A/N: Thanks for the support.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
49: Domeric
"You are quiet, my son."
"I am sorry, father," Domeric looked up from his seat at the table to see his father's pale eyes on him. "I was lost in thought."
"You should eat," Jonelle encouraged. She gave him a shy smile when their eyes met.
Domeric nodded to her. He looked down at his beef and barley stew. His stomach rumbled, but he wasn't certain if it was hunger or nerves that were to blame.
"My wife has a mother's heart," There was a lilt of amusement in his father's softly spoken voice.
"You are kind, husband," Jonelle ducked her head.
"A mother's heart, and if the gods are good, soon you'll have a mother's body."
"I pray everyday, my husband," she replied quickly.
Not wanting to focus on the conversation or the looks passing between his father and his new wife. Domeric dipped his spoon into the stew, watching bits of meat, and specks of vegetables floating around. He scooped some of it up and tentatively took a bite. It was hearty and tasty and to his relief, his stomach didn't protest.
"I wanted to discuss your orders. If the battle looks to be turning against you," His father spoke mildly in describing a possible defeat by the Lannisters, "Then you are to retreat."
"But Lord Umber-" Domeric tried to protest before he was silenced by a glacial stare from his father.
"You forget yourself, Domeric," He chided him, "Your oaths are to me first and foremost."
"I-I" Domeric began to try to explain or apologize from the ordeal he found himself in, but his father gave him no opening.
"Do not be a fool," Lord Bolton told him, "I do not have the patience for fools or a use for corpses." He said tightly, "And that is what you will be, if you mistake folly for glory, defeat for shame."
"The Greatjon would come to my aid if our opening raid proved unsuccessful," Domeric said, but he found little confidence behind his words.
Roose Bolton's pale eyes glinted in the candle light. "What did I say about fools, Domeric?" He clicked his tongue. "The Greatjon has a son, and with you removed, Sansa Stark, the most desirable maiden in the north would be free to marry."
Jonelle squirmed in her seat. She looked miserable and uncomfortable at the open scheming and tension between her new family. However, she was not brave enough to excuse herself.
This is who we are, he wanted to tell her, to warn her, This is our way.
"You forget that these men who travel with us, these lords want to see their kin tied to the Starks, not us," His father observed. "We are already one of the strongest houses in the north and soon our blood will be tied to Winterfell itself. There are many who do not wish to see that day."
"I understand, Father," Domeric saw his father's point and sense in his words. Their family wasn't beloved in the north. "If it goes poorly, I will withdraw from the battle."
His father smiled, "Good," He sounded pleased, "I will not allow the union of Winterfell and the Dreadfort to be ruined." He looked down into his glass, "You should've married the girl at Moat Cailin, but the pup wouldn't have it." He took a measured sip, "This will be our last battle, my son."
"Father?"
"The Starks will honor our agreement," His father said plainly, "Or other matters will need to be addressed."
Do you think the Greatjon will mourn you?
Supper with his father had left him in a reflective mood. His father's reprimands replaying in his mind, again and again. Not holding back his disappointment in teaching his son what a lesson that Domeric should've already known.
Domeric sat alone in his tent, near the dying fire. The harp that Sansa had given to him in his lap. His fingers tracing along the strings.
In the same letter informing the pup of your death, he'll inquire about the Lady Sansa for his own son.
He strummed one of the chords hard. The noise sounded like an anguish and off tune cry that had Domeric pull back his fingers in surprise, ripping him out of his reverie. He shook his head further as if the simple movement would make those troublesome thoughts fall right out.
Lady tilted her head, a protesting whine followed, where she lay at his feet.
"My apologies, Lady," his fingers tracing the strings. Pulling with it a soothing but soft sound that helped to lull the growing nerves he found forming in his gut.
Satisfied, Lady put her head back down between her two forepaws to continue her resting.
Domeric smiled, turning his eyes away from his betrothed's familiar and to the harp that Sansa had given him. The pale bark gave it an eerie look, but he did not mind it. He saw the beauty in its carvings. He was of the north where the ghostly appearance of the weirwood was revered not mocked or feared. In playing, he thought about his beloved, who he missed more with each passing day. They had never been apart this long, and he did not do well without her presence. Domeric found little or less to smile about without her near.
You are not even married, a voice that sounded like his father whispered to him, And you behave in such a manner. The tone mocked him.
He would not rise to the bait. He ignored the criticism that always took Roose Bolton's voice. He put his effort into his music, where he continued to play as if to drown out the thoughts and worries that wanted to smother him.
"Lord Domeric."
He still played, "Yes, Maester?" He was happy to see at least one familiar face among the retinue that had traveled with his father from the Dreadfort.
"I can come back, my lord."
"No, please stay," He insisted, looking to him for the first time. Uthor was pale in his grey garb. His links were hanging loosely even though they looked to have been tightened in an effort to keep them from slipping off of the maester's thinning frame.
"I did summon you," Domeric had sent a messenger to fetch him right after returning to his tent after his supper. "On my desk," he gestured with his head since his hands were still busy. "There is a letter, that I would like to have sent to my betrothed."
"Of course, my lord," Uthor was slow in moving across the tent. "It is wonderful to hear you playing again."
"Then please sit," Domeric offered, "I can order it." He added when the maester looked ready to object.
"Very well," Uthor's protest died on his lips. He bowed his head in thanks, and took a seat at Domeric's desk. "However, I cannot stay long, I have to tend to your father and to help Wolkan."
Domeric nodded, fingers busy with his harp, "I shall kick you out myself."
Uthor chuckled, it was a frail and haggard sound. He closed his eyes and sighed, looking content for the first time. "You truly are remarkable, Domeric."
He answered the maester's kind words by changing the tone of the music, to something more livelier. Jaunty and infectious, he noticed the maester tapping his foot to keep with the rhythm. It may have seemed odd to play such a song on a harp and one that was meant for dancing and revelry and crowds, but Domeric remembered how much Uthor had liked it. And the maester's gratitude meant more to him than a room full of strangers.
"You play better then most the minstrels I heard in Oldtown when I was younger."
"Thank you, Uthor," Domeric was touched by his praise. "My family is fortunate to have had a man of your talent and loyalty to serve us so long and so well."
"It was an honor." He sighed. "I only wish I would live to see and serve you as its lord." He hesitated. "You will be a great lord of the Dreadfort, one that will make your father proud."
Domeric's fingers nearly erred upon hearing Uthor's words. He felt his throat go tight when he tried to reply. So had to settle for a nod to show he had heard and had appreciated what the maester said.
Uthor, thankfully saw it, and smiled.
He was one of the few that Domeric knew in the Dreadfort. His family's home was filled with strangers and it would one day fall on him to lead them. The maester had been his teacher, his supporter, and had been a strong, familiar presence in a castle with such a sinister reputation. He was a man Domeric had gone to when did not wish to disturb his father. Maester Uthor had been someone he was hoping to rely on when the Dreadfort became his. A familiar face with a voice he could trust when it came to counsel.
When he learned of Uthor's sickness Domeric had been devastated. And now seeing the maester before him with his health deteriorating and nothing that could be done for him. It was a cruel experience.
Even close to death he served Domeric's family. May his successor serve as well and and as faithful.
"Thank you, Dom," Uthor stood with a little difficulty.
"The letter-"
"Is here," Uthor showed him that he had it.
"No, it is not that," Domeric stopped playing. "The letter is to be sent to Sansa," he repeated his previous instructions, "But only if I am to fall in battle."
"Are you nervous, ser?"
"I am not a ser, Colmar." He reminded his squire.
I could've been, Domeric thought on the offers that Lord Redfort had given him over the last year of his fostering in the Vale. He had always declined. He had met honorable knights in the Vale, but he was not of the Seven, he was of the North. Though there were knights who lived north of the Neck, they were few and far between outside of White Harbor.
That is not why I truly denied it, if he was honest with himself it was for another reason. It was never about faith, but my father.
Domeric feared how he would react if he was to return to the Dreadfort anointed in the oils of the Seven, draped in the titles of the south. Domeric was an heir to a proud and ancient northern house. Would father want such a heir to inherit the Dreadfort? That fear had always sprung up when Domeric was offered, and it was that fear that made him always refuse. It was not the first time and it would not be the last time that he acted according to how he feared or believed his father would react.
"My apologies, s-s, my lord," Colmar corrected.
"Peace," He tried to calm him. The young man was eager and hungry for any sort of praise, but fearful that any slight could lead to a reprimand and punishment. It made Domeric wonder life at the Twins was for the Frey family.
Colmar had helped him into his armor. The same one that his father had commissioned for him to wear for the Tournament of the Hand.
That felt like a lifetime ago, Domeric mused, remembering how beautiful Sansa had looked. She was conjured in his mind's eye, thick copper curls that framed her face, her blue eyes shining in affection, her lovely lips curved in a smile. The elation he felt when he crowned her his queen for all the capital to see.
She truly was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. His fingers went to the favor that he kept knotted on the arm of his armor. The green scarf was worn and had faded some, but that did not matter to him. It was a token of Sansa's love for him, and he would not part from it.
Images suddenly flickered before him of his beloved Sansa marrying an Umber, or a Karstark, while his father's warning played in his mind. Domeric's heart clenched.
I will not fall, he told himself in an effort to rid himself of those plaguing thoughts.
Return to me, she told him.
Always. He had replied. And I will.
"Your horse is ready, my lord." Colmar returned to the tent.
Domeric nodded his thanks, "Have you seen to your own?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good," Domeric still knew little of his squire, but he was thankful that the young man was at least competent in his tasks. And neither his appearance nor his actions reflected of a man whose father was Walder Frey. That was a pleasing observation since he could be Arya's future husband. Domeric still needed to remain vigilant around him to make sure his squire was worthy of his future sister.
"My lord," Colmar's voice changed.
Domeric looked to see his squire was addressing his newly arrived father.
"Leave us," Roose Bolton's voice was soft, but firm. He didn't spare Colmar a look when he scurried out of Domeric's tent.
"Father," Domeric straightened up instinctively.
"Do you trust your squire?" His father asked without preamble.
"No," Domeric answered honestly.
That pleased the Lord of the Dreadfort. "Good." He inspected his armor. "I was glad to hear it served you well in the capital."
"It did, father," Domeric replied, "It kept me safe, and brought me victory."
"Good," His father's attention rested on the faded green scarf. His lips curved slightly upwards, "What is this?" He did not try to hide his contemptuous tone.
"Sansa's favor," Domeric would not squirm at this. He would not be made to be ashamed or foolish for it.
"Silk makes for a poor shield," His father scolded, "And such superstitions should be beneath you."
"How I feel about Sansa will never be beneath me." Domeric met his father's scrutinizing gaze. "Besides it is not the only favor, my lady has blessed me with." Domeric whistled.
Lady padded over to him, her head nudging his hand, requesting to be petted. He rested his hand atop her head which was above his waist but below his chest. Lady eyed the Lord of the Dreadfort and let out a low growl. Domeric's fingers closed in on some of her fur while he watched his father's reaction closely.
Roose Bolton looked calm when his eyes flicked over to Lady, but Domeric was certain he saw unease beneath his pale eyes. There was genuine apprehensiveness behind his father's impassive mask.
Domeric nearly smirked. He felt a sense of triumph at finally securing some sort of upper hand against his father. "As you can see, Father, there should be no shame in keeping my lady's favor."
"Indeed," His father inclined his head, his smile remained, "My son is learning." There was an odd inflection to his voice, as well as an indecipherable look that accompanied it. "I shall let you finish, and will see you on the march." He left without another word.
"You should be proud, Lady," Domeric turned to her, "It is not often that a wolf frightens my father."
The Lannister camp was burning.
The sunlight was beginning to creep out, stretching tendrils of light over the darky sky. It was a dim glow in the sea of growing orange. Men were shouting and cursing. Some trying to rally to repel them while others tried to stop the fires from spreading.
Domeric took it in with grim satisfaction. He knew the camp stretched on for miles between the river and the Kingsroad, and that there were parts of it that remained untouched to his raiding. However, he still considered their attack into the Lannister lines a success. His riders were burning and killing as they moved mostly unharassed. They were instilling fear into their enemies while sowing chaos and confusion amidst their ranks.
Lady's muzzle was red, when she joined him at his side. Domeric watched from a safe distance. After leading the first strike into the camp and wetting his sword, he retreated, not forgetting his father's warning. From his vantage point, he was close enough to see what was happening, but far enough not to be hit by arrows if Lannister archers spotted him.
"M'lord!" Bitter came trotting up to him. His armor was covered in specks of blood and mud. "The Lannisters are starting to form a strong resistance." His mouth twisted, "We're beginning to take losses."
Domeric frowned. It was still early, and he had hoped his men, could ride through another time or two before they were forced to leave. "Bring them back so we can reorganize," Domeric instructed, "I'll not lose men when our objective has been accomplished."
"Very good, m'lord," Bitter closed his fist and put it to his chest. He then grabbed the reins of his horse and rode down to sound the retreat. A horn soon followed, piercing through the morning wind.
Lady let out a whine from where she stood beside Shadow. His destrier was the only horse amongst their forces that didn't shy away from the imposing predator. Domeric smirked down at the direwolf, "Go Lady," he encouraged her, "Let the lions know what happens when you rouse the direwolf."
Lady let out an agreeable bark and took off.
He watched her streak back into the encampment, and wondered what a sight she must be to their enemies. Domeric eventually turned to his squire, "Colmar, how did you like your first taste of battle?"
"I am thankful to have survived."
Domeric chuckled at his honesty. However, before he could reply, their conversation was interrupted by the din of battle. But it wasn't coming from in front of them where the Lannister encampment was. It was coming from behind.
"My lord!" A Bolton man at arms came running towards them, "Our rear is under att-" an arrow silenced his warning as he fell forward. He was dead before he hit the ground.
"Our rear?" Rylen looked around, "That's impossible. The Lannisters are in front of us." He shook his head, "Who could be attacking us?"
They got their answer when a handful men and women dressed in leathers and skins emerged before them. Dirty and rugged, they wielded an array of weapons of axes, swords, maces. They let out a loud war cry before charging them.
"Clansmen!" Domeric recognized their shoddy appearance and savage nature from his time in the Vale.
"Protect Lord Domeric!" Rylen cried out, raising his sword high to lead the soldiers with him into the fray of their newly arrived enemy.
"Need a horse to beat me?" An approaching clansman spat, mace in hand.
Domeric should've remained on his destrier, to seize his advantage but he deftly slid off of Shadow's saddle at the clansman's taunt. He would not risk the horse that had been gifted to him by Lord Redfort. He knew how these Mountain Clans fought.
Axe in hand, Domeric raised it to block his opponent's mace. Undeterred, the clansman let out a primal growl, but Domeric saw his opening and was quick to silence him. Pushing aside the brute's mace to bury his axe into the poorly patched armor where it made a wet crunching sound. He had enough life to let out a damp cough before slumping over-dead.
Domeric pulled his axe out just as another approached him. He spotted the dangling ears that this one wore as a necklace. He was a member of the Black Ears mountain clan. He attacked with what Domeric noticed was castle forged steel.
He met the sword of the Black Ear warrior. They exchanged a few parries, both trying to secure the upper hand, and prodding for an opening. It was Domeric who seized one first. He dipped the blade of his axe to hook the sword, before disarming him. Domeric then finished the fight with a sundering strike into the man's gut that sent him crashing hard into the ground. His axe left him pinned down.
He looked around to see his soldiers were finishing off the rest of the Clansmen. The skirmish was over for the moment.
"Why are you here?" Domeric demanded.
The Black Ear grinned, showing rotten teeth.
Domeric pushed the axe further into the man's gut, but not deep enough to kill him.
The warrior's defiance crumbled to the pain. He howled in anguish, but Domeric ignored him.
"Why are you here?"
"Half-man," He coughed, "Half-man promised us."
Halfman, Domeric was about to punish the warrior for lying to him before it clicked in his mind-Tyrion. He had been taken to the Vale by Lady Stark. And it looks like he didn't return empty handed.
What have you done, Tyrion? Domeric couldn't understand what would motivate a man he thought a friend to align himself with these wildlings. How could you bring these men out of the Vale? All they know is cruelty and savagery.
"What did he promise you?"
"Steel and silk, and horses," The warrior's breath was labored, "and the Vale."
Domeric shook his head in disbelief. He removed his axe to the relief of the Black Ear warrior. Domeric felt the anger coursing through his blood when he put all of his might behind the killing blow, nearly cutting the clansmen in two. The warmth of blood splashed across Domeric's face and chest.
Have the Lannisters sunk so low? He had witnessed attempted dealings with these clansmen during his fostering with Lord Redfort. They promise them the Vale itself for their allegiance. The anger was slow in subsiding. Domeric wiped his face with his cloak. Pulling it away, he noticed the blood was barely noticeable due to the crimson coloring of the cloth.
"My lord?" Rylen approached, his eyes flashed in concern when he took in Domeric's appearance, "Are you hurt?"
"It is not my blood. I am fine."
Rylen relaxed instantly upon knowing Domeric was unharmed.
"Who are they?" Colmar was eyeing the one Domeric had just killed.
"They're various Mountain Clans from the Vale," Domeric answered grimly, seeing the surprise flickering across the faces of his men at such a revelation. Confused murmuring followed between them at trying to figure out how they had gotten to the Riverlands and why they were suddenly fighting with the Lannisters.
"We must leave, my lord," Rylen implored, making sure his voice carried over the conversing of the men. "If these Clansmen are attacking our rear. We do not know their numbers and with the Lannisters pushing back our men in front of us we could soon find ourselves to be between two enemies."
His pride wanted him to refuse. He did not want to run from these wildlings.
Return to me, Sansa's words echoed in his mind. He swallowed his pride and gave a tight nod. "Sound the retreat," Domeric ordered, seeing the relief on Rylen's face, he feared I'd refuse.
Colmar led Shadow forward, his squire was pale, blood stained his armor. Domeric thanked him with a nod, as he took to his saddle.
"Let us show them, the might of the north!" Domeric told them to cheers.
And let us pray, we do enough to give Robb the time he needs...
A/N: The Mountain Clans had camped away from the Lannisters, and therefore had gone unseen by their scouts. No plan is perfect, after all.
Creative liberties are taken with this chapter and this story. Such as my writings about what music the harp can play, fighting and someone not being instant killed with an axe in his gut. You know little liberties like that. So I hope you don't mind.
Some people have mentioned or asked about Robb and Myrcella. That storyline hasn't been forgotten or abandoned. It has just been moved to the back burner for the time being since there are some more immediate pressing matters that need our characters' attention.
And if you don't mind please leave a review. I would really appreciate it. I mean if we could hit 1500 (wow!) reviews that would be awesome. That number is a testament to all the great support you've given me and this story over the years. So thank you.
Thanks for reading,
-Spectre4hire