A/N: Thanks for the support.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Two

Myrcella:

"Princess!"

"Princess!"

She smiled at the throngs of people who were gathering around her. She stood above them, safely out of the way, but where they could still see her. Myrcella waved at them, watching as her guard distributed the food she purchased from the merchants with her allowance. She used the Right of Purveyance to buy it, allowing her the privilege to acquire it below market price. A price that had steadily ascended these past few weeks.

It did not please the merchants, but they begrudgingly respected it.

Myrcella was paying them when no one else could afford it. Coin was coin.

Now, she stood as the denizens of the capital came forward to collect their allotment of foodstuff. It was not much, and she regretted that she could not give them more, but she hoped it would ease their starving bellies.

The siege was slowly strangling the city with all of the food from the Reach being withheld.

It was under the orders of Uncle Renly.

He's not your Uncle, Myrcella bit her lip, but recovered quickly, to smile once more so that none of the smallfolk would have noticed. The voice sounded like Lord Stark.

She felt something cold touch her spine, but she could show none of her pain or discomfort. A princess must always look poised, pretty, and be polite.

You're not a Princess, Lord Stark's voice was cold and flat in her ears.

Myrcella wiped at her eye. She would say it was dirt that had gotten in it, and nothing else.

"Princess?"

She turned to see Ser Arys had moved to stand beside her. "Are you well?"

"I think it is the heat," She lied.

Arys was not fooled. "We should head back to the Red Keep, Princess," He looked out as the lines of people were beginning to lessen. "You've done a good thing and it is nearly done."

Myrcella wanted to balk at abandoning her people before the food distribution was over, but she couldn't. Her knight was right and she gave him a weary nod. She couldn't be here anymore. Her smile felt so brittle on her lips, and her heart ached. She just couldn't stand any longer in front of all these people.

My mask is set to shatter.

"Princess," Ser Arys inclined his head, he had given the orders. Some of her guard would remain to finish while the rest would escort her back to the Red Keep.

She mutely nodded and followed the Lannister men in front of her. The crowds saw her go, exclaiming their thanks and love as she left. She tried to keep smiling and waving, feeling their voices helped to boost her sagging spirit. Myrcella scanned the gathered smallfolk who were dispersing to let her pass. She wanted to give as many as she could a look or a smile or a wave.

I must show them my gratitude. She had just waved to a small girl no older than eight, a crust of bread in her mouth, it was enough to make her smile. Her eyes then found a man. He was old, but he had a familiar face...

"BASTARD!" A loud voice rang out in the crowd.

Myrcella stiffened at the harshness and the suddenness of the shout. The curse was as sharp as a knife and it felt as if it was plunged into her chest.

There were ripples of laughter, and then others began to throw out the word.

"Bastard!"

"Bastard!"

"Bastard!" They jeered.

Her knight moved to stand beside her, shielding her from view from the crowd that was beginning to grow hostile.

The smallfolk will praise you with one side of their mouth and curse you with the other. Uncle Tyrion had told her that once. He was right.

Myrcella pressed forward, not wanting that word or their intent behind it to leave their mark upon her even while they volleyed the curse towards her like a rain of arrows.

She still was not strong enough to keep her head held high. It began to droop and her smile slipped away. She did not want to see their mean eyes and sneers.

It was not until she had been escorted all the way back to the Red Keep and into her chambers. Where she then dismissed her faithful knight. That was when she finally showed her tears. She fell onto her bed, clutched her pillow and wept.

The whispers of it first came in the week after the truce was declared between her family and Robb's.

They were repugnant and she had dismissed them quickly, but they did not disappear. It lingered in the back of her mind, gnawing at her in the dark silence of the night where she lay in bed, unable to sleep.

She wanted to deny it, but its roots were growing and she could not pull them all up. Myrcella was not her brother. Joffrey had dismissed them so easily, but she couldn't.

I'm not a fool, she had told herself. She wasn't blessed with Joffrey's ignorance or stupidity.

The more the words stayed with her the more they made sense. She could feel the cold tendrils tightening around her heart.

They made too much sense. Her belly had roiled at the disgustingness of it. She had slipped out of her bed and emptied her stomach into her chamber pot with all the elegance of a drunken sailor.

Blinking tears and tasting bile, she lounged on the floor by the chamber pot, bits of vomit already on her chin and her nightshift. There it turned in her mind and everything she thought hadn't made sense now had become abundantly clear once the truth of her parentage was put into place.

The thought of her true parents made her purge her stomach a second time. Her body convulsed, and she whimpered, it felt as if her insides were being wrung out. Her hands were shaking around the chamberpot to try to keep her grip. She sagged in relief when she thought it was over, tears trickled down her cheeks. Her lips and chin sticky with bile, but she did nothing to wipe them away.

This was why Stannis refused to serve Joffrey.

This was why Lord Stark tried to take Joffrey's crown. It was not out of ambition, but because her brother wasn't the lawful heir.

This was why the Starks refused to betroth her to Robb.

Then her mind cruelly brought back Robb's reaction to her that day in the Lannister camp. How he looked at her, she had blamed Joffrey, but it was me that elicited that look. He saw me and was disgusted.

More tears streamed down her cheeks and she felt her shoulders shudder from the sob that stormed through her.

You're not a Princess, Lord Stark's voice resounded inside her. My son will marry no bastard.

Her servants found her in that wretched state the next morning and she had blamed a stomach ailment.

They were silent in their understanding and sympathy, but she could not help but look at their faces, their expressions and think do they believe it too? The truth of who I am?

You're not serving a Princess, she wanted to tell them, You're serving a bastard.

Colmar:

"Colmar?"

"Yes, my lord?" He immediately straightened up at being addressed.

"How do you find the weather?"

"It's cold, my lord," Colmar answered honestly.

They had made camp that evening about a day's ride from Castle Cerwyn.

Lord Domeric's tent was spacious, but eerie.

The canvas resembled exposed muscle in its appearance. It was so strikingly similar he needed to remind himself that the tent was made of cloth. A red curtain was drawn to the right of them to separate the Lord and Lady's public space and to allow them some privacy. Stitched into the curtain were two flayed men in dark pink resembling sentinels to guard the way.

Two small tables were off to the side flanked by braziers and on each were piles of parchment and maps, letters and notes, that belonged to the future Lord and Lady of the Dreadfort.

"Cold?" Lord Domeric's dark eyes hid his thoughts.

He was wearing a pale red tunic with an onyx horse brooch in the shape of a horse head, its eyes made from amber and dark trousers. The heir to the Dreadfort was standing by one of the braziers. There were a few cushioned seats available but he was not inclined to use them. Resting on one of the chairs was Lord Domeric's prized weirwood harp.

"It is," Colmar didn't mean to insult his northern hosts. He spent most of his nights shivering in his bedroll. His teeth chattered while he watched his breath pass between his lips.

It was one thing to be told or warned about the cold, but quite another to be in it, to breathe in it. A cold that seemed to seep through his skin and into his bones. It was terrible.

"It's only Autumn, Colmar," His tone finally conveyed a tinge of amusement.

Nearly a year in his service, and Colmar could never really sense Lord Domeric's mood.

"The lad may faint at the first drop of snow, my lord," Captain Rylen observed.

Bitter Robard chuckled where he stood beside the Captain. "He may indeed."

"Do not worry, Colmar. Winterfell will keep you warm," Domeric assured him once the mirth of his men subsided. "It is a great castle and anyone who dwells in it should be honored."

"I am, my lord," He said quickly so they wouldn't think otherwise.

"Good," That one word carried a lilt that he could not quite place. He turned his dark gaze elsewhere,and Colmar was relieved. "Rylen, have you assembled the men to escort Qyburn to the Dreadfort?"

"I have, my lord," Rylen answered, "And Colmar brought what you required to their attention. It'll be taken with them to your family's castle."

Vargo's goat helm and his coined necklace, he remembered, they were among the trophies he had collected and stored for Lord Domeric. It was not just Qyburn or those going to the Dreadfort, Uthor's remains would be too. The old Dreadfort maester died less than a fortnight after the wedding. He would be interred where the loyal servants of the Bolton family were put to rest.

All except his hands, He felt the lingering cold falling on his neck like raindrops. The arms had been severed from Uthor's body and tended to and stored separately.

They use the hands, Rylen had stated bluntly, unbothered when he had asked. Colmar had tried to look that too, but he couldn't, looking and feeling nauseous. When he learned that the bones of Bolton enemies and servants were put to use in the Dreadfort. It was unnerving.

I was promised to the Faith, he mused, but given to the Boltons.

He knew the seven faces, the prayers, the rites, but one was not like the others. One was not given the same honors, the same attention, one was avoided. It was there, but at the same time it wasn't.

The Stranger, the one you were not supposed to pray to. It represented death and the unknown.

It leads the dead to the other world...

That brought him back to those nights in the Riverlands where those mummers were on crosses, gelded, and mutilated, moaning in agony, bleeding and dying slowly.

The Stranger was supposedly faceless but sometimes in his nightmares it had a face and it was a Bolton.

"My lady wife," Lord Domeric's words brought Colmar out of his thoughts to see the arrival of the Lady Sansa, who seemed the only one capable of effortlessly eliciting an instant reaction out of her husband.

His posture as well as Captain Rylen and Robard's went from relaxed to formal in a blink at her entrance.

Lady Sansa Bolton has been wearing her husband's colors consistently since their wedding. She was in a dark pink dress with a red traveling cloak, that was speckled with crimson to resemble blood drops. It was fur trimmed. The cloak was clasped by grey direwolves, the only visible representation of her father's house.

He kissed her cheek when she moved to stand beside him, "Husband," she greeted him with a warm smile before she turned to face them. "And my husband's faithful men."

"My lady," The three men intoned respectfully.

Colmar's eyes moved to the Lady Sansa's main attendant, her friend, the Lady Jeyne Poole. She hovered near the entrance, looking pretty in her light blue dress. She must have sensed his eyes since she turned to him and offered him a shy smile before ducking her head.

He would not deny the effect her gaze had on him, but he could show nothing in the presence of Lord Domeric and Lady Sansa. Colmar snuck a glance to see they were thankfully not looking his way.

Lady Sansa was speaking with Bitter and Rylen, both men at ease in her presence, while Lord Domeric stood beside her. His men were clearly charmed by Lady Bolton, but Colmar could not blame them, she was kind and sincere and spoke well to all of the servants and guards. It made him believe that no one in the Bolton retinue had an ill thing to think or say about their future Lady of the Dreadfort.

"Colmar?"

"Yes?"

"You are dismissed for the evening."

"Thank you, my lord," Colmar bowed, but before he could leave Lady Sansa stopped him.

"Colmar, would you be so kind as to escort Jeyne to her tent?"

"Yes, my lady," Colmar answered dutifully, hoping not to show any obvious interest at his order.

He then offered the Lady Jeyne Poole his arm which she took with a demure dip of her head and they slipped out of the tent to be greeted by the cold, crisp northern air. They walked in silence, the only noise that of the camp bustling around them. He feared with her so close that she could hear the sound of his thundering heartbeat.

"My lady?" He licked his lips, unable to oblige the quiet anymore. "Are you happy to be returning north?"

"I am," She glanced at him, "the south was," she paused, and her face betrayed her anguish, but she turned away as to not burden him further. "It was not what it was supposed to be."

"I am sorry to hear that, my lady," Colmar knew little of the trials she faced during her trip to the capital. Sadly, he was not close enough to know what things could cause her such sorrow. It hurt to see her pretty face crumple. "The north is made better with your presence, my lady."

"You are kind."

Her words may have sounded dull, but he saw how her eyes took the compliment and it made his heart soar. He felt the smile on his lips at being the cause of it. "Here you are, my lady."

The walk had been all too brief. He stopped at an appropriate distance from her tent flap.

"Thank you, Colmar," She slipped her hand from his arm.

"My lady," He bowed his head to her, and watched her go inside her small tent, but he was certain she looked back before the canvas slid closed behind her.

He stood there for a long moment, before he finally turned and left.

When he had been told that he was to be given a Stark bride, he had thanked the Seven for such a blessing. He had once thought his life would be tied to them. Colmar had been given to the Faith, but before he could leave, Father had changed his mind. Elmar had displeased him and he was sent instead.

He had been further blessed when his father had chosen him as the recipient for the potential Stark betrothal. I'm marrying into one of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms.

The truth now was he felt little excitement once he met her.

Arya Stark was scrawny, dirty, and long faced. She had a quick temper and seemed more willing to frown or glare then to smile. The only thing attractive about her was her name.

He tried to be polite to her, but she was wild and loathsome towards him. Sadly, I'm marrying the one Stark that's the most similar to their direwolf sigil.

Am I marrying a woman or a beast? He was disappointed.

This is my wife? When he thought of a wife he did not think of Arya Stark nor her traits.

He wanted someone who was pretty, kind, supportive, loyal. I want a gentle maiden and I got an untamed wolf.

She carries a sword, He had gaped when he saw her wearing it. A woman with a sword? It did not sit well with him. The sword hung loose on her but it nearly became the least upsetting part of her attire which included trousers, a boy's tunic, and boots all of which were covered with layers of dirt and sweat.

If I'm marrying a woman who dresses and acts like a man then what does that make me? He did not like that thought or implication. He was embarrassed at the sort of mischief she frequently got herself into from the limited time he saw her during his stay in Riverrun.

She also despises me, Colmar could sense it from a distance well before speaking to her. She does not see me as a husband, but an obstacle that she wishes to remove. It was a disquieting revelation, but an offensive one, I should be the one grieved. I smile and she glares. I talk and she mutters. If anyone has the right to protest this match it should be me.

He knew better never to voice such things. Colmar understood the importance of this potential betrothal and the repercussions he could face from his father and family if he disappointed them. It didn't matter how he felt, he wasn't a fool. To marry into House Stark was an honor that I cannot dismiss.

He looked back and could barely see her tent, but it was there.

Colmar was left with the one question that was coming to him more frequently since his time around her had only increased on the road.

Why couldn't Arya Stark be more like Jeyne Poole?

The hall of Castle Cerwyn was filled with Bolton and Stark men.

It was smaller than the Twins, but it felt larger to him since it wasn't filled to the brim with his kin. It was held up by eight pillars in two rows of four and within the stone were axe engravings to represent Cerwyn's family standard.

There were lines of wooden tables with benches, but even with the extra guests not all of the tables were filled, some remained empty.

That was where Colmar went.

Servants bustled quietly but diligently through the hall making their rounds and filling up pitchers and tankards or clearing plates and bowls. They tended to the several small fireplaces as well as the braziers that were strategically placed throughout the room. All of them were dressed for the cold weather and were wearing the Cerwyn livery on their tunics or dresses.

There was a small stone platform where the Lord sat and his guests who were given the honor to dine at their table. The table was currently empty, Lord Medgar Cerwyn had died on the Green Fork.

Black banners were hung throughout the castle, but were draped prominently in the castle's great hall. His son and new lord of Cerwyn, Cley was in the Vale with Lord Stark. So the duties of the castle fell on Jonelle Bolton nee Cerwyn, Lord Bolton's wife and Lord Domeric's good mother. She had traveled with their party and was absent from the hall to speak with some of the servants and guards to ensure everything was going smoothly in hosting Lord and Lady Bolton's retinue.

The hall was warm which Cley was thankful for since the ride had been so cold. He picked the nearest empty table by a burning brazier. The warmth was instant and for a few seconds he just simply basked in it. He had been in the castle for some time, but this cold seemed to leak through the walls constantly shadowing him like a persistent hound.

He had not sat down for more than a minute before a servant delivered his food and poured him a tankard of ale. She was old and surly, with a prominent mole on her chin. As soon as the plate was on the table and his tankard was filled, she moved off to the next table.

Comfortable and warm for the first time today, he dug into his food.

"You've been avoiding me."

Damn. He lowered his fork before he answered. "No." Yes.

He tried not to sigh at the intrusion. Out of all his kin who had come north with him and there were many, the one he didn't want to see was the one now sitting across from him, Little Walder.

Even though they were similar in age, Colmar was actually his Uncle. Little Walder's father, Merrett was Colmar's half brother through their father.

Colmar shouldn't have been surprised that he had been picked to go to Winterfell. Walder's sisters, his nieces, Walda and Marissa were part of Lady Sansa's retinue. Walda had even seen herself betrothed before she went north to Lord Umber's son and heir, Smalljon. She was now traveling to Winterfell to learn more about running a household and living in the north under the Lady Sansa's guidance and tutelage.

He had heard Marissa was being discussed as a potential bride for Jojen Reed. The Lady Sansa wanted to stem the enmity between Frey and the crannogmen. He didn't think she had much of a chance at accomplishing that, but then again he never thought Lord Tully would marry one of his kin, and Sansa's Uncle was now betrothed to Colmar's half sister, Roslin.

Fair Walda had even gotten herself married, but hers was not a prestigious match. She was supposed to go north with Lady Sansa, but Walda was then caught in a compromising position with a knight in Lord Mallister's household retinue. She was quickly and quietly married off to said knight and left behind.

He was happy that his sisters Arwyn and Shirei were traveling north to continue to attend the Lady Sansa. He was curious what sort of match his older sister would find in the north. Colmar doubted any of them would bring Arwyn happiness, because he suspected no husband could actually please his sister. Not wanting to dwell on his sister or her peculiar tastes, he sadly returned his attention to the recently arrived Walder.

"I was tending to Lord Domeric."

Colmar had just finished with those duties when he went to the hall to eat. When he first got the role to serve as Lord Domeric's squire his family constantly pestered him with questions. They were greedy for stories that involved any of the darker deeds that made up the Boltons' infamy.

They were disappointed when Colmar informed them that no, Lord Domeric didn't flay Lannister soldiers or toss them on pikes. That he didn't drink their blood or play his harp while they were screaming in agony.

They sought him out again after dealing with the Bloody Mummers. He hadn't wanted to talk about it. He didn't even want to think about it. Long after it had ended, the nightmares remained showing a stoic Lord Domeric gelding and crucifying the Mummers.

He pushed those thoughts away, but it was a difficult task because out of all his kin, Little Walder was the one to express the most disappointment of not having been there to see those men get crucified. The way his face would take in such grisly tales had only sharpened Colmar's unease at being in his nephew's presence.

Little Walder was anything but little. His nephew was only about a year younger than Colmar but was already larger and taller than him. He had a red face and dark eyes. Walder always wore doublets or tunics or coats that were quartered in his personal coat of arms with the grey towers of House Frey, the brindled boar of House Crakehall, and the plowman of House Darry.

"I heard he may crucify any wildlings he catches."

Colmar lost his appetite at his nephew's suggestion and looked up from his plate. "Lord Domeric would not do something that foolish."

"Foolish?" Walder sneered, "The only foolish ones are the wildlings that get caught south of the Wall. I heard some of the Bolton men talk about them. They say few hate the wildlings more than Lord Domeric."

That was true, he quietly admitted, but he would not say it aloud. Walder didn't shy away from his interest at the thought of witnessing a crucifixion. Colmar's stomach turned instead.

He hoped a drink would help, but the northerners' ale was bitter and strong. Colmar ended up only taking a small sip, disliking the taste, but he was disliking this conversation even more.

So he was pleased when Walder finally dropped it, but that feeling quickly soured when he noticed that Little Walder's eyes were following the Lady Jeyne Poole who had made her way into the hall.

She was pretty in what some would call a mute color, but to Colmar, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She noticed him and tipped her head and a smile followed before she took a seat at a table where Arwyn and Shirei were already sitting with Walda and Marissa.

"I told my sisters to impress on her that I need a wife."

Walder's greasy tone pulled Colmar away from his distant admiration of the Lady Jeyne Poole. "What?" He tried to hide his dismay and disgust at the idea of the fair Jeyne Poole marrying his mean young nephew.

"Jeyne," He tilted his head in her direction, not even referring to her respectfully. "She looks pretty when she's not standing beside Sansa," His eyes betraying his lusts.

Colmar quickly looked around Cerwyn's hall hoping no would heard such crude words being bandied about Lady Sansa Bolton. Before he could chastise him and hopefully get him to be quiet, Walder went on, oblivious or uncaring of how he sounded.

"She's even prettier sitting next to my sister, Fat Walda," He snickered, "Mayhaps, I'll ask my dear sow of a sister to sit next to her more often."

Fat Walda, a cruel name given to a kind woman. Colmar had always tried not to say it when referring to his niece even when it led to confusion due to all the other Waldas that resided in the Twins. The Lady Sansa had insured that name was no longer used after she took Walda and the other Freys in as part of the agreement between Houses Frey and Stark.

"She should be happy, I think," Walder went on, "A Poole isn't much of a noble house," He sniffed, "While I on the other hand have much nobler blood flowing in my veins," He tapped his chest proudly, where his coat of arms was emblazoned to prove his point.

And no land or wealth to speak of, Colmar wanted to say, but bit his tongue. No easy feat since his annoyance towards him was rising with every word or look he gave towards the Lady Jeyne Poole.

She deserves much better than you .

"Colmar?"

He looked up from their table to see Captain Rylen. "Yes, Captain?" He was already rising from his seat.

"Lord Domeric has requested your presence."

Colmar did not need to be told twice. It was not wise to keep him waiting.

"Lord Domeric?" Colmar found the heir to the Dreadfort in one of the guest chambers within the castle, alone. He was only able to take a quick glance around the room to see it remained exceptionally tidy and that the trunks that had been put in front of the large bed hadn't looked to be opened.

"Colmar," He was standing behind a desk, but didn't look up, "I need you to see to the horses. I need to ride to Winterfell."

"Tonight?" Colmar's surprise overwhelmed his cautiousness. It was time for supper and Winterfell was half a day's ride from Castle Cerwyn.

"Yes," Lord Domeric's tone had gone dangerously soft. "Sansa and I are riding to the castle tonight."

"Very well," Colmar was thankful no further reprimand seemed to be coming from his earlier disrespect. "I should have our horses ready in a few minutes."

"You are not coming. It will just be my wife and myself." Lord Domeric corrected, "So prepare only the two mounts."

This time Colmar was able to stop himself from further mistakes. He knew what needed to be said or not said when given such orders. "I will see to it now, my lord."

"Thank you," Lord Domeric's dark eyes were on a piece of parchment on the desk. "You will also make the necessary excuses for our absences if it is noticed. You will not say that we left the castle." He instructed, "In the morning our party will simply be told that we could not wait and we left earlier in the morning then planned."

"I understand," Colmar wasn't foolish to consider such a thing even before the warning.

"Good," He finally looked up, but nothing could be gleaned from his expression or gaze. "My wife has given similar instructions to Jeyne. Sansa has asked that you personally escort her in the retinue tomorrow when the rest of our belongings travel to Winterfell."

Colmar hid his smile and showed no objection. "I will oversee them and her, my lord." That had been one of his responsibilities during the trek north to ensure the luggage train of Lord Domeric and his wife's trunks remained organized and were traveling smoothly.

"Thank you," Lord Domeric picked up the parchment he had been reading and walked the few steps it took to get to the fireplace. He then promptly crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. "That will be all." His eyes never left the burning parchment.

"My lord," Colmar dipped his head and slipped out of the chambers to follow through with his orders. He couldn't help but wonder what would cause Lord Domeric and his wife to insist on riding to Winterfell tonight.

No, he stopped himself before his interest grew any further. It is not my place.

Colmar knew that it was never wise to pry into delicate matters that involved the Boltons.