A/N: A little warning that this chapter does hint/include/reference some nasty stuff since we're dealing with the Bloody Mummers and the Boltons. There will be references to rape, child abuse, and some depictions of some other terrible things.

The warnings above take part in Domeric's second and third scene.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

57: Our Blades Are Sharp

Domeric:

The first fingers of light were beginning to seep into the night sky over Riverrun.

Domeric had sent his squire to tend and prepare their horses so that they could leave shortly. At the thought of their mounts, did he remember an intriguing piece of information about the sellswords they were preparing to hunt down. "Its said they have zorses." He turned away from the window and towards where Captain Rylen was standing and waiting in his armor by the door.

"I've heard those rumours too."

Domeric had read about them when he was younger. Curious and fascinated by the breed of horse that was known in Essos, but rarely if ever seen in the Seven Kingdoms. As a rider and a lover of horses, the idea of seeing one had him not only interested, but excited.

I don't just want to see one. I want one.

They were fierce creatures with an infamous temperament, but that did not dissuade him. He saw it as a challenge. He'd had seen all sorts of breeds and ridden many different mounts, but to ride and train something as exotic as a zorse. That was an opportunity he could not pass on.

"I'll want one captured alive. Inform the men that there will be a reward for it."

"I will inform the lieutenants, my lord," Rylen replied mildly. "Is that why you took this mission? To capture a zorse, my lord?"

He nearly smiled, amused by the question and his captain's dry tone. Domeric could imagine his decision may appear strange. His wedding drew near, but yet he had volunteered to lead the forces that were to hunt down the Brave Companions.

In truth, Domeric needed to prove himself. He was the Heir to the Dreadfort. The Boltons were considered the second strongest family in the north. In the future it would be his role to lead the house. He was also betrothed to Lord Stark's eldest daughter. He understood the expectations placed upon him, and that in order to lead and rule successfully, that he needed to show himself capable.

His friend, Robb had proven himself throughout his time in the Riverlands, delivering defeat after defeat against the Lannisters and leaving no room for doubt that he could handle the mantle of Warden in the North, and Lord of Winterfell after his father. Jon too, had shown his mettle and his worth by earning himself a knighthood and securing a promising match and a bright future for his deeds throughout the fighting in the Riverlands.

It wasn't pride. Domeric thought, It's simply practical.

His duty at the Battle of the Green Fork was not enough.

This time I will not be in my father's shadow or in the Greatjon's.

He was leading the forces. This would be his victory or his defeat. His glory or his shame. This was a chance that he needed to show not just the men he'd lead when he was the Lord of the Dreadfort, but the rest of the north. That House Bolton's future was bright and secure, but just as importantly theirs was a family that should not be trifled with.

Domeric had heard some entertaining whispers about himself during his time in Riverrun. The Besotted Bolton, an amusing moniker, he thought, but one that needed to be addressed. He would never hide his affection for Sansa, nor would he be ashamed of it. However, he would not allow his family or his name be uttered in such a manner that prompted mockery or disrespect.

Besotted or not, I'm still a Bolton, he reflected, comfortable and confident in who he was. My blades are just as sharp as my father's or anyone who's come before me. I just show them differently, he continued, which made it all the easier to run someone through when given an opening.

I do not need a hero. I need an heir. His father's words playing back in his mind when he told him of his decision to lead the forces himself. That is what I will give you, Father.

"No, it is not." He finally answered. "You've heard the whispers about these sellswords haven't you, Rylen?"

"I have, my lord." Rylen's scarred face turned in disapproval and his eyes showing his disgust. "They're monsters."

Domeric came to a similar conclusion about the aptly named Bloody Mummers upon hearing the stories of the distraught and destruction these foreign sellswords left in their wake throughout the Riverlands.

"Exactly. So who better to send after a monster than a Bolton?" His smile was thin and fleeting. "Sometimes, a sword and a quick death is a mercy that should not be observed."

That was why this was the perfect opportunity for him. These were criminals that no one would weep for, no one would mourn, and no one would try to defend. I can show myself a Bolton against these hated foreign savages. Their deaths will be a message that will resonate throughout the North for the years to come.

I must walk a different path than the one Robb has taken.

His captain looked to not only recognize what was not being said, but approved of what it implied. "I understand, my lord, but you are to be married soon."

"I have no intention of dying."

"Few do, my lord."

Domeric chuckled. "That's clever, Rylen. Who did you steal that from?"

Rylen smiled, but was not given a chance to reply as a knock came to the door.

It then opened to show his betrothed, even in the early morning with little sleep, Sansa looked beautiful. She was wearing no fancy silk or jewelry, but she was a stunning sight. Her copper hair shone. Her dress was grey and appeared plain, but on her, it was anything but. Her blue eyes sparkled when their eyes met.

"My lady," Rylen's posture straightened before bowing his head.

"Captain Rylen," She greeted him with a smile. "You will watch over my betrothed?"

"I will, my lady," He replied, "with my dying breath if necessary."

"You serve Domeric well, Rylen," She complimented, "You are a good man and one we cannot afford to lose. I am expecting you to survive so that Domeric and myself will be fortunate enough to continue to rely on you. May I count on that?"

Rylen was taken aback, but recovered. "You may, my lady."

It's effortless for her, Domeric thought, not for the first time impressed at how she was able to cultivate such loyalty with a few kind words and a sincere sentiment. She earns their respect and service forever with such brief, but honest courtesy.

Looking renewed from his brief exchange with Sansa, Rylen excused himself quietly from the room to allow them a moment of privacy.

"My love," he kissed her cheek when she was near enough while her arms wrapped around him.

"Dom," She murmured, her head resting against his chest plate.

He could stay in this moment forever and never feel the need to complain. "The next time we see each other, it'll be time for our wedding."

"I'd marry you now," She admitted without hesitation.

"I know," He did not doubt her, "And I you."

Their wedding would remain delayed until their families arrived to Riverrun. His Aunt was coming from Barrowton. Lady Stark was making the journey from Winterfell. While they waited for them, they were still in discussions with the Lannisters to try to secure Lord Stark's freedom.

That reminder brought him to ask. "Will you meet with the Lannisters?"

She looked up, blue eyes studying his face. "I've suggested myself to my brother once their hostage is given over to us."

"A bastard," Domeric was not impressed at the gesture. They had offered Prince Tommen to stay at Riverrun while they conducted negotiations which were to be had within the Lion's camp.

"Prince Tommen is useless." He observed bluntly. He was not trying to be mean or rude when speaking, but was determined to cut to the truth of it. "You are the future of the north. Tommen is a bastard. I do not like it."

Her fingers were circling one of the rubies in his breastplate. "You trust me."

It wasn't a question, so Domeric didn't answer. He understood her meaning.

Pleased with that, she continued, "You forgot to mention that we already have one of Ser Kevan's sons, Willem Lannister. As well as one of his nephews."

"My lady, your direwolf is here." Rylen's muffled voice came from behind the closed door.

The door was then promptly opened and Lady walked in. She was growing larger by the day and was already bigger than any hound, Domeric had ever seen. Soon, she'd be larger than most ponies, and would still not be done growing.

Sansa rested her hand atop Lady's head. The direwolf's tongue lolled out, but her eyes were fixed on Domeric with an intelligent gaze that he found comforting instead of frightening as so many others did.

Domeric had wanted Lady to accompany Sansa to the Lannister camp if she was to negotiate with them. He believed a direwolf could keep the lions honest, but Sansa insisted Lady go with him. He was riding off to battle against dangerous and unsavory sellswords while she'd still have Grey Wind and Ghost to rely on in Lady's absence.

Her fingers were touching the green worn favor still knotted to his armor. Sansa's smile was small, but bright. A wistful flicker passing over her face before her eyes met his. "Return to me."

"Always," He sealed that promise with a kiss.

They're no older than Rickon.

He looked down at two boys. Their pale faces were frozen in mute horror. They could be no older than seven or eight.

Children, they were only children. Small and innocent, but that didn't protect them.

In his mind's eye it was Bran and Rickon looking up at him. His stomach clenched at the harrowing image.

"He confessed?"

Domeric and his party had surprised one of the sellswords' foraging parties that had been led by a man named Utt. They were on their way to regroup with the rest of the Brave Companions, but Utt had spotted two boys during their ride and decided on having them. They burned down the farm, and killed the rest of the family, but Domeric knew their deaths were not quick. Given the reputation of these Bloody Mummers, he suspected rape and torture by them while Utt had the boys to himself.

He killed them as soon as he heard the swords, Domeric guessed. When he heard the sound of battle, he killed them and tried to flee. Thankfully, Bolton men found him, and dragged him back. Out of the party that Utt had led, only five men were left including their leader.

The fighting had been so brief that Domeric did not even have time to draw his axe before being told that it was over. His forces had easily triumphed with their numbers and the element of surprise.

When it was over, he had been told about the dead children, he ordered to be brought to where they had been found. Even knowing what to suspect, his stomach twisted in disgust and churned in protest at the sight of the two boys who were bound, and battered.

They were naked when he found them. Their bodies were still warm. Their blood was still wet.

Domeric had covered them with his own dark pink cloak upon reaching them.

When he slipped the cloak over them, it brought to mind all the times he and Sansa had tucked Rickon into bed. How the boy would squirm or laugh, protest and whine when Domeric had to carry him into his room. He'd ask them to stay, to tell him a story or to ask Domeric to play him a song on his harp and for his sister to sing along.

They always acquiesced. They were unable to deny the youngest Stark when they were the center of his sweet smile and pleading blue eyes. They'd stay until he fell asleep. Before they'd leave, Sansa would push aside his auburn curls, and kiss his head, wishing him a good night.

The boys had taken his cloak in a terrible silence. Their eyes staring up at him-haunting and empty. They were Rickon's age, and now they were dead. They were groped and touched, alone and helpless as this Utt raped them...

"He did, m'lord," Robard reported. "He prays for mercy and forgiveness."

Domeric was not moved. "He will find neither here." He was with Captain Rylen, and Bitter Robard, a man who Domeric had newly promoted. He had been impressed with Bitter, who had come to him as his sparring partner, but had shown himself a good and reliable man.

Bitter looked to agree with Domeric's stance. "He's requested to be flogged for his actions."

Rylen frowned. "Repentance?" He tried to guess the man's behavior.

"The men we captured say he always asks for it after he's done the deed."

"Deed?" Domeric would not shy away from the man's crimes. "He raped these boys and then killed them!" His fists clenched at his side. They're Rickon's age, the painful realization continued to needle at him. The simmering of anger was burning through his blood.

"He won't stop crying," Bitter continued in his reporting about their prisoner.

"He has nothing to cry about," Domeric observed, "Yet."

Rylen turned to him. "My lord?"

"Are the men seeing to my orders?"

"They are," Rylen answered. "They should be finished soon."

Domeric nodded, "Good."

He did not want to stay any longer than necessary. They struck a small blow against the Blood Mummers. The majority of the sellsword company was still out there, including their despicable leader, Vargo Hoat. The more he learned about the man the more Domeric was ready to face him and give the sellsword a taste of northern justice.

"I want the men assembled when I carry out judgment."

"It will be done, my lord," Rylen replied.

"As for Utt," Domeric said. "I'll have the man gelded before sentencing."

Bitter nodded, "Bastard deserves it, m'lord," He said approvingly, "Among other things."

"My lord?" Rylen stepped forward, "With your permission, I want to be the one to carry it out."

The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

That was the way of the north. The way he was taught. He was prepared to do just that with the surviving sellswords including Utt. However, upon seeing Captain Rylen's earnest expression on his scarred face, Domeric gave his trusted captain a nod.

I will be overseeing the most important part of their sentencing, he reflected, I can indulge Rylen with this favor.

"I want him conscious when the time comes," Domeric instructed. "I will not allow pain or blood loss to protect him from what awaits him nor will I allow him to slip away from my judgement prematurely."

"I understand, my lord," Rylen bowed his head. "He will be unspoiled when it is time for him to be presented to you."

Satisfied, Domeric nodded. "Then you may carry it out."

"Thank you, my lord," Rylen's eyes held a glint to them. His hand was resting on the pommel of one of his sheathed daggers.

"M'lord," Bitter Robard interrupted cautiously. "I should warn ya that they're asking to take the Black."

"Who?" Domeric asked.

Three of the five survivors were not from Westeros. They should have no understanding of their customs or the role the Watch could play for criminals.

"Utt," Robard revealed, "And the rest of his men were quick to follow when they understood it would spare them the noose."

There will be no noose, Domeric kept this correction to himself.

"Bastards," cursed Rylen, upset at the mere idea of it.

"No," Domeric said simply. He understood the role of the Watch and the means it could be to criminals, but he would not allow these sellswords or any of the other Bloody Mummers who he captured to be taken to the Wall.

They will be examples. He had already decided. Domeric would deny them the Watch and accept any consequences that would come of it.

In the face of such depravity, Domeric believed honor should be ignored.

Rylen looked pleased by it. "The men will stand in support of you, my lord."

Robard nodded, "Aye, m'lord, the men spit and curse them. They'd be furious if these bloody bastards were allowed to take the Black."

Domeric had counted on that sentiment when he made his decision. They see these men and these crimes and they will demand blood.

And blood I will give them.

"The men are gathered, m'lord."

"Thank you, Bitter," Domeric watched him leave. It was time.

He slipped out of his tent, Lady walking beside him. He was aware of the looks that the direwolf got from the assembled men. Domeric had left Riverrun with nearly three hundred men from Houses Dustin, Ryswell, and Bolton. They lost none of them in their first brief skirmish that killed most of Utt's foraging party while his suffered no casualties and only a minor injury.

Soon, there will be no survivors.

The surviving sellswords were bound, bruised, and naked when they were presented to Domeric. Three of them looked to be of Essos with their olive colored skin and the armor they had been wearing before they were stripped down to their flesh.

At the center was their leader, Utt. He had a few wisps of white hair atop his head. He looked ordinary, a passive face that masked the man's predatory nature and disgusting appetites. The former septon turned sellsword was not faring well from his recent punishment. Between the man's legs was the freshly made scar that showed he had been castrated.

The sellsword was openly weeping. His back was riddled with scars and cuts, a testament of the man's perverted sense of repentance. Was every mark a symbol of one of the man's victims? The thought was more sobering when Domeric lost count of how many were etched along Utt's skin in different states of scarring and healing.

The Bolton guards looked down at the man in disgust.

Domeric noticed the eyes of the captured sellswords flickered on his chestplate, where he proudly wore the Bolton sigil-the flayed man hanging upside down upon a cross.

He saw the fear beneath their eyes and that pleased him.

I cannot flay them, but I can hurt them, harm them, kill them. And I will.

He turned his back to his prisoners and onto his assembled forces, but not before giving the gesture to begin the preparations for the criminals.

"We are of the North, and we follow the Old Way," He looked out onto the men. "The man who passes the sentence will carry it out. Lord Stark would use his greatsword Ice. That is the Stark way, but I am not a Stark. I am a Bolton."

I may have been raised in part by wolves, but I am still a Bolton of the Dreadfort. He would not forget that. And my ancestors had always been creative in creating pain and prolonging the suffering and the life of their victims.

He noticed the gathered men were watching Bitter oversee the carrying of a large wooden object to the front of the surviving sellswords. The wailing of Utt made him the first to understand what was truly about to happen to them.

Domeric ignored his pathetic cries and continued.

"Our family's old way is different than the Starks. We have no valyrian steel sword, but we see justice done all the same. I will hear their last words and then I shall crucify each and every one of them."

His family saw the old way done differently. Some would see to it with one swift cut by an axe or a sword. Others in his family would execute their prisoners with the many cuts of a dagger. Another way justice had been seen by the Boltons before him was the way that were prominently shown on their standard-crucifixion.

A harsh way, he admitted, and one that would be seen as brutal and painful, but in the face of such cruel deeds was it not appropriate to answer their crimes with an equally cruel punishment? The men before him were foreign savages guilty of rape, murder, torture, raiding, burning, the list went on. He felt no sympathy for these sellswords.

It is a risk, he knew, but he justified himself that this was a display he doubted he'd need to repeat once he put forth the Bloody Mummers as examples. This is a message that I need to send.

He heard the ripples of murmuring from his forces, but it was their expressions he noticed. There was no outrage. They wanted these men to suffer for what they did. They wanted them rightly punished.

Domeric turned from them as a bound and naked Utt was brought forward where a cross in the shape of an x was waiting for him.

"Don't do this!" Utt struggled against his captors. "Mercy!" Tears streamed down his cheeks, but the men were unmoved as they began to use rope to hold him in place so that Domeric would have no trouble in using the nails.

His conviction did not waver in the face of this man's pleading and crying. Domeric thought of the boys that Utt had raped, and with that, he felt the hot flow of anger that spread beneath his skin. The urge to see justice delivered-My way.

His time at the Dreadfort, he read and studied all about crucifixion and the many ways his ancestors had implemented it over the years. The placement of the nails, the position of the body, the shape of the wood, the use of bindings, it went on and on, and Domeric had learned it all. It had been before he was sent to foster in the Vale. He had consumed all the tomes that he could. In an effort to show his father his worth while also in wanting to know more about his family and their history.

This will be a gruesome, but needed spectacle that will insure that his family will not be challenged in the years to come. To those who'd whisper and mock me, he paused, here is a demonstration that I can hold a hammer as well as a harp.

Domeric watched silently as Utt was bound to the cross in the same manner that was displayed on his family's standard.

"The Black!" Utt cried out desperately. "I want to take the Black!"

The soldiers hesitated in their tying and turned to Domeric for his reaction.

I cannot look back now, he steadied himself. I am committed to this path and I will see it through. He felt the eyes of the men behind him, transfixing on him. They were waiting.

Another lord may use this as an example of their mercy, their benevolence, Domeric noted.The power of forgiveness and repentance, but The Riverlands weren't calling for that. Their victims didn't want that. His men weren't waiting for that.

That is why I'm here. To insure these men would not escape their much deserved punishment and fate.

The silence stretched on and Utt took the soldier's stopping as his freedom being secured. His cheeks stained with tears were beginning to turn red due to his angle on the cross. A delirious laugh escaped his lips at the thought he was bound to the Wall.

"You do have a choice," Domeric admitted.

"I chose the Black!" Utt laughed again, "You northerners love your Watch and your Wall! I'll gladly go there." His confidence was slowly returning.

"But, I have a choice too," Domeric reveled in seeing his words beginning to cut through Utt's hope, like a knife carving through meat. "And I choose not to accept your request."

Utt's laughter crumbled into pitiful wailing. His confidence carved away by Domeric's judgement. In between the noises he made while the soldiers finished up, he was praying to the Seven for mercy, for life.

If the Seven wanted you to live, they wouldn't have sent me.

"M'lord?" Robard stepped forward when the work was done. He was holding the hammer.

Domeric nodded and took the hammer. He moved towards Utt. A soldier was waiting and had the nail in place at the prisoner's wrist.

The exertion of his position was already making Utt turn red and his breathing was getting haggard.

Looking at the prisoner, Domeric did not feel an ounce of sympathy, nor did he hesitate for one second before he drove the hammer into the nail. The sound of steel cutting through flesh was drowned out by the anguished cries from Utt. Tears of blood were leaking from the wound and dribbling down onto the ground.

Domeric put the nail through with a few more strikes. The sound of bone crunching, and flesh being ripped did not stir his stomach. He had hardened himself knowing what needed to be done and what was expected of him.

Utt was moaning, but Domeric paid him no mind. He hammered the nail into the prisoner's other wrist. Utt's groans sounded like the bleating of a dying animal. His body shifted to the pain and the force of the nail cutting into flesh. The ropes that were in place kept him from slipping off or out of position.

When the wrists were done, Domeric moved to the ankles. He hammered through skin, blood, and bone. When he was finished with both the nails, Utt was barely conscious. His chest heaving, his breath rattled from his mouth. Crimson rivers were weeping from the wounds, streaking his pale skin with bursts of bright red.

He stepped away and gave the signal for the cross to be lifted and put it into the ground. When it was done, he looked over to the remaining prisoners to see them cowering in fear and horror at what awaited them.

Domeric took no respite, before he ordered one of them forward as well as the cross that would hold them. His grip on the hammer did not falter.

Our blades are sharp, he recited proudly.

Jon:

I could've went with Domeric.

He had considered it, but in the end he decided not to. Lord Stark's release would be secured very soon and he wanted to be there when he was freed. Jon also knew that Arya was on her way. He did not want to miss her arrival. She was the only sibling he had yet to see since he had left for the Wall all those months ago. She was the one he missed the most. He could endure Lady Stark's disapproving stare if it meant he got to hug Arya and see her smiling at him, while telling him all about her adventures at Bear Island. The image alone made his heart clench, wanting desperately to see her again.

Instead, he was in his chambers trying to figure out how to move forward with the Heir to Bear Island. A mess or a blessing, he was unable to properly describe it. The kiss they shared amidst the hoots and hollering only making it harder on himself.

She tasted better than any victory. His feelings betraying his caution and his concern as he tried to figure out what he should do. I want her. It was selfish, but honest. The desire only grew the more time he spent with her.

It was not that simple, he cautioned. The truth of his parents made certain of that.

He had thought it would bring him peace, happiness, a certainty of who he was, but it's given him none of that. I'm more confused and conflicted now than I ever was as just Lord Stark's bastard son.

A knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. For a moment, he thought it was his sister, Sansa wanting another lesson in helping her warg, but that was pushed aside when a voice followed. It was definitely not Sansa's.

It was the voice of who his thoughts had been dwelling on-Dacey Mormont. "Jon Snow?"

"Yes," He stood up from his seat. He lowered his gaze to make sure he was properly dressed in a respectable manner before quickly adding. "You may come in, my lady."

The door opened to show a smiling Dacey Mormont. She walked with the skill and confidence of an experienced soldier. When her green eyes met his, she smiled, "Jon Snow," she then looked around, "May I?"

He noticed that she was alone. She was not just a Lady of Bear Island, but she was its heir. "Just you?" Jon nearly frowned at how stupid he sounded with that obvious observation, but he was aware that certain decorum was to be expected when in the presence of a noblewoman.

"Aye, Ser Snow," She agreed with an easy smile, "Unless you're frightened. Then I can request some of my men to join us." She teased.

He found himself smiling. "I am not frightened, my lady." He dipped his head to her. "I was just trying to be respectful."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "You should know by now, Jon. We Mormonts are not improper, we are just indifferent." She then closed the door behind her.

"I learn more about your family with each meeting," He offered her the seat across from him. "I believe I have some ale if you like?"

She nodded her thanks, and he moved to get them tankards and the ale he had gotten from his earlier luncheon.

"I did not see you in the training yard this morning."

"No, I had some things to tend to," He was glad his back was to her since he was not sure the excuse would work if he had to meet her eyes when he said it. Jon poured from the pitcher into the two waiting cups.

"Brooding?" She guessed. Her tone tinged in amusement, "Since I defeated you."

"You are a fine warrior," He turned then to see the pleased look flicker across her face at his praise. "There is no shame in losing to a Mormont of Bear Island."

"Aye, there is not," She agreed, "But your defeat has me suspicious."

"Oh?" Jon handed her a cup, trying his best to look confused by her observation. "I do not follow."

She was not fooled. "You hesitated." She sipped her ale. "You said it yourself, Snow. I am a warrior." She put down her tankard. "Did you not think I'd notice?"

The idea that he had insulted her brought him an unexpected amount of worry. "That was not my intent," he said quickly.

She watched him silently for several heartbeats. Her expression was inscrutable and then it melted away in an instant. A laugh followed, while her eyes shimmered in mirth. "I'm flattered, Snow, not insulted." Dacey was grinning. "Though now that I think about it, how should I feel at the truth that you'd rather have a kiss than my hand."

I want both. He nearly said, but his concerns about his birth clawed at him to stop the words from being said. "Forgive me, my lady," He said over her snort as he dropped his head, "Do you require satisfaction?"

A throaty hum escaped her. "Mayhaps a rematch?"

"I would not be opposed to it." He enjoyed their sparring with or without the audience. She was fierce and skilled, and a worthy opponent. "With the same terms?"

"Then how will be I certain you would not throw the match a second time?"

"The reward should be the same," he pointed out, "Win or lose."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Something we both want."

"Oh?" She smirked, "And you know what I want, Snow?"

"I do."

"You give a lady much to think about," She winked at him.

Jon looked down at his cup, willing himself not to flush like some maiden at her teasing insinuation. Just when he thought he had the edge on her, she'd surprise him with a verbal parry of her own.

"I have something of yours." He was not sure it would be wise to remain on their current topic, afraid that his feelings for her would betray his sense. His eyes flickered towards her before he slipped out of his seat, and he was certain he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes at his choice, before it went away.

It is too dangerous. The voice whispered to him. He wanted to silence it. To deny it, but how could he when it was right. How could I marry her or anyone with what I know? How can it be kept secret?

He did not want the Seven Kingdoms to see him as the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. I am not that man. I want them to see me as the son of Lord Stark.

If you were his son you could marry her. The cold truth was biting. As the son of Rhaegar, it is too dangerous. The dragons are either loathed or coveted. I will be sought out to be killed or used. How could I pass such a burden onto my wife and children? I'd make them targets in plots both for crowning and murder.

He retrieved Longclaw. The dark eyes of the bear pommel looking up at him. You are not worthy of this sword. It seemed to say to him. He put it on the table in front of her, but she made no move to grab it.

She looked down at the famous valyrian steel sword that her family proudly boasted of possessing, but her fingers did not twitch to grab its grip. They instead tightened around her glass and she drank a long sip before putting it down with a sigh. "Why do you think I'd want this?"

"It is your family's sword." He pointed out, surprised by her reaction to it. "Do you not want it?" He was trying to stem himself from panicking at how this was unfolding drastically different then what he envisioned.

She did not answer.

The uncomfortable silence stretched between them, and Jon found himself trying to quell his nerves by drowning his ale in two sips. "It's what I wanted." He blurted out.

"What?" Her eyes looked away from the sword for the first time and towards him. Her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Ice," he found himself saying. "My father's sword. It was all I wanted. The sword, the Stark name. They belonged to Robb, but I wanted them. The thought always made me feel ashamed, but I'd still dream of them." He confessed.

"I'd save Lord Stark from a wildling attack, and he'd gift me Ice for my heroics and bestow upon me the Stark name."

I've already been punished for these sins, he thought. The gods cursed me for them. They made me Rhaegar's son when all I ever wanted was to be Lord Stark's son.

Let her see me as who I really am, he thought when revealing to her such a shameful secret that he had pushed away to the darkest depths. He dared never to voice them aloud. Let me protect her by sending her away. She will be disgusted by me and will not want to be my wife. With the last part he felt an icy finger press down on his heart.

"You don't need a sword or a castle to prove your worth, Jon." Her words stirring him from his melancholy reflections. "I've seen it. They've all seen it. With what you've done in the Riverlands."

I try to push her away, but she does not budge. He could not take her acceptance. He was trying to make it easy for her to withdraw any interest she may have in him. Jon would not deny the initial relief that bloomed in his chest at her not judging him, but this could not be despite his longing for it.

"If Lady Stark was here she'd not feel the same way. She'd feel vindicated," he observed. "All of her fears of my bastard blood and aspirations and usurping her children's rule were founded." Something heavy and cold settled in his stomach. "Because despite my best efforts, I could not stop myself from thinking about it."

"Founded?" Dacey scoffed, the derision of her tone causing him to meet her eyes, and to his surprise he still did not see loathing in her features for his confession. It was something else. Something unexpected, and it calmed him in an instant.

"You're not fighting against your brothers and your sisters, Jon," She pointed out, "You're fighting for them. You're fighting for Winterfell to protect it, not to claim it." She shook her head, "You are a good man, not because you don't think of such things, but because you do, and you know they're wrong and you refuse to act on them. You refuse to consider them."

Jon opened his mouth to rebut, but was silenced by her warning stare.

"It is true, Jon," She told him. "Your honesty and your honor are what make you a great man. If Lady Stark will not see that then do not dwell on her mistakes." Her hand going to Longclaw, "And as for this, I want to formally gift it to you."

"You cannot." Jon objected, surprised at the mere suggestion.

She looked amused at his reaction. "I am the heir to Bear Island. I'll be inheriting that bloody sword, or did you forget that?"

When he shook his head, she continued, pleased. "And if I wish to give it to my husband then who will stop me?"

"I-I" Jon was struggling to make sense of what was happening. None of this was going as he had expected. The more she talked, the more hope he felt within and he thought that was dangerous.

She took it all in stride. "I have you speechless now, Jon?" She grinned, "Was it the thought of the sword or being my husband, I wonder?" After her initial teasing, she sobered and continued.

"For years that sword despite its value and its history has been a dark cloud over my family and our house. A reminder of what my cousin did," Her face darkening at the mention of Ser Jorah and his crimes. "We may be poor, but we are proud. And in the aftermath of my cousin's shame, Tywin Lannister tried to buy Longclaw, but neither my mother or uncle considered it even for a second. They'd rather hide the sword for a time than lose it for eternity. It was hidden and ignored, a stain on House Mormont, until my uncle gave it you, and now it is the sword of the White Wolf. The sword that killed the Mountain."

"Actually," Jon interjected, "I killed him with a pike."

Dacey gave him a pointed look that was without any bite when she chuckled. "The sword is yours, but only until our daughter and heir can take it from you in a fair fight."

"Our daughter?" He felt something in his chest at the image that immediately conjured. At the thought, at the tempting promise that Dacey painted with her words. We could name her Lyanna after Dacey's sister and my 'aunt,' or Arya. He smiled at the idea of holding a daughter that looked liked the sister he cherished so much, my child.

Then in his mind's eye, the grey eyes and brown hair of his child transformed into a girl with long silver hair and purple eyes. His stomach clenched. How could I explain our daughter or any child we had if they possessed the valyrian features that were prominent in the Targaryen family? The image was punctured in an instant.

"Well of course," Dacey answered, unaware of his internal plight. "Who else? I'd claim it for myself, but I prefer axes to swords," She winked. "It shall be my wedding gift to you. My uncle does not want it. He will be disappointed that you will not take the Black, but I'm sure he'll be pleased in knowing that you'll join our family. He saw something in you, that was why he let you borrow the sword."

"He does not want it despite its worth. If he knows you will carry it, to honor our house and your wife then that shall please him," She paused, "And as of the Watch and the Wall itself, we shall send a generous gift of men and supplies that would be sure to satisfy the Lord Commander, but if that does not work then I shall write him a letter. To let him know that you are mine and the Watch cannot have you."

Jon detected the sincerity and affection in her words with her honest admission to how she felt about him -you are mine. No one had said that to him before. No one had wanted him like that.

I was Lord Stark's son, but Lady Stark made it clear how she felt about his presence in Winterfell. I was unwanted by her.

As a son of Rhaegar Targaryen, he knew he would be wanted, but not in the same way Dacey wanted him. They want my blood to secure the Iron Throne. They want my family to enrich theirs. They would not care for me, but the titles I could give them. They want the wealth and the power. My blood is a means to their greed, and he wanted no part of it. No part of southern politics and plotting for power.

He had seen enough of the south. I belong in the north.

She knew none of this, but it was still me she wanted. To her, I'm a bastard of Winterfell, and she did not care. It meant more to him than she knew.

"I-I do not know what to say." Liar, the voice said to him: I want to say yes. To her being his wife, to this family she imagined for them, but he hesitated.

He thought when he'd learn the truth of his mother that he would be set free. He found no freedom in learning who his parents were. The truth had become shackles that restrained him.

"I understand," She then stood up, "I know it is for your father and my mother to agree to, but I hope that you would look favorably upon it, Jon Snow, because any other husband I may take will simply pale to the man before me."

"I will speak to my father," Jon said suddenly, not liking the idea that she thought he would reject her, nor the thought of another man able to call her wife. He would not deny the warmth he felt at how her eyes took in his words or the curving of her lips.

And then, he paused, wondering if he dared to hope for what would follow. I will tell you the truth.

A/N: This is by far the longest chapter I've written for this story. Hopefully, you liked it, and if you can spare a few minutes to leave a review I would greatly appreciate it. It really means a lot to get/read them and really does serve not just to keep me and this writing thing going, but they make my day.

Many times, your thoughtful and supportive reviews have turned my whole day around.

Thanks for your support,

-Spectre4hire