently, before eventually nodding. "Good, then be off," he dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

He did not need to be told twice. He bowed his head, and left without another word. Robard had made it just out of sight of Lord Bolton's tent before he bent over and heaved.

It wasn't death that scared him. It was Lord Bolton's wrath.

A/N: A few interesting ripples to remember about the upcoming "Battle on the Green Fork."

-Gregor Clegane and some of his forces are not present.

-Kevan Lannister isn't there. A competent commander, and a man whom Tywin trusted to carry out his instructions without mistake.

-Greatjon Umber not Roose Bolton is leading the northern forces.

That being said, let me know what you think.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire