A/N: This story is Rated M for graphic violence among other things. This chapter will contain violence and mention/refer to rape, torture, and murder. It takes place in the first part of this story.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Eight

Colmar:

"What are you doing?"

Lord Domeric spoke calmly despite the skirmishing having only just finished. The wildlings had been routed and those that tried to flee were chased down. It was a raiding band that Lord Domeric suspected may have once been scouts for their king but they lacked the patience and discipline to stick to their tasks. They saw all this land and these people and they couldn't help themselves. Lord Domeric didn't hold back his opinion on the wildlings.

One such wildling survivor was sitting on the ground, leaning his back on the ruins of a short stone wall. There was red seeping through his clothes from his wounds.

The man who they saved, the man who Lord Domeric was addressing was the fattest man Colmar had ever seen. He was wrapped in black fur and bundled in black clothes showing that he was a member of the Night's Watch. He was crouching awkwardly and Colmar thought he might tip over. His chins seemed to be quivering when he turned to face Lord Domeric. His eyes widened and Colmar suspected he just saw the emblazoned flayed man on Lord Domeric's black armor.

He would not be the first man frightened by the Bolton sigil.

"I-I was just checking," He began, before stopping, "trying to help."

These wildlings had attacked this man's small group and he had still tried to help this bleeding wildling in some way. Colmar wasn't sure what to think of it, was it kindness or was it foolishness?

"What is your name?"

"Sam," The Brother in Black said, "Sam Tarly, my lord."

"Tarly?" Lord Domeric repeated.

Colmar recognized the name too. One of the great houses in the Reach, they had pledged themselves to King Renly. He thought it odd that a family so southern would send one of their kin to the Wall. We have plenty at the Twins that the Wall can surely have, Colmar thought they had enough to open up at least one of the abandoned castles on the Wall and fill it with Freys.

"Yes."

"Well met, Sam," He stepped forward, hand out, "I'm Domeric Bolton, Heir to the Dreadfort."

Sam took the offered hand and repeated the expected greeting.

"This is my squire, Colmar Frey," He inclined his head towards him.

Colmar nodded and Sam returned it.

"Were you traveling alone?" Lord Domeric ignored the groaning and bleeding wildling.

"No, I traveled with two others, Red Alyn of the Rosewood, and Guy of Duskendale," He paused to take a breath, "We stumbled upon the wildlings and they killed them."

"And you still tried to help this wildling?"

"Yes," Sam was no longer shaking.

"Help," Lord Domeric sounded amused, "We do not help our enemies, Sam Tarly," He stepped past the newly met Night's Watchmen while he withdrew his axe. "We kill them."

Colmar looked away, but he still heard the wet crunch of the axe cutting through the flesh and then the soft thud of the head hitting the ground. He felt his belly clench, but didn't turn to see the headless corpse. He heard a groan and he was certain it was from Sam Tarly.

"Lord Domeric?" Sam's voice sounded a bit squeamish. "I was travelling with some books from Castle Black. They're very old and when the wildlings attacked, I-I ran to hide them."

"Books all the way from Castle Black. I would very much like to read them if I can," He didn't try to mask his interest at such an opportunity. "Colmar," He turned to him, "Go with Sam to retrieve them and then meet me there." He pointed to the nearby smoking homestead. It belonged to the family that they hadn't been quick enough to save.

Colmar followed Sam's lead as they trudged through slush and mud. "How long have you been with the Watch?"

"Nearly a year," Sam answered, "Does Lord Domeric really want to read them?" He asked after a few beats of silence. His question came with a sheepish look as if he wasn't sure he should ask or not. There was an apologetic shine in his dark eyes.

"Yes," Colmar saw the surprise on Sam's face. He thought that was an honest reaction since seconds ago Lord Domeric just executed a wildling without hesitation or emotion, but at the sound of books, he had instantly perked up. "He likes his histories and he likes his harp."

That seemed to only further mystify Sam. "He plays?"

"Yes, quite well, but he mostly just plays for his wife."

"The Lady Bolton?" Sam asked before clarifying, "Lord Stark's eldest daughter?"

Colmar confirmed it and they walked in silence some more before Sam bid them to stop. He crouched down and Colmar followed, seeing the dirt and the leaves that looked to have been disturbed. It only took Sam a few seconds to brush away his hiding spot before revealing the pile of books bundled up in what looked to be black canvas. He picked up the books, but didn't move to stand up. "When the fighting started, I ran," His voice was thin, "Guy and Alyn fought and died while I fled." He sniffed before he slowly stood up. "It wouldn't surprise my father."

He remembered his first battle and the ones that followed. He did not want to, but that never stopped the thoughts from bleeding through. He would hear the screams, he could smell the smoke and the shit. I may have run too. He wondered if he should say something, but then the moment passed.

"We should return like Lord Domeric asked."

Colmar didn't argue and the two followed the muddy footprints they had left behind. Most of the Bolton men were milling about outside the homestead. There were eight surviving wildlings, who were bound and on their knees. They had not wanted to be taken, they fought and they struggled trying to die, but the Bolton men were skilled at taking them alive.

Is this training they receive at the Dreadfort? He remembered how they did the same thing to many of the Bloody Mummers in the Riverlands. Colmar shivered at the memory.

Captain Rylen was waiting for them by the door. "Lord Domeric's inside," He pointed to the doorway, the shattered splinters of wood that used to be the door had been tossed aside.

Colmar hesitated, he was not sure he wanted to go in, but he knew he didn't have a choice. He walked in where his stomach stirred at the smells that lingered in the one room home. He heard the flies buzzing before he saw them, in the corner of the room was the family who had lived here. They were all dead, but they were covered by pale red Bolton cloaks.

"The boy must have been ten," Lord Domeric was standing by the hearth. They had started a fire. The glows of the firelight showing the damage to the homestead of how it was ransacked, all of the furniture had been broken and smashed into pieces, items were scattered across the room. It was as if a storm had come through, ripping it all up and spitting everything in different directions.

He heard Sam shift beside him. He glanced to see Sam was pale again and his mouth was trembling.

Lord Domeric stood with his back to them. He poked at the fire, getting a bright orange flame to bloom before he turned to them. He regarded Sam, "It isn't pleasant, Tarly, but what do you expect from wildlings?" He looked down at the bundle of books in his hands. "They look old, I wonder what mysteries and histories can be found upon their pages." A rare smile came to Lord Domeric. "I hope you will tell me of them on our return to Winterfell."

"I'd be happy to."

That was when Lady appeared in the doorway. The direwolf was near the size of a horse so she didn't venture into the homestead. Her maw was bloody and her yellow eyes inquisitive when they rested on Sam.

"This is our new guest," Domeric talked to the wolf as if it could understand him, "Sam Tarly."

It was not the first time Colmar had seen him speak to the direwolf. It was a strange thing to witness. He didn't speak to it like one would a dog or a cat or horse even a babe, it was different.

To Sam's credit, he didn't look to be trembling when he was the center of the wolf's attention. Colmar wondered if Lady saw supper when seeing him, but if it did, it wasn't hungry since it made no move to attack. Whatever it was looking for, it seemed satisfied since she then backed out of the homestead and disappeared from sight.

Domeric appeared satisfied since he turned back to face the fire. Colmar's eyes went to the bit of green on the black plate armor. He knew it to be Lady Sansa's favor. Before they left Colmar wanted to ask Jeyne for hers, but he wasn't brave enough. It didn't stop him from seeing it play out in his head. Her face flickered in front of his with a growing smile while she accepted his request. Or at how tenderly she'd tie the silk to his arm. He'd wonder if she could feel his pulse, since his heart would be thundering in his chest.

To be so close to her, to have her blessing, to be able to touch her, to be able to call her my beloved, but Colmar shoved those thoughts aside. She is not my betrothed no matter how much I wish for it. He didn't need to think long to know that Arya would never give him a favor. She'd scrunch her long face and twist her mouth like he asked for something repulsive. She's more likely to run me through then tie a favor to my arm.

It was the sound of rattling that pulled Colmar's attention back inside the homestead to see one of the wildlings was being dragged inside by two Bolton men. He saw the reason for the rattling: the wildling had loosely tied bones to his armor.

They weren't all animal bones, Colmar's observation made him nauseous. He tried not to look at them, especially the suspiciously human shaped ones. He ignored the comparison to the Bolton flayed man on Lord Domeric's armor in terms of its savagery because he knew such a thing said aloud would not be well received.

The wildling fought and kicked, growled and cursed, but he could not free himself from the ropes. He was a small man with pinched cheeks and a wispy mustache.

"He was wearing this, my lord," Captain Rylen presented a yellowed but broken skull that was human shaped, but it looked too large to come from any man.

He accepted the skull. He held it to the firelight. "This is a giant's skull."

A giant? Colmar thought he heard wrong. Giants weren't real. They belong in stories. He heard no jape in Lord Domeric's tone nor saw it in his expression.

"My lord?" A Bolton man-at-arms was in the doorway. "It's done."

"Bring it in," Lord Domeric didn't take his eyes off of his latest trophy.

Colmar felt an icy spring well up inside him when they brought it in. The it was a Bolton flaying cross. It was poorly and hastily built, but the logs held together when they moved some of the broken furniture aside in order to keep the cross in place. The wildling was put to it, but instead of nails they used rope.

Colmar looked back at Lord Domeric, but his face betrayed nothing. He had sworn that he wouldn't crucify any more men back at Riverrun, but here he was with the same one he used when he crucified every member of the Bloody Mummers he could get his hands on. Is Lord Domeric disregarding his vow to Lord Stark?

"You wouldn't give my men a name to put to this," Lord Domeric gestured to the skull in his hand.

"I-I think I know it," Sam offered. He nearly shrunk inside his cloak when all eyes turned to him.

"Crow," Hissed the wildling, struggling against his ropes.

"You know it?"

Sam nodded, "I've heard about him from my brothers on the Wall," He admitted, "They were not pleasant stories." He grimaced, "they called him Lord of Bones." He never once looked in the wildling's direction.

"Did you hear that, men?" Lord Domeric asked them, "We're in the presence of a wildling lord."

The Bolton men laughed, some even bowed to the wildling prisoner.

"Thank you, Sam," Lord Domeric said politely, "My men will give you some rations and you can tend to your books while I tend to this."

Sam didn't argue. He thanked Lord Domeric and followed one of the Bolton men outside. Colmar didn't dare ask if he could follow. Whatever was coming, I must watch it. He felt as if his belly was being squeezed by invisible claws. I don't want to be here. I don't want to watch.

"Your people are so proud of saying that you live beyond the Wall, that you're no kneelers and that our laws mean nothing to you," Lord Domeric withdrew a dagger from his belt. The blade was thin with a sharp tip. The pommel was pale as bone with bits of garnets embedded into it to make it resemble blood drops. "Flaying is outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms, but your king and your people aren't part of the Seven Kingdoms." His eyes were dark and cold like a winter's night.

Something cold pressed down on Colmar's back. He didn't understand what the heir of the Dreadfort was doing or thinking. Does he hate the wildlings so much?

"The Lord of Bones," He scoffed, "What would a wildling know about lordship." He then sheathed his knife. "You may come from beyond the Wall, but this is the Seven Kingdoms and we have laws. Laws that you broke and you and your men will be punished."

The first wildling was brought in and pushed to the floor. His arms were bound behind his back. One of the Bolton men kept a firm grip on his shoulder while the wildling jerked his body trying to break free, muttering and cursing behind a curtain of dirty brown hair that had fallen over his face.

"Your men stole so that will cost them their hands," Domeric pointed out, "your men raped so I will geld them and they will watch me toss their bits into the fire," Domeric went on. "And they killed which will cost them their heads."

"And then what?" The Lord of Bones' tone didn't contain his earlier bite, "You'll do it to me?"

"Your hands and your cock? Yes," Lord Domeric answered mildly, "Perhaps I'll take your head too," He shrugged, "Or perhaps I'll leave you tied and bloodied to that cross and let the wolves or the crows claim you."

The Lord of Bones' face went nearly as pale as his bone ornamented shirt at that possible punishment.

Lord Domeric was handed his axe while the Bolton men pinned the wildling down. They grabbed his bound hands and put them on the waiting stool. The wildling squirmed and grunted, but the Bolton men were too strong.

"Let us begin," Domeric's axe fell swiftly.

Kevan:

It was a long walk back to the Red Keep, but Kevan took it slowly. His brother had put him in charge of the walls of the city. He would be leading its defenses. He had spent the day inspecting the gates and the walls from both the inside of the city and the outside.

His brother had set up a series of obstacles along the field, including moats and trenches and pits and pikes and other nasty surprises. Tywin was wisely placing them in a way that would funnel Renly's army to where Tywin wanted them to go. Renly's numbers will mean a lot less when they're clogged and bogged down in such a narrow field where less than a dozen men or a few horses could move side by side.

The most dangerous of the traps that had been made had them using wildfire. Kevan felt uneasy using such a volatile weapon, but they had no choice. Renly had made them desperate. He'll feel the heat of that desperation. Kevan had enough history with the Mad King that he didn't want to think about those who'd burn to the green flames when it would be lit.

Gold Cloaks and Lannister guards were patrolling the streets. There were strict curfews in effect for the city's safety, but judging by the glares and the murmurs that he received, they had no intention of thanking them. Some windows were already boarding up and on some of the rooftops he saw families were preparing themselves.

They see us as paper shields, Kevan looked up at one rooftop to see a girl no older than his own looking down at him. She had a small doll in one hand. It was worn and dirty, but she clung to it like it was the most precious thing in the city.

He smiled up at her. He waved, and the girl shyly returned it. Myrcella's red ribbon had flickered at the motion. Thank the Seven she is safe from this. He sighed. Far too few are. His mind going to that poor smallfolk girl they passed.

Janei, his own little girl, was safe at the Rock with his Dorna. His boys too were away from the city. Lancel had been the last to leave. His duties kept him from properly seeing his son off, but he knew Lancel was not happy by the decision. He was so determined to stay, to fight, arguing that he needed to fight for their Queen and for their family. Lancel had been stuck in the city when the war broke out, so he missed the fighting that his brothers got to experience.

He whined as if he missed some great adventure and some great opportunity, Kevan sighed, He watched a pair of boys running down the street, laughing when they nearly bumped into a gold cloak, who cursed before waving his fist at their retreating forms.

Was I ever that young and arrogant? He remembered wetting his sword in the Stepstones, him and his brothers, determined to prove the Lannister lion was not meek. Only now looking back did he realize how lucky he was to survive those battles. I was just as stubborn as Lancel is. He felt a tired smile at his lips at how the Seven teased and tested him with his sons and how they reflected his own past back at him.

"PISS ON THE LANNISTERS!" A man shouted down from the top of a stairwell adjoined to what looked to be a brothel.

"Leave him," Kevan saw his men tense. "We do not need to beat drunkards to prove our strength." He saw his guards did not look too pleased by the order, but they followed it.

That just seemed to further embolden the man. "YOU LIONS HAVE BEEN FUCKING US FOR YEARS!" He was waving his jug of ale. Its contents sloshed more on the man's already dirty shirt than in his mouth. Some curious onlookers were beginning to stop and turn in the direction of the drunk man who stood on the steps as if it was his stage. "AS WELL AS EACH OTHER!" He let out a loud guffaw that turned into an even louder belch.

"Ser?" One of the Lannister guards stopped and turned to him. "He besmirches the Queen's name and your family's reputation." His hand was on the pommel of his sword.

He speaks truly, Kevan kept that awful reminder to himself. "You want to beat him?" He already knew the answer. "You want to kill this man?"

"Yes, ser," The guard straightened up, looking as if it would be some great honor to gut a drunkard in a dank alley in King's Landing.

"You kill that man," Kevan pointed at the man who had decided to dance down the steps, "You only make the others stop and think about his words." He shook his head. "The Iron Throne will not tremble to the drunken ramblings of a pitiful beggar."

"Very well, ser."

They kept moving.

How many years ago was it? He tried to think when he arrived at this city's gates with his brother and the might of the Westerlands at his back. Then we came to take the city from the Mad King, he would not forget those days, Now, we defend it for a Mad King.

His chambers in the Tower of the Hand were modest, but Kevan didn't complain. He still had a bed, food, and a warm hearth every night. He knew once Renly's army appeared on the outskirts, he'd be spending his days and nights on the walls of the city.

He savored what peace he could find before the siege began. He had not even sat himself down when a knock came to his door. "Yes?" He hadn't been expecting anyone at this hour.

The door opened, it took all of Kevan's effort to keep himself from scowling at the presence of his niece. "Cersei," was all he gave her. She deserved no title nor his respect.

"Uncle," She stepped into his room without invitation. Her crimson dress swishing as she moved. Everything below her waist was all silk, but the sleeves of her dress were ornamented in metals. She was wearing a partial chest plate studded in gold and rubies with the Lannister Lion emblazoned on it. The plate only covered half of her chest and her abdomen. Terribly impractical, he thought, style over sense. He found it a fitting way to describe her too.

"Father believes Renly will come soon."

"My brother is often right on such matters," He warily watched his niece cross the room. She had beauty and grace, that fooled so many, none more than herself.

"It must be difficult for you, Uncle," Her tone almost sounded convincing in her sympathy. "To be always in my father's shadow."

"No, it isn't," Kevan recognized his role early and changed accordingly. One can still grow in the shadows, He had blossomed under his brother, and he worked his hardest to continue to serve.

She gave him a bland smile. "Little brothers have it so much harder," She had moved herself over to where he kept his wine. She didn't ask when she poured herself a glass nor did she offer him any.

"If that is what you say," He didn't want wine and he didn't want her here. Kevan was about to ask her to leave, but her next words stopped him.

"That is the case with your sons, is it not?" Her eyes burned like the caches of wildfire they had prepared outside the city walls. "It was Willem who was captured?"

"He was," Kevan said tightly, "He was returned." He wouldn't forget the Starks giving him back without asking for a ransom.

"I'm glad," She said in a tone that didn't sound too particularly glad. "He saw battle. He thinks himself a man now, Martyn too?"

"They are in the West."

"My eldest isn't," She was looking down at her already near empty wine glass, "My Joffrey is in this city."

"Your son is king," Kevan followed the true Lion in the West, not the lion masked as a stag on the Iron Throne. "His presence will boost the spirits of our soldiers." It was a lie.

Cersei scowled. "My son should not need to be paraded to get his servants and soldiers to fight for him."

"You're right he shouldn't be paraded in front of them," Kevan saw the surprise flicker in her face, but it didn't stay with his next words. "He should be fighting beside them."

Her fingers tightened around the wine glass in such a grip he thought she may break it. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were blazing when she considered his suggestion. "You would like that?" She sneered, "My son risking his life while yours are safe in the West."

"I wouldn't consider the West too safe," Kevan corrected. He wasn't foolish enough to think they were out of danger because they weren't in the city. He suspected and feared the Westerlands would turn into a battlefield soon enough. He only hoped he put his sons in a position to be safe for the coming storm that was about to hit the West.

"They're away from their king," She pointed out. Her mouth then began to curve upwards into a smirk, "Well not all of them."

"What?"

His confusion only made her smirk grow. Her beauty was marred by that arrogant look that settled over her face. "Lancel, brave Lancel could not be parted from his king." She clarified in a honeyed tone even though her words were sharp as barbs. "He has stayed to fight for him, for me, for us, for our family."

"What did you do?"

She was still smirking. "I did nothing, your brave son volunteered to stay. He didn't want to leave the battle. He wanted to fight." Wine glossed her lips, "Lancel understands loyalty towards one's family," she put the wineglass down, "You could learn a lot from your son." She dabbed at her mouth, red wine smears blotted on her napkin.

His chest was pounding. "You-" His response, his rage, his reaction all of it was drowned out by the sudden sound of bells. Dozens of them belting throughout the city. It was a ring of thunder that brought them a simple message-Renly had arrived.

A/N:

Well the Lord of Bones drew the very short straw in this AU. The first part of this chapter was to show the dangerous divide between Domeric and the wildlings. Which could end up being a problem down the line.

Sam's doomed night watch companions were a little nod/tribute to certain tropes. The first one is a nod to the great Guy in Galaxy Quest. (Guy is an established name in the ASOIAF universe) The second is an actual character who I strongly believe Martin wrote with the same tropes in mind.

Despite how this chapter ended, I don't believe we'll actually get to the battle until chapter 10 or 11. I can just safely say it won't be chapter 9.

If you liked the chapter then please review. It would mean a lot to me.

Thanks for all the awesome support you've given myself and this story.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire