A/N: The first and second Domeric scenes takes place before the Uthor perspective from the last chapter.

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

62: The Choice is Yours

Domeric:

My first ride through the gates of Riverrun I was greeted with suspicion and silence.

Now I ride to cheers and clamoring.

It went just as he had planned when it came to the smallfolk.

The Mummers were the villains and the flayed man was their hero.

Demon moved through the throngs of people who had clustered before the gates of Riverrun itself. He had been a little wary about riding the zorse, but he trusted his talent and training which has not failed him. Demon was fantastic and fierce, and made just the right impression Domeric wanted for his return.

A black blur came rushing forward, and it took Domeric a second to realize what it was-Shaggydog. It seemed the Starks of Winterfell have finally arrived. Demon was not too bothered by the large wolf having grown somewhat familiar to the direwolves due to Lady's constant presence.

He watched an enthusiastic Shaggydog greet Lady, who soon found herself swarmed by her other littermates which included Nymeria. He rode past them to enter through the gates with the Bolton banners swaying proudly behind him.

His eyes scanned the crowds to take it all in. He was dressed to impose, wearing his black plate armor with the red rubies adorning his chestplate. The green cloth still knotted on his arm-frayed and worn, but he would not part with Sansa's favor. He had chosen to wear his snarling horse helm too.

He could hear the occasional Dread Knight. The name received further cheers which he found encouraging. Soon, his attention turned away from the crowds and towards the assembled nobles standing in front of the castle's entrance.

His eyes moved first to Sansa, who looked beautiful. He reluctantly took his eyes away from her to see the others who came to greet him. Lord Stark was standing beside Robb. Domeric was pleased to see the Lord of Winterfell, and his future good father looked mostly unscathed from his time with the Lannisters.

They disapprove, he was prepared for this. I knew from the beginning some would not like it.

The calling of his name pulled his attention away to see it had been Rickon. He was waving and laughing, and pointing to Demon. Domeric couldn't stop the smile that came to his face at the sight of the youngest Stark.

Then in an instant, he saw those boys that Utt had raped flicker across his vision. Dead and naked, scarred and broken. He chased the images away, not wanting them to linger.

He spotted Arya beside Rickon, she looked as mischievous as ever. She was dressed in breeches and a dirty tunic with a sword holstered to her hip. In seeing Arya and Rickon, he realized how much he missed them. The sister and brother he never had, and always wanted.

How close I've grown to these Starks much to Father's disappointment.

Father was standing on the other side of the Starks closer to Lord Stark. The praise of his son and his deeds were loud and clear by the smallfolk around him, but his father's face betrayed nothing. He felt his father's eyes on him, and turned to face him, but even beneath his helm he thought my father's mask was less telling than mine made of steel.

Aunt Barbrey stood beside him. She smiled when his head turned in her direction, and he felt relief for it. She was the one to give him praise, but it was hard earned. Receiving a compliment from her was something he coveted as a boy and even now as a man grown, he still longed for it.

"Lord Domeric."

That was Ser Edmure Tully, the heir to Riverrun and his future good uncle.

He stopped Demon at a respectable distance. He slid off his zorse easily enough. He took off his helm and gave it to Robard who was standing beside him. Normally the duties of his squire, but he put Colmar further back in the procession. His squire did not protest, still remembering the warning Domeric gave him.

Domeric kept his face still just as Father did. His focus was on Ser Edmure since he was the host, and the one responsible to receive him. He still found his eyes wandering towards Sansa who smiled and nodded.

"Ser Edmure," Domeric stopped and then bowed. "Justice has been seen to in the Riverlands." His words were warmly received by the smallfolk.

Lord Stark was quiet and his eyes were hard.

Domeric ignored it. He raised his hand and Robard came forward. He carried a large dirty sack. The red stains on it betrayed what lay within. He had to wait an extra day to collect them, but he did not mind. He had no intention of quickening any of their suffering.

The buzzing of the smallfolk intensified like a horde of flies.

Robard opened the bag and Domeric put his hand in, finding the familiar braid. He pulled it out to show the nobles and the crowd the severed head of Vargo Hoat. He raised it above, but only for a few heartbeats to insure the people could see it and their reaction did not disappoint. He nearly smiled.

"A warning to all those who wish to defy House Tully, my lord."

"You have my thanks, Domeric," Edmure ordered a guard forward, "Put those up," he instructed. The guard took the severed head which Domeric was still holding, and then the bag from Robard before departing.

He inclined his head to Ser Edmure. The ceremony done, and observed. He was to meet his family first, but he did not take two steps when he felt something collide with his legs.

"Dom!" Rickon's happy voice revealed the attacker.

"Rickon," Domeric looked down at the boy, and smiled.

Dead eyes looked up at him.

Domeric pushed the harrowing memory away but felt his smile slip. He tried to hide it by hugging the youngest Stark, quietly amazed by how much he's grown since he last saw him.

"What was in the bag?" Rickon complained. "Sansa covered my eyes."

"Justice," Domeric answered, "A warning."

That didn't seem to satisfy him. "If Shaggydog was here I would've saw it."

"They were heads!"

"Arya!" Lady Stark's voice was quick and sharp as a whip.

She did not look too affected by her Mother's chastisement. He winked at her, and she grinned. Arya then rushed over to hug him.

"What's this you have?" He asked her when their embrace ended.

"Needle."

"Practicing your embroidery, I see." Domeric laughed. "I'll have to test it myself."

"Really?"

"Really," he promised, "But perhaps later?" He had a feeling his next few hours were about to be very busy.

Thankfully, she looked to have understood.

"Domeric," Lord Stark's voice was quiet and stern.

"Lord Eddard," Domeric turned to face him. He dipped his head. "I am relieved to see you alive and well."

The Lord of Winterfell nodded, but his face looked to be carved from stone. Domeric knew it was a look that bothered many, the cold lord face of Eddard Stark but never him. He did not boast to be braver than other men, or claim to have no fears, the truth was far simpler:

What can I fear from a look from Lord Stark that I haven't seen much worse in my father's eyes or his still expression.

"I would like to speak with you." It was not a request.

"I am yours, my lord."

"I'll allow you to speak with your family, change, and settle in from your ride," Lord Stark's grey eyes were unflinching.

"That is appreciated, my lord."

"I shall send a guard for you when I am ready." The Warden of the North said nothing else before moving away.

I defeated the Mummers, Domeric watched him go. Now I must face a tougher challenge.

"Lord Stark."

It was less than an hour later when he got his summons.

The Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North was sitting in his solar. The room was empty save for them. If he was trying to intimidate him, he was doing it poorly. His father could startle him with a mere raised eyebrow or the slightest change in the tone in his voice. His presence alone at times was enough to put Domeric on edge.

"You may sit."

Domeric did. He took a seat across from him.

Stark doesn't have the stomach for hard truths. His father's voice whispered in his ear. I fear Lord Stark may have been in that cell for too long.

"I've heard the rumors of what you've done, Domeric."

"I've only just arrived to Riverrun, Lord Stark. I have not had a chance to hear this gossip."

"I do not put stock in rumors," Lord Stark said, "But there is talk that you crucified the Mummers."

"I did."

He frowned. "That is not honorable."

"I know," Domeric replied. "That's why I did it."

Lord Stark's eyes narrowed. "You were sent to catch and execute them."

"I did."

His mouth twisted. "You crucified them, Domeric. You played with them like they were your food," he made a noise in his throat. "A swift stroke that was all that was needed."

"No, my lord."

He blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You're wrong, Lord Stark," Domeric saw the bodies of the boys, the mutilated women, burnings, and the butchery of the Riverlands. He felt his fists clench where they rested on his lap. "That wasn't what was needed. You'd have me kill them with an axe to the neck." He shook his head, "That was mercy to men who were not worthy of it and I would not give it."

"You are my bannermen, Domeric," Lord Stark reminded him. "You are betrothed to my daughter. What you do reflects on me."

"Judging by the crowd, my lord, you have nothing to worry about."

"The crowd is fickle." Lord Stark was not impressed. "You crucifying men throughout the Riverlands like some sort of-"

"Demon."

"You show the Seven Kingdoms-"

"Our wrath," Domeric would hear no more. "It shows the Seven Kingdoms to consider carefully if you cross a Bolton or their allies, my lord." He pushed forward, "Make no mistake, Lord Stark. I am an ally. I serve House Stark, but there is no law against crucifixion. I broke nothing."

I broke bones, I broke bodies, I broke spirits.

He did not hide his disapproval at being interrupted. "It was unseemly, Domeric. You acted without honor and I am disappointed by it."

"I am too, my lord."

"What?" Lord Stark's tone was a sharp warning for him to tread carefully.

"You judge me, my lord," Domeric explained. "You say I am unseemly. You say I butchered these men. You were not there." He pointed out. "I carried a boy no older than Rickon. His body beaten and raped by these Mummers." Domeric felt the anger beginning to churn in his stomach-hot and vengeful.

"A BOY!" He hissed even though he wanted to shout it. "And you'd have me wrap this raper up in a black cloak or give him a swift and honorable death." Domeric shook his head in disgust. "I saw the bodies. I saw what these Mummers did and so did the smallfolk. They saw their homes burned, their friends killed, their families raped. That's why they cheered for me when I rode through those gates. I made the Mummers pay for their sins in blood and flesh, in pain and death, Lord Stark."

"That is justice." Domeric finished.

Lord Stark sat quietly, his face stoic. His grey eyes hard as stone as they studied him.

"I told her." Domeric revealed. "Sansa, before I left, I told her what I was going to do. I did not want her to hear it from anyone else. I looked her in the eyes and told her I planned on crucifying those men."

His future good-father failed to hide his surprise at that. "Why?"

"There are no secrets between us, my lord."

Something passed over Lord Stark's face before his expression hardened. "It was folly, Domeric. Honor is what helps to guide us so that we do not become like the Mummers," Lord Stark continued, "Sentencing a man is a duty that should be respected and not mocked."

Domeric said nothing. He stared back at the Lord of Winterfell. Thoughts spun in his head while emotions churned in his stomach at Lord Stark's words, but he would not speak.

"I do not approve of what you did, Domeric."

It is not Lord Stark's approval you should seek. His father's pale eyes flashed before him. It is mine.

"The next time you dispense justice, Domeric. It will be done with an axe or a sword. I will hear no more of crucifying. Do you understand?"

"I do, my lord."

I had no inclinations to start crucifying every raper and murder.

Their purpose was served. Mine is just beginning.

Arya:

"Why do you use an axe?"

Domeric slid into the seat across from her in the Great Hall.

They had all come back from the yard sparring though Arya didn't get to spar as much as she wanted. Towards the end, she had to settle for watching. She did not complain too much, because she'd rather watch sparring than be fitted and fussed over in another dress.

The wedding was tomorrow night, and Mother was very insistent the last few days that Arya's dress was perfect. So she suffered in silence under Mother's critical, but mayhaps more sympathetic eye? Or that's what Arya hoped she saw. She did not make too much fuss because she knew it was a fight she could not win, and because her parents had given her more freedom in the days before. Days she used exploring, sparring, riding, swimming and other fun adventures that she could find around her mother's castle.

"So that I can better cut and bludgeon through these southerners' pretty armor."

"Says the man with rubies encrusted on his armor," Jon smirked.

Arya laughed, and she wasn't the only one, up and down the table there was a ripple of mirth. Robb who was sitting beside Jon clapped his brother's shoulder, while laughing. Dacey, and Theon too all found it amusing. Though, Arya thought Theon would laugh at anything if it insulted Domeric even it it meant Jon had said it.

Domeric took the jape with a shrug and a chuckle.

She was just happy that her brothers and Domeric were talking and joking again. Upon his arrival to Riverrun, her brothers and father had been tense and distant with him. At one point, she feared that the betrothal might be delayed or even be called off. Looking back she knew it was silly to think that, but in that short time, she was afraid that the divide between them may not or could not be mended.

A divide, Arya heard stemmed from how Domeric handled those nasty sellswords in the Riverlands. She didn't know much because no one would tell her anything. She wanted to roll her eyes at that, not thinking it was fair. So she had to sneak and listen to learn to try to see if and how she could help.

It was not just Domeric at odds with her family, she had overheard an argument between Sansa and Robb about it. Their voices were hushed, but their tones were aggressive, and Arya could never remember Sansa and Robb in such a fight before.

Sansa was supporting her betrothed and claiming he did nothing wrong. She was as ferocious as a wolf in her defense of him and then Robb spoke too harshly about Domeric.

Arya knew that had been a mistake from where she hid the moment Robb said it. Though she could not see her brother's expression, she knew he probably regretted it too. She did see Sansa's reaction, Arya had never seen her sister so mad. Her pretty face twisting in anger and blue eyes blazing when she snapped back at Robb. Arya could not hear everything since their voices were so quiet, but she did hear the end.

Father's way is not the only way, Sansa had said firmly. She ended the argument there and left her brother to think on that.

I hope I never make Sansa that angry, Arya had thought when she slunk away afterwards.

The coldness between her brothers and Domeric eventually thawed. Some agreement seemed to be made between them, not to mention it again.

"Why an axe?" She had never seen him use it before and what she saw of him, she wondered why he never did because he was very good with it.

"I used to train with an axe in the Vale."

"But never in Winterfell," Arya said, "It's very odd."

"Only if you point it out," Domeric argued with a smile. "But aye, I did not use one in Winterfell."

"He might have won more," Robb supplied.

"I won plenty," Domeric's defense had no bite.

"You're decent," Dacey put forward, "But I can beat ya."

"You can beat any man here, Dacey," Domeric observed.

Dacey looked around the table as if waiting for one of them to object.

Theon muttered something into his tankard which made Jon frown and Robb looked away like he didn't want any part of the argument that was about to unfold. Theon then looked around to see those words did not seem welcomed so he finished his tankard and left, mumbling as he did.

"Who put a bee up his arse?" Dacey asked.

"I don't know," Robb watched his friend leave, and looked torn on if he should follow or not.

Domeric noticed it too. "If you follow him you'll probably stumble upon him and some," he stopped when his eyes turned to Arya as if just remembering she was there, "guest."

"Whore," Arya corrected.

"Arya." Robb and Jon said at the same time while Dacey laughed and Domeric smiled.

"What?" She looked at her brothers, "I know what a whore is."

Jon groaned. He ran a hand over his face. "Please, don't tell us."

"Don't let mother hear you say that," Robb warned, shaking his head in dismay.

"I'm not stupid." She stuck her tongue out at them.

After that, they then settled their attention on the food that was put in front of them.

The only ones who talked were Dacey and Jon and usually to each other. Arya had been surprised and happy when she heard that the two were going to be married. She loved Bear Island and her time training with Dacey and had been so disappointed when it was cut short. Though since she arrived to Riverrun, Dacey let her resume some of her duties and training when it didn't interfere with whatever plans Mother had for her that day.

Arya didn't think Jon could have picked a better wife, or how Jory put it,he should be thankful my sister picked him. She knew her friend was right, Arya saw a difference in her brother that wasn't just due to his knighthood. He wasn't as reserved as much. He smiled more, and looked more sure of himself, she thought, she really didn't know how to explain it, it was just good to see.

"You promised to spar with me."

Domeric looked up from his food. "I did," he dipped his bread into the grease and juices left over on his plate, "But I can't give you bruises when you have that dress to wear." He winked and smiled at her.

Arya tried to kick at his feet at the reminder, and his laugh turned into a shout when her foot finally connected with his shin.

"I'm expected to dance tomorrow," Domeric feigned a wince. "You'll have to explain to your sister why her husband is limping."

"Gladly," Arya raised her chin at him.

"Lady Arya."

She stiffened at not the voice, but what she knew it would lead to. She slowly turned around as if trying to delay what was about to happen.

It was one of the Riverrun servants who curtsied when the table gave her their attention.

"The Lady Catelyn has summoned you," She informed them. "You're needed in your sister's chambers."

"It sounds as if our sparring will have to wait," Domeric chuckled.

Arya didn't think it was fair. He was the one getting married. And yet she was the one having to spend all these hours getting ready to prepare for the wedding. Mother had been very strict about that and what was expected of Arya throughout the whole wedding, the ceremony, and the feast afterwards.

Thankfully, Mother so far had only caught Arya once rolling her eyes.

"I will be there shortly," Arya resisted the scowl that wanted to show.

The servant curtsied and walked away.

Arya grabbed her bread as she slid out of the table. Nymeria moved out from under it to join her.

"Don't get into too much trouble, little sister." Jon mussed her hair.

She smiled. "I'll try not to."

Her brothers clearly didn't believe her given the looks they exchanged which turned into chuckles.

"You would shame me."

Arya stopped when she neared her sister's door. That was Mother's voice.

"I am not shaming you, Mother."

Sansa, Arya moved closer to the door, carefully and quietly. They seemed to be arguing over something.

"You would sit a bastard at the table." The closed door could not block the venomous tone her mother spoke in when speaking of Jon.

Arya's belly clenched at how she talked about him.

"Jon is my brother," Sansa's tone did not rise to match their mother's intensity. "He is a knight who has earned the respect of many of the Riverlords and the people for not only defeating the Mountain but helping to free Riverrun. This castle. Your castle, Mother."

"All the more reason to remind him where he deserves to be." Mother didn't seem to have listened or thought through Sansa's words. "You can't put such ideas in his head."

"He will be made a northern lord."

"A mistake," Mother hissed. "You put him at the table and you give the Northern lords a face and chance to unseat Winterfell from your brother!"

Arya should have slipped away. She should have left and returned later, but she didn't. She couldn't. She looked over her shoulder and saw no one save for Nymeria, who had followed her from the hall. "Watch." Arya told her and her wolf understood, walking away to make sure Arya wasn't surprised by anyone.

"Jon has done nothing to warrant this, Mother," Sansa's voice was clipped, but her tone did not dip into becoming harsh. "He has fought with Robb. He freed your brother. He saved this castle."

Arya imagined her sister was shaking her head or trying not to lose her poise she was so good at maintaining.

"It would look poorly on this family, if you put him at a lower table. A shame he does not deserve."

"It is not a shame to put a bastard there," Mother sounded insulted at Sansa turning the word around on her.

It was quiet, and Arya tensed, prepared to slip away in case she heard footsteps come to the door, but they never came. She then looked back to see Nymeria was dutifully walking the corridors.

"What of Renly and Stannis?" Arya had to strain to hear her sister's voice since it was so softly spoken.

"What about them?" Mother's confusion sapped away her previous anger.

"They're brothers."

"I know that."

"Noble born, full brothers," Sansa explained, "And they're at war with each other. Neither are bastards because that has nothing to do with their conflict. They don't respect their blood or bond." Her voice was starting to go up but she kept her tone measured. "Jon has always fought to protect this family. He has never shown one instant or heartbeat of treachery. He had no cause to help Riverrun, but by Lord Piper's own words, it was Jon who argued that it needed to be done. The last interaction he had with a Tully was you, Mother." Sansa's tone sharpened at the reminder of the incident at the Inn. "You attacked and abandoned him, but yet Jon still chose to not only fight for your family, but insisted upon it."

There was a long pause between mother and daughter. "The decision has already been made, Mother," Sansa suddenly sounded tired. "I've already gotten permission from Uncle Edmure. And he agreed with my reasons. You should not slight one of the men who rescued the heir and the castle. You do not have to sit near him. He can sit between Robb and Arya, or Rickon, but he will be at the table tomorrow night for Domeric and I's wedding feast with the rest of my family."

That was when she heard footsteps, Arya nearly tripped over her feet, but she hastily backed away from the door, finding a spot to hide behind further up the corridor. She turned to tell Nymeria, but her wolf was gone. The door to her sister's room opened abruptly, Arya risked a look to see Mother, but she was thankfully not looking in Arya's direction. She walked away never turning back.

Arya still waited where she hid for a few heartbeats just in case Mother came back. Nymeria was the one to approach her as if to tell her it was safe. She trusted her direwolf and stepped away from where she was and slowly approached her sister's chambers.

I was summoned by Mother, She reminded herself, but after hearing what she did, Arya was not certain Mother was in the mood for whatever it was she wanted from her. Mother had left the door open so when Arya reached the doorway she saw Sansa was sitting at her vanity, her face in her hands and looking at the mirror. Her shoulders were slumped, and it seemed Arya had guessed right, her sister looked tired.

She thought about slipping away and not disturbing her sister, but Lady betrayed them. The direwolf raised her head from where she was lying on Sansa's bed, and Nymeria moved to greet her.

Sansa turned her head quickly to the door. Instinctively straightening her posture as she did, one hand going through her hair, but when her eyes fell on Arya, her hand dropped. Realizing it was only her sister, and not some important noble or lady that she had to maintain her perfect courtesies for.

"Arya?" She was clearly confused by her presence.

"Mother summoned me."

"Mother just left," Sansa said dully.

"Oh." Arya reacted surprised to a truth she already knew. She fidgeted with a loose stitch on her sleeve, standing in the doorway, "I heard."

"Heard?" Sansa perked, "heard what?" Looking shrewdly at her.

"Your conversation," Arya confessed, looking back down at the loosening stitch.

"Ah," Sansa's tone betrayed nothing, and Arya didn't want to look at her to guess what it was her sister was thinking. She also didn't comment on the earlier lie or perhaps it never fooled her.

"You can come in."

Arya did. She closed the door behind her. She looked to see Nymeria had settled herself comfortably on the bed beside Lady, both wolves looking between their masters. She turned away from them and to Sansa and she didn't like her sister looking sad. She was getting married tomorrow night, something Arya knew her sister had been waiting for more than a year.

She should be happy, Arya thought, smiling and humming, and being so nice and distracted like she usually was when it came to the matter of her and Domeric and their pending marriage. It looked like those were all sapped away, and she sat at her seat, weary.

Arya didn't like that. She chewed on her lip, trying to think of something to make her sister happy, and blurted out the first question she thought of that would do it: "How's the dress?" She hoped that would cheer her up. Arya wanted to cheer Sansa up. Knowing how much her sister had spent working on it, and how proud she was of the dress she would wear tomorrow night for her wedding.

A ghost of a smile came to her sister's face. "You really want to know?"

I want you to be happy, Arya wanted to say. I want you to smile and annoy me with how much you talk about Domeric and your plans for the future with him. So I can roll my eyes and stick out my tongue or snicker with Jon and Robb when your voice gets all dreamy.

Instead of saying one of those things. Any of them would have been good, she instead answered, "No."

Thankfully this time her honesty didn't get her in trouble since Sansa laughed. A musical sound that Arya used to hate. Sansa does everything so well, she use to fume. And so prettily. Arya wanted to make a face at the reminder of how her sister used to be, but Sansa wasn't like that anymore.

Here she was now defending Jon from Mother. Jon, who Sansa used to refer to as their half brother, and would always correct and chide Arya whenever she would call Jon their true brother. On the night before her wedding, she was making sure their family would be together and insisted it included Jon.

Arya moved towards Sansa who seemed more focused on her reflection than her newly arrived sister. "Your husband may be limping tomorrow."

"What?" That helped to snap her out of her daze. "What did you do, Arya?" Her eyes narrowed, but there was no venom in her tone.

"Nothing," Arya was trying not to smile. "I may have hit him."

Sansa sighed, and it seemed to loosen some of the tension in her shoulders and she wasn't hunching anymore. It wasn't a weary sigh, to Arya's relief. This was a different sort of sigh from her sister, a familiar one to Arya's ears and it made her smile grow.

"Are you going to bore me now?" Arya was standing behind her sister.

Sansa's eyes met hers through the reflection. "I could," there was a twinkle in her blue eyes, and her lips curved upwards. "All about the laces and the stitching and furs, and the embroidery." The mirth in her tone growing with each word.

Arya picked up the brush that was on the vanity. "I'd like that." She lied, and hesitantly ran the brush through her sister's pretty auburn hair.

Sansa reacted instantly-her reflection betraying her surprise while her body stiffened. Arya knew the reason, she hadn't really ever tried to brush Sansa's hair. Sansa's dolls were more likely to spring to life and brush her hair than Arya ever was.

"Sorry," Arya feared she may have done the wrong thing. I just wanted to help.

She had watched Mother do it so many times for them usually because they were upset with each other.

It was stupid. She quickly moved to put the brush back like it burned her, but Sansa stopped her.

"No," she held up her hand. Her tone was soft. "Please don't."

Arya saw the gratefulness on her sister's face and she nodded. "Alright," She brushed it again, carefully. To her satisfaction, her sister did not wince or grimace by it.

"How about you tell me about your day," Sansa suggested. "I very much want to hear why you thought it was alright to hit my betrothed the day before our wedding."

Despite the amusement that seeped into her sister's tone, Arya still avoided her sister's reflection.

"He wouldn't spar with me."

Sansa sighed that all too familiar sigh before a light laugh followed. "From the beginning, Arya."

Arya smiled, and gladly started from the beginning.

Domeric:

"You wanted to see me, Father?"

He was not surprised by the summons, but where the Bolton guard brought him. It was in one of the spare bed chambers in Riverrun. It was well furnished and modestly sized. It had a balcony to overlook the rivers below and a small solar looked to be attached to it through one of the closed doors.

Tully trouts were carved into the posts of the large bed, swimming and swirling upwards. Above the hearth was the Tully banner, and more stone trouts etched into it. The blankets of the bed were red and blue.

At a small table by the window sat Maester Uthor, who dipped his head. His father was standing with his back turned to Domeric beside the bed.

"I did." His hands were clasped behind his back which still faced Domeric. "You have done much for this family, Domeric."

He straightened up even though his father couldn't see it. "Thank you, Father."

Lord Bolton did not regard his son's reply. "And more will be asked of you."

"I understand," He bowed his head.

"This banner," Lord Bolton pointed to the Tully standard that hung over the hearth. "I want it to be replaced with a flayed man for tomorrow night."

"I will inquire about it, my lord," Uthor replied, "And see that the request is accepted."

"Good," That was when his father turned around to face him. "These will be the chambers where it is done. Where the marriage will be consummated."

The wedding bed, he understood the importance of it and the act which his father so bluntly spoke of. Domeric would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. Sansa's beauty alone was enough to stir desires and thoughts, and then the rare moments they were able to steal away together without chaperones caused a yearning that only grew more voracious in its cravings.

It did not help when he had to listen to Theon's bawdy stories and arrogant retellings of his own conquests with whores, camp followers, and other lucky women. When he first arrived to Winterfell, he considered visiting the brothel once or twice, before deciding it was not worth it.

Father hadn't sent me to get some whore pregnant. Domeric was already fighting his family's dark past and to throw in him visiting the brothel would certainly diminish his chances of getting the Starks to consider a betrothal. So Theon whored and bragged and I did what I was sent to do.

That was the difference between him and I. He thought about the other Winterfell ward. If Greyjoy had been smart and didn't let ale or his cock do his thinking, he may have gotten a Stark bride. However, he had no restraint, or focus. His lacks and failures only helped Domeric's cause. I was willing to adapt.

I used an axe in the Vale, but when I came to Winterfell and saw Lord Stark's sons, Robb and Jon used swords, I too then preferred the sword. Every effort was made to ingratiate myself into a family that had every right to despise mine. I did what I had to do. I did what Father ordered me to do.

This is why I have a Stark betrothal and he has his bitterness and whores.

"I hope I do not need to remind you of your duty."

"You do not."

"Unless my wife surprises me, Domeric, it is only you and I to carry on the Bolton name." He walked over to the bed, pulling back one of the blankets. "And due to Lord Stark's insistence we will be at war in order to plant Stannis on the throne."

"Stannis will have to kill thousands to put himself on it," he pulled back another blanket to show the white sheets. "All we must do is shed a few drops of blood to get what we desire." His long fingers skimming across them. "The blood of a maiden staining these sheets will secure us the greatest alliance our family has known."

The maiden, but he knew it was Sansa that his father was describing as well as the act itself. He shifted in his stance. His father had never been shy about this betrothal, but it still made him uncomfortable at how he spoke about it and her.

"She will be the Lady of the Dreadfort one day," Domeric found himself saying. "I'd ask that you respect that, Father," He was surprised by his own boldness, but insured not to show it to his Father. "That you respect her. She will be my wife and I will not suffer any disrespect towards her."

Lord Bolton's hand remained on the sheet, but he slowly looked up at him. Amusement flickered in his pale eyes, "This show really is not necessary," he chided, "It is only myself and Uthor here." His lips curved upwards.

"And you speak of true things, but there are others you do not mention. You forget she will not become Lady of the Dreadfort until I pass that means I not you am the Lord of the Dreadfort." His voice was as soft as spider's silk, and just as dangerous to the wandering fly which Domeric found himself being.

"Do not forget that," His father warned.

"I understand." He felt the cold, familiar touch of fear settling in his chest. I've erred, he realized his mistake, and was clever enough to stay quiet now.

His father tilted his head and looked towards him. "Not all of it, my son, but soon you will." He pulled the blankets up to cover the sheet but not before looking at them one last time as if savoring the spilt blood.

"It is a pity about the princess," He said plainly. "Her marriage to the Starks could have served us greatly."

"Lord Stark will look elsewhere for his son and heir for a betrothal," Uthor spoke up, who up to that point had been content with being quiet in the corner. "We are war and peace is often found in a marriage bed."

"And where will Lord Stark look?"

"The Vale," Domeric was the first to answer his father's question. "Lord Royce has daughters and he is a very powerful lord with great influence."

A flicker of approval passed over his father's face at his observation. "I think you are right," he agreed, "But Lord Stark is also cautious. He married a southerner and may not be too inclined to have too many Starks marrying into the south so close together."

House Royce has ties to House Stark, but Domeric did not say it aloud. He knew his father already knew that. "Do you think Grandfather is right about his concerns with Lord Karstark?"

"No, Lord Stark would not accept it. To do so would insult House Hornwood. Karstark will have to accept his daughter to be the next Lady of Hornwood," His father paused. "Unless an accident was to befall the young heir."

Domeric felt something cold coil around his spine. "You think Lord Karstark that serious?"

"The Lady of Winterfell is not a prize that can be easily ignored," His father observed softly. "It is too enticing. Not to mention we are at war, and battles are a good way of clearing obstacles." He moved forward to stand in front of Domeric. "You serve me well, my son."

"Thank you, Father," Domeric stilled in his stance.

"And you will continue to serve me." He felt his father's pale eyes pinning him, and Domeric tried not to squirm beneath the stare. "You are a Bolton. Do not forget that," His father's tone was calm and cold. "And be sure to remind your wife of her duty to our house once those sheets are stained red."

Sansa:

They're on their way. She stood from her kneeling position. Lady will guide him to me.

What will he say? She looked at the slim weirwood tree, whose red eyes looked back at her, its mouth upturned. It did not answer her.

At least he is not limping.

She heard their approach, which gave her the unexpected blessing of no longer having the time to worry. Lady came through first, padding the distance between them before coming to rest at Sansa's side. She was quick to touch her direwolf's head in an affectionate manner for her reward.

Domeric was not far behind. He looked at them, but his dark eyes were difficult to read, before he looked around the godswood to see they were alone. "Have you lured me here to steal my virtue, my lady?"

Sansa laughed, thankful of how it alleviated some of the sourness she felt building in her belly.

"Do you remember the feast that announced our betrothal?" She did not give him time to answer. "The morning after you invited me to the godswood to break our fast. Our first morning betrothed," she thought of it fondly.

It was the first tease and glimpse of the life they could have together and what awaited them as husband and wife. Unaware of the turmoil, and trials that were lurking ahead of them, threatening to deny them of that future together.

"So you invite me the last night of our betrothal in the godswood," He finished for her, smiling.

"I did," she knew she needed to say the reason for why she brought him here, but the words were not quick to form on her lips, fear pulled at them, refusing to let them slip.

"Sansa?"

His touch startled her, blinking to see his hand on her arm, a worried look on his face. "Are you well?"

"I am a warg," She blurted out unexpectedly with none of the tact she rehearsed with.

Domeric stilled. His mouth dipping into a frown. The hand on her arm twitched, but it was his eyes. Dark and unknowing when he looked at her. "What?"

"I am a warg," She said again clearly, but softly.

The confession stretched out before them, but Domeric only gave her silence. A flicker of dismay passed over his face before it settled to show nothing. The hand on her arm remained, but the grip had loosened.

His quiet response was grating, but when she searched his eyes or his face, he showed her nothing. Eyes that shone with warmth for her, smiles that made her heart flutter, but now, it was like pale stone, and his eyes two dark pits.

Her belly lurched, and her heartbeat seemed to quicken in panic.

"Say something," That growing fear compelling her to speak. "Say anything!"

He reacted, but not in the way she hoped. His hand dropped from her arm, and he looked away, and for a frightful second or more, she thought he was going to leave. "You're a warg?"

"Yes," The word may as well have strangled her since the answer she feared may have ruined them.

"How long have you known?" His voice as soft as a whisper.

"A few days before you left to hunt down the Mummers."

"You could've told me," His quiet voice was worse than any shout he could bellow. The disappointment in his tone as sharp and as painful as a dagger.

"I'm sorry," She apologized. "I was afraid. I didn't know what to do. I was confused," She confessed, "I-I-"

Her words trailed off when his hand found her cheek and the touch had an instant soothing effect. Her nerves settled, while the panic and fear retreated back to the depths.

"I," He looked like every word was being carefully decided, "I think I can understand."

"I'm sorry," she said again, "I should've told you."

He must have sensed some of her relief or her nerves. "This changes nothing between us, Sansa." He calmed her. His hands on her back. "Nothing," he assured her, "You have my love and trust. Always."

"Thank you," She kissed him for it.

Lady suddenly nudged her causing Sansa to unexpectedly break their brief kiss.

Robb appeared seconds later, "Sansa," He looked suspiciously between the two, before his unfriendly gaze rested on Domeric. "You were not in your room, Sansa."

"I'm here," Sansa smiled towards her brother.

Robb's eyes stayed on Domeric, narrowed and accusingly.

"Have you come here to congratulate us, Robb?" Domeric did not seem bothered by the look or the implication her brother left unspoken.

Robb frowned. His brow furrowed, "Congratulate, you?"

"Yes," Domeric put his arm around Sansa much to Robb's annoyance, "We just recited our vows. We're married."

Sansa couldn't help but laugh at the face her brother made. His eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing like a trout.

Robb soon recovered. "Very funny, Domeric," He said in a tone that he found it anything, but. His scowl returned, but the venom was no longer lurking behind his eyes. "Sansa," He finally turned to her, "It's time for supper."

She hesitantly slipped out of her betrothed's grip, but not before kissing his cheek. Robb protested by loudly clearing his throat. Sansa ignored him.

"Until tomorrow night, my lady."

"Until tomorrow night," She smiled.