A/N: This is a hobby so when real life comes up I have to make that my priority.

This an AU that means this isn't exactly canon compliant so please don't nitpick stuff. If you found it in the story it means its a liberty so I'm aware of it. Thanks. That includes ages, OOC, canon divergent, ya know pretty much all the fun stuff an AU can give ya without any restrictions.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Nine

Sam:

His knees wobbled together, but his feet still carried him forward.

Are these my feet? He didn't want to go that way. Sam didn't want to go anywhere near him.

Someone was moving him. Someone was pushing him. What else could it be?

These are someone else's feet. But it was Sam, who was approaching the dying wildling.

The wildling was oblivious to Sam's discomfort and even his presence. He groaned and grunted, his feet were kicking out while his back was pressed against the stone wall. His hair was stringy and swishing across his face like a hastily pulled curtain.

I'm watching someone die. Sam's stomach turned.

The wildling's mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear anything.

Sam took a slow step forward, "w-what?" He asked, trying not to stammer, "W-what is it?"

The wildling's lips continued to move in between sharp intakes of breath.

He crouched down. He ignored the feeling of his belly being squeezed by cold claws. He tried not to think about his shaking legs. "W-what are you trying to s-say?"

The wildling's face suddenly went slack. His eyes slowly moved to Sam's face. "Blue...Burn...Coming."

It felt as if someone poured cold water into his chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Master Sam?"

"Y-yes?" Sam lurched up, finding himself in his bedroll by a warm fire. It was still dark but he saw the blots of red light beginning to seep into the morning sky.

"Are you well?"

He rubbed his eyes, recognizing the voice. "Yes, I am," Sam pushed himself up while staying in his bedroll.

"Good," Domeric Bolton moved to sit near him, "You sounded troubled."

Sam could hear the Bolton men in the distance, talking and laughing as they went about packing up their camp. "I-I," he didn't know what to say while the memory that plagued his sleep replayed in his mind. Burn...Coming...Blue...Those were the last confusing words the wildling muttered before Lord Domeric removed his head. "Bad dream," He let out a weak laugh, that seemed to limp the short distance between them.

He had only met Lord Domeric the day before and that had been between a bloody skirmish and a series of executions. Grim and cold, that was how Sam would describe him, and glancing at him in the firelight, he saw that the flayed man was just as frightening. "Did the wildlings say anything to you?"

"Grumbling and cursing," Domeric didn't sound particularly interested. He reached into a bag to pull out some rations. He held out a piece of dried beef for Sam which he took with a nod. "If you're asking did they try to repent or beg then no, they didn't."

Sam took a bite of his beef. The taste was bearable, but it allowed him a reprieve from speaking. He chewed on the cold meat while he worried in his mind if he should say what he heard. Will Lord Domeric listen or will he laugh? He took another bite, but was no closer to deciding on his course.

"Have you read A Consideration of History?"

Sam nodded since his mouth was still full. They had talked about some histories, but he still thought it strange to see. The squire said Lord Domeric liked history, but he didn't expect this sort of unguarded interest.

Domeric's answering smile was nearly as baffling. "His writing on the War across the Water was entertaining."

"Entertaining?" Sam asked, "Why do you say that?" He was not sure that would be the word to use to describe such a history. And the tone in which Lord Domeric said it made Sam think that in entertaining he meant it like one would describe a court fool's performance as something silly.

"It reads like it was written from a man who's never stepped foot north of the Moat," Domeric explained, "He writes about us, but he doesn't understand us. It shows in his work, " he finished his bread, "I found his commentary on my ancestor, Belthasar Bolton to be disappointing."

Sam could not recall the specifics. It had been some time since he'd read it. "What does your family say about the war?"

"Many things," His smile was sharp in the firelight. "Belthasar enjoyed writing nearly as much as flaying."

He almost laughed thinking it was a jape, but then his eyes went to the flayed man on Domeric's attire, remembering who he was speaking with.

"We'll be riding soon," Domeric stood from his spot, "You'll ride with me," He sounded genuinely pleased. "It'll be nice to speak with someone who isn't a maester about the histories."

Sam watched him leave. This was not how he expected his day to start.

The Boltons were waiting for him in their solar.

Lord Domeric was standing by the hearth and the first to notice him. He wore dark trousers and a dark tunic. There was red stitching in the shirt and Sam didn't need a long look to recognize its resemblance to blood drops. He wore a brooch as pale as bone in the shape of a flayed man as a clasp for his crimson cloak. "Sam," He inclined his head towards him, a polite smile on his lips.

Sam returned the greeting. "I brought the tome you asked about," He held it up. It was old and worn so he handled it carefully.

His eyes crinkled. "Thank you," His soft voice was filled with sincerity.

"I've lost track of the amount of books you've discussed with my husband, Sam."

"Lady Sansa," He dipped his head to where she was sitting behind her desk. She was pretty, he hoped his thoughts weren't betrayed with a blush or his stammering. He thought it impressive that she could be pretty even when she wore the Bolton colors or their infamous flayed man. She makes it less terrifying. Tonight, she was in a blue gown, but there were garnetts studded along the sleeves and in swirls in the front that made him think of whirlpools.

He would not forget her kindness when he arrived into Winterfell's great hall. He had stuttered through part of his introductions, painfully aware how pathetic he must have looked and sounded to the servants and guards of Winterfell. They probably wondered how someone so fat and cowardly could become a member of the Night's Watch. The order was still held in high regard and respected in the north. Not anymore, he thought miserably, not after seeing me.

There had been snickers and whispers, but they were short lived under Lady Sansa's watchful eye. She had then proceeded to treat Sam with kindness and had given him an encouraging smile that made him think of Talla, the oldest of his three sisters. The only one of them, who knew the extent of Sam's woes with their father.

"You must forgive my wife," Domeric said lightly. "She speaks of such things as if they're dull, but the works of Maester Irwyn are anything but."

"His writings on his brief voyage to Sothoryos are fascinating." He could see Lord Domeric nodding out of the corner of his eye. Sam didn't add that Irwyn's story about his acolyte Malcolm and the walking lizards made him lose a few nights worth of sleep.

"Indeed," Lady Sansa was amused, looking fondly towards her husband. "Is that who wrote this tome?"

"No, my lady," Sam answered, "It's from the Wall. It's very old," He put it down gently on a small table. "I believe it may be one of the oldest in the Watch's library."

Domeric raised an eyebrow. "That is some boast."

"It is," He hadn't finished reading through it, but just from what he read he was so certain that he was right that he didn't buckle under the scrutiny of his judgment. "It even makes a brief mention of the Night's King." It wasn't much, and it was what he already knew, but it was still interesting.

"Perhaps, Old Nan wrote this book," Domeric joked, earning a soft chuckle from his wife before she shook her head.

"Sam, please sit," Sansa gestured to the table where a pitcher of wine and glasses were already placed.

"Thank you," He smiled, but looked away to go to his seat. He saw that the Bolton flayed man adorned one of the walls while the Stark's direwolf adorned another. The table was in between them making it seem the two were looking down at them. "You know the stories of the Night's King?" He knew little about him. This Night's King would be mentioned once or twice in some stories, but then dismissed even more by maesters who claim it's more myth than history, but that was in the south, Sam reminded himself.

He learned more while at the Wall, but he was eager to hear something different. The more you read, the more you learn and the more you can understand, that's what Sam thought. It was why he didn't mind reading histories or books that covered the same years of wars or reigns or histories at the Wall, because he knew each one was different in its telling and he had to piece it all together. He found it a fun challenge.

"I do," She smiled, sitting down at the head of the table. "Old Nan used to tell us stories about him," She said wistfully, "He was the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He fell in love with a woman and Old Nan says he gave her his soul. Thirteen years he ruled from the Nightfort, it took two kings to stop his dark reign."

"Aye," Domeric was still standing, pouring their drinks, "Brandon the Breaker, the King of Winter and Joramun, The King-Beyond-the Wall," He gave the first glass to his wife, "When it was over, foul things were discovered, bloody rituals and sacrifices to the Others."

"That's why there's nothing on him. All records of him were destroyed. His name was forbidden," Sam said, "and then forgotten." He was thankful to have his glass of wine to allow him to take a sip. The taste was sweet, Talla would like this, he was holding the glass, Mother too. He tried to soothe the ache of missing them with some wine and distraction. "I've read all sorts of speculation."

"On who he was?" Domeric asked.

Sam nodded, "Some claim he was an Umber or a Dustin or a Flint or a Norrey or a..." he listed them off, stopping suddenly when he got to the last name, the one many claimed he was...

"A Bolton?" It was Sansa who saved him.

Domeric's dark eyes were glittering. "He wasn't a Bolton."

"You sound so confident, husband," Sansa teased, "Is there some secrets from the Dreadfort you wish to reveal?"

"Not yet," He replied, with the slightest twist of his lips. "If he was a Bolton then why would King Brandon destroy the records?" He shook his head, "No, the Starks would want every house in the north to know what my ancestors did."

"That's true," She agreed, "I remember once when Old Nan told me the story. I was with Jon. It was just the two of us. I didn't like that, but he still let me hold his arm during the scary parts," Her smile dipped, "When Old Nan got to the part of who the Night's King was, she suggested his name was also Jon. That scared him," her face softened, "But the next time we heard her tell it, it was with Robb so Old Nan said perhaps that was the name of the Night's King," She laughed, "I'm sure when she told it to my father and uncles, he had their names too."

Domeric chuckled, covering one of her hands with his.

Sam looked away, his vows from the Night's Watch coming to him. "Do you think it was a Stark?" He put his glass down, but didn't look in their direction. He was facing the Bolton standard and felt himself being watched by the flayed man.

"Why else would they destroy the records?"

Why else, Sam thought the heir to the Dreadfort made a good point. Why would King Brandon have the records destroyed? Was it to protect his family's name? The Bolton flayed man was silent in its stare. Or were they hiding something more?

"Stark or Bolton, it doesn't matter, it's in the past," Sansa said, "it's just a story."

"My wife speaks truly," Domeric agreed. "Besides, that was not why we called you here."

That didn't surprise Sam, but their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of servants who brought them their supper.

Sam looked down at his stew, the smell wafting under his nose, tickling and teasing. He didn't start until after seeing the Lord and Lady tuck in. He dipped his spoon in and took his first bite. Delightful and warm, savoring it while he chewed.

"I was wondering if we could talk about the castles on the Wall," Domeric said, "the abandoned ones."

"Oh," Sam was mindful of the stew still on his spoon. He had paused in his eating and now it was dangerously close to smearing on his chin. He slurped it up, needing the extra time to think. I hope he doesn't have a lot of questions about them, he feared, I should've spoken more with the builders, he tried to quell the panic that was swelling inside him. I should've read more.

"Could it be possible to unseal them?"

"Unseal them?" Sam's spoon was in his stew. He stirred it, looking down to see flecks of peas and onions and cut up pieces of meat. They must think I'm the Night Watch's fool and not envoy. It had been so easy for him to talk to them about what he knew, like histories and books, but now the nerves were beginning to seep through, splintering his earlier confidence. I-I can't shame the Watch. They're counting on me. He forced himself to look up. They didn't look annoyed or amused, like Sam thought they would at his bumbings, Father would've, Ser Alliser too, but they're just waiting.

"I don't know, my lord. I'm a steward for the Watch not a builder," Sam answered honestly, "But I can write to the Wall." If it was possible it would take time and men. He knew enough about the tunnels to know that most of them were sealed with frozen stone and rubble. Lord Domeric has the men and we still have some time before Mance arrives.

"Thank you, Sam," Domeric looked pleased, not disappointed.

He nearly slumped in his seat in relief. "Why do you wish to unseal them?"

"It's just a thought. Perhaps, one of the ones closer to Castle Black," answered Domeric, "I thought it could be something to look into. It could give us a possible chance to surprise Mance or flank his host especially if they believe we're restricted only to the tunnel at Castle Black." He was breaking pieces off his bread, "If not, there are other ways of handling Mance and his wildlings."

He remembered how Domeric handled the wildlings he fought and captured. He had them all executed, Sam hadn't watched. He had heard very little from his spot at the campfire away from the cabin, distracting himself by putting all of his focus on the books from the Watch he had borrowed.

Coming...Burn…Blue...

The dying words of that wildling sent a chill through him that the warm stew and bread couldn't diminish. Sam thought about saying them aloud, but doubt made him hold his tongue.

I need their help, he reminded himself, How can I get it if they think I'm mad?

Theon:

He groaned.

It was cold. The touch on his cheek. He mumbled, feeling the fog of sleep beginning to lift. It was wet too, he realized, frowning, still trying to ignore it because he wanted to go back to sleep. He rolled onto his side, turning away. Hazy thoughts clouding his senses such as trying to think or focus on that cold and wet presence that woke him.

His next few seconds went uninterrupted and he felt the slow crawl of sleep coming to retake him. The welcoming black that would ferry him to better places. Things began to crystallize before him. Not things, he saw better now, them. They're waiting for me. He felt free on this sea, the tide bringing him closer to those who wanted and waited to see him. Their faces were still blurred, but he saw that one was in front of the others. Long and dark hair that swayed in the breeze.

He tried to squint to see who it was. Frustrated, that they were beyond his sight. A little closer…

TAP!

Theon jolted, the scene before him fracturing like a breaking looking glass. His heart thumped hard into his chest, recoiling while half rising out of his bed. His vision blurred, his hands were still under his covers- "AAGH!"

Teeth, large teeth, he nearly fell off his bed. His mind reeling and his heart trembling in that second of fright as the line between sleep and awake still blurred and confusion clouded over him like a veil. It was the sound of laughter that punctured his jumbling thoughts and helped to stem the energy he found coursing through him at this unexpected and sudden arrival.

He recognized the voice at once. He grumbled, but refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he looked at the intruder who had woken him. Nymeria came into sharper focus for his bleary eyes. The direwolf didn't look so terrifying despite her sharp teeth. Or her size, he was partly impressed she was able to slip through the flaps of his tent so easily to get to him.

No, to him, Nymeria was more a comfort than concern. Theon had never really found himself fearing this particular wolf. She was the only one, he realized.

Grey Wind had frightened him during battle when he saw the wolf tear into horses and men as if they were made of parchment. The same for Summer, the direwolf had ripped the throat of a man who was paid to kill Bran. Shaggy Dog was as wild as Rickon so Theon always treaded lightly around that beast. The bastard's wolf didn't growl or snarl, but its red eyes were unsettling. Its quietness had surprised him once or twice, believing himself alone one second only to see Ghost there, silent and waiting. Even Lady, the most docile of the litter had put a fright in him during one supper at Riverrun. It was only a jape, he tried to calm the wolf, who's following snarl showed she wasn't placated by that excuse.

Only Nymeria, he mused, ignoring the laughter. He rubbed his eyes trying to banish any lingering traces of sleep. Maybe, it was Asha, he tried to recall the person from his dream. I haven't seen her in so many years. She had dark hair, or so he thought, frowning. He tried to picture her, but the memories came to him as elusive as the dreams.

The shifting of his camp bed pushed him out of his thoughts. He looked over his shoulder to see Nymeria's large front paws were on it. The wolf's nose sniffed the air and then she put her muzzle against his pillow, insistent and muffled in her smelling before she lifted her head and turned to regard him with golden eyes that seemed too alert for this early hour.

"Morning," He reached out unafraid of getting bit. The direwolf accepted his hand. He stroked her head only twice before withdrawing. She wasn't a hound, but a wolf. Nymeria's legs were sinking the camp bed due to her weight, but she didn't seem to notice as she continued to fill the room with her sniffing. "It's just me," He wasn't sure what the direwolf was doing, but he knew it wouldn't be smart to try to push her off. I'd rather have a broken bed than a mangled arm.

He was glad that he was alone this morning. Never thought I'd think that, amused by it, but there was truth to it. Theon could only imagine the fright Nymeria would give to one of his guests if they were startled awake. It'd be my last bit of company, he suspected, She'd tell the others don't sleep with Theon, you'll wake up to an awful large wolf. Nymeria still paid him no attention as she tried to put her back paws onto the camp bed now. It protested at the added bulk, a straining sound followed from beneath them. Her large body bumping into him as she tried to fit onto it.

Theon chuckled, "I'm getting off." He slipped his legs out before they were crushed, once his feet touched the ground he pushed himself up and off the bed. Would've been strange too, thinking more about Nymeria intruding on him and a woman, and awkward. He didn't really like the idea or the feeling when it trickled into his thoughts so he pushed it away. It would just be annoying, he told himself. That was when he spotted the suspicious shadow outside his tent, who was both small and loud. "Arya."

It quieted and stilled. A beat passed before her dark hair came into view and then the rest of her. She was wearing dirty trousers and a dark tunic which Theon suspected was just as dirty. She was smiling, unabashed at being caught. "Morning, Theon," She chirped.

"Morning," He felt his lips twitch, but he tried to bury the growing mirth to try to look annoyed.

She wasn't fooled. Her grey eyes sparkled.

"Is there a reason for this?" He yawned, before gesturing to the large direwolf sprawling off of his bed.

Arya shrugged as if that was a suitable answer.

He sighed. I'm too tired for this. "Can you and your wolf leave so I can change." He was already dressed, but the last thing he needed was Snow finding out his sister came into Theon's tent. That unappealing thought of being caught by the bastard prompted him to move his hands towards the flaps. He thought he saw her cheeks color but she turned her head so fast and soon all he saw was a shroud of dark brown hair. She whistled, calling to her wolf, Nymeria got off and the two left without another sound.

Robb's off fighting the Lannisters, He looked at his camp bed to see it was still intact. Bolton's fighting the wildlings, he sighed, and I'm stuck with her. But the sting of resentment wasn't nearly as strong as he thought it should've been.

I'm taking orders from a bastard.

Theon left Snow's tent as quickly as he could. The bastard might be a knight turned lord, but I'm the Heir to the Iron Islands. His anger simmering in his belly. I should be giving the orders.

They weren't his orders, but the truth didn't stop him from going any faster. They were Lord Stark's. Did that make it better or worse? Theon left the encampment not listening to the sentinel calling back to him. He wasn't in the mood to listen to any more orders. He walked a beaten path from all the horses and men that had trodden on it before him. He then got off it and went a different way. He didn't look back.

They treat me like I'm a child, Theon pushed his way through a meadow full of wildflowers. Dots of red, purple, orange, yellow, and white. There was a randomness to the colors that made him think of the seeds having scattered like raindrops long ago. They didn't go past his chest, so he was at least able to see where he was going. The birds flew and trilled overhead, uncaring of his problems.

No, not a child, a hard voice that sounded like his father broke through, but a prisoner.

He stopped so suddenly at the words he nearly tripped over his feet. His eyes went to a small cluster of red flowers that made him think of a wound, a bleeding wound. Uncomfortable, he looked away, but he still saw the blood. It's your blood, boy. You're a ward, a hostage, his father's voice was relentless like waves crashing onto the shore. You're their prisoner, Theon Greyjoy.

An icy finger went up his back.

I fought beside Robb at the Whispering Wood. I was there when we chased the lions away from Riverrun. In his absent thoughts he had plucked a flower with white petals. I should be going west to fight with Robb, but they're making me go north. His fingers closing into a fist.

You're one of us, you know. Her voice was a strong gust of wind that blew away his father's words. You're the sea wolf! He smiled at the memory. In the distance on a rise he saw a tree, alone. He moved towards it.

He knew it was possible he'd be going north, but he hoped it would be a mistake. That he'd be asked to go west. They'd see his importance and call for his help. It wasn't a mistake. He dropped the flower.

I can't help anyone at Winterfell, the frustration returned, his mind went back to that half forgotten dream from this morning. Those people waiting for me, the crowd of shadows, my people. That bolstered him. They're waiting for their heir to return. The tree's bright orange leaves were beginning to reach over him, but some sunlight dappled through within the cool shade.

That's where I should be going, he ducked under one of the lower branches. I should be rallying my father's ships. He settled himself against the thin tree's body, but it was still large enough for him to comfortably lean back against. No, they're my ships.

I can help. He would not beg the bastard. Let me help.

You've been away too long, boy. He could see his father's sneer. You're too soft.

I'm your heir, Theon wanted to spit back to his father's shade. And I won't be some failed king. He took small satisfaction at seeing his conjured father's ire. Someone who was crushed beneath the Baratheon boot.

"There you are."

His father's image melted away like mist. He only saw an outline, but he knew this very familiar shadow. "Here I am."

Arya stepped into the light. "I was looking for you." Her precious Needle was hanging loosely at her side. To his surprise, her clothes looked even muddier than they were this morning when she had her wolf wake him. He hadn't seen her since, but it appeared she had been busy. Nymeria slipped under the shade of the tree beside her, but after a quick glance around the wolf turned and left, disappearing into the meadow of wildflowers.

"I wasn't lost," he replied, she looked different from where he sat, taller? He wasn't certain, but it was a better look for her, he thought. This wasn't Arya Underfoot.

She had her hands on her hips. He saw that her hands were dirty and there were some smears on her arms and elbows which made him think she'd been practising sparring, "I didn't say you were."

"How did you find me?"

"I just did."

Theon wanted to roll his eyes. "Well now that you found me you can go back."

"No," Her eyes were bright and she was smiling. "It's boring back there."

"You're terribly stubborn."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"I know," She grinned, "I was just practising my etiquette," she then performed a terrible curtsey.

Theon snorted. "Won't Snow miss you?"

Her smile turned. She didn't like even a hint of someone speaking poorly or mockingly of the Bastard. "He's busy."

He's busy, Theon repeated. Probably trying to pick some name, Snowstark, Seastark, who cares. He kept his thoughts on him better concealed knowing her prickly insistence on defending him. The Bastard has plans and gives orders, but not me. He wanted to sigh and be left alone, but it was not to be. "Where's Lyanna?" The youngest Mormont girl who when she was with Arya would just glare at Theon while looking like she swallowed a particularly sour lemon. Maybe she can bother her.

"She's busy."

"Lucky her."

She gracefully replied by sticking out her tongue.

He chuckled. "A true maiden stands before me."

"I heard you're going to Winterfell."

"I am." He confirmed, at Winterfell when its in the hands of Domeric and Sansa. He didn't look forward to it. "I'm not even allowed to fight the wildlings." Lord Stark's orders were clear. I'm to stay at Winterfell, he felt the bitter twisting in his stomach.

"I'm not allowed to fight them either," Arya pointed out in a tone that made her think her plight was just as bad and unfair as his.

"That's because you're a-" Theon started, but Arya's foot was faster, hitting him in the leg. He winced at the flash of pain.

"I'm not a lady."

"Oh?" He rubbed the sore spot from where she kicked him. "Then what are you?"

"Mad."

He chuckled, "I know that feeling." He was surprised by his own glibness. At how easily it slipped out while speaking to her.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He waved his hand like her concern was a nuisance that he could do without. He pushed himself up while avoiding her stubborn staring. He was thankful that the pain from her kick was gone.

"Theon?" It was the tone and not his name that made him answer.

"They don't trust me."

"I trust you."

The swiftness of her response meant just as much as the words themselves. "I know," He then disrupted the odd beat of silence between them. He made a show of it by rolling his eyes, his smirk firmly on his lips, "Let's get back to the camp," He told her, "Or I'll be returning to Winterfell in fetters."

A/N: Just a reminder that this story uses the unreliable narrator trope so just because a character gives a suggestion, an answer, advice, definition, explanation, etc, it doesn't mean its right or if it'll be used. That's also why Sam's memory of those last words keeps getting mixed up.

The Battle of King's Landing should be the next chapter, but I'm gonna stress it will not be epic. So let's go in with some very low expectations and that may help to stem any disappointment.

I put up a poll on my profile so if you can answer it that would be great.

Kudos to those who spot the pair of easter eggs in this chapter.

If you liked the chapter then please review. Your support and kind words mean a lot to me.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire