A/N: I just wanted to thank those who reviewed the last chapter to give their support. It might not seem like much, but you guys taking the few extra minutes to jot something kind/encouraging down makes a huge difference even if it doesn't always feel like it. Your support is the reason why I still do this. So thank you.

This is this story's last update for the year. So I hope you all have a safe and happy holidays and I'll see you all in 2022.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Thirteen

Sam:

Winterfell had become familiar to Sam Tarly.

It was a knowledge that he needed now that the castle was swarming with activity.

Dutiful guards, bustling servants, visiting nobles went through the corridors at what felt like at all hours of the day and night. Winter Town was no different. He remembered riding through it when he first arrived, seeing how deserted it looked, so many empty buildings, but now they were all full. Northern nobility had brought their families and retinues and had poured into the town, filling it with their own servants, and guards.

The cold quiet of the evenings were now lost to music and laughter, wafting through Winterfell as strong as wintery gusts. The afternoon was growing late, and he knew the evening feast would start within the hour, but he was not heading to Winterfell's Great Hall, but to the Great Keep.

When he set out for Winterfell, he was worried, his mind plaguing him with all the different ways things could go wrong. All the different ways he'd fail. That's what Father would expect. You're not fit to be the Lord of Horn Hill; he had been scowling at him. And I doubt you're fit for the Wall, but better there than here. I've already had my fill of you and your failings. Sam had been resigned to the Wall when his father bluntly offered him the Watch or death. When that had gone even more poorly than he imagined, he found himself wondering if death would've been the better choice. Thinking that he should've just accepted his father's threat of a hunting accident. Save me from all this misery. He nearly got that death on the road to Winterfell when his party was attacked by wildlings. He lived because he ran. He was a craven, hiding with old books while his brothers were hacked apart, red ruins with shredded black cloaks. The memory slipped away like black water when he neared the doors ahead of him.

Stark guards greeted him with cordial smiles. They stood on either side of sturdy oak doors. The one on the left opened it for him which made Sam thank him. He had just passed the corridor when the other guard's voice stopped him.

"Lord Domeric will meet you through there."

Sam had to turn to see where the guard was trying to indicate. He looked over his shoulder to see the guard was pointing to a door to the far side of the entryway of the Great Keep. "Thank you," He moved to follow the guard's directions. He had visited the Great Keep a few times during his stay, but this was unfamiliar to him. When he pushed the doors, he was greeted by a chilly breeze. He had not been expecting that. He had been in the north nearly a year, mostly at the Wall and now at Winterfell, but the cold still felt new to him. It greeted him with that same touch that made him breathe a bit differently, sending a slight shiver through him. He adjusted his buttons and wrapped his cloak a bit tighter.

He found himself on a covered bridge that he had never been on before. The sound of steel made him turn his head to see that from where he stood, he could see the entire yard. There were dozens of men sparring both with real steel and with blunted swords. For one terrible second, the noise dragged him back to the Wall during his sparring lessons under Ser Alliser's withering stare. It hadn't just been a failure. It had been a nightmare.

Sam turned away from the glassless windows that were carved in the railings. He spotted Lord Domeric, who was standing a few paces ahead of him. He tried to push out the shouts and the swords from down below. He put his trembling fingers in his pockets and blamed the chill.

Domeric turned before Sam reached him. His smile was polite. "Sam, thank you for coming."

"Of course," Sam hadn't even considered refusing. He noticed Domeric was holding a piece of rolled up parchment. "I've never been here before." He said, trying to force himself to smile. And I hope I won't again.

"This bridge leads to the armory," Domeric pointed to the far door at the end of the bridge.

"Ah," that made sense since Sam hadn't visited or even considered visiting the armory since he had arrived. He winced at a particular loud CLANG. It made his teeth ache.

"Lord Stark used to come out here to watch us spar," Domeric said, unaware of Sam's growing discomfort.

"It is a nice view," Sam lied. He didn't like it here. He felt short of breath and dizzy.

The only view he saw was him back at Horn Hill when he was thrashed by all the different master-at-arms while his father shouted insults to try to make him stronger. It had only made Sam cry.

"It is," Domeric agreed, before turning to face Sam. He studied him for a long second, and in that silence, Sam hoped he saw his hidden discomfort and had them go inside. He didn't and Sam was too timid to speak up for himself. "I received a raven from my father," He didn't draw attention to the parchment in his hand, instead he slipped it in his pocket. "He was writing from a captured castle in the Westerlands." What castle it was he didn't say. Lord Domeric was always particular with his words, as if they were rations that he needed to hoard or hide. "I heard you impressed Lord Manderly."

"I-I," Sam tried to demur, but his mind was frazzled by all the steel tumult down below.

Was it getting louder? He was certain the steel of the swords was louder now. He shivered. A tight knot of pain formed in his chest, but he still held his tongue.

"Do not do yourself such a disservice, Sam," Domeric chided him. "I heard you struck a good deal with the Lord of White Harbor. You secured some coin and his promise to empty the cells of the city as well as call others to join the Watch."

Sam's chest tightened. Reminding him of the chains his father had put him in, before leaving him in the dark. They tightened and tightened, and all Sam could hear was the strikes of the sword. He saw the small puffs of his quick breaths, forming and fading, one after another.

"I wanted to tell you that I wrote to the Dreadfort," Domeric's dark eyes were surveying the sparring yard below them, "Bolton men have been summoned. When the Harvest Feast has concluded, we will head to the Wall. Other houses will join us as we march. This King-Beyond- the-Wall moves closer," His mouth twisted in disgust at the mention of the wildlings, "But northern swords will break this rabble and send them scurrying-" He broke off, attention transfixed on something else.

The chorus of swords and axes had suddenly stopped. Thankful, Sam felt some of the tension loosen. His shoulders slumped with relief. He looked to see what had caused both the sparring and Domeric to stop to see there was a confrontation down below. It was difficult to see their faces, but he saw the Frey surcoats. He recognized one of the fighters as Colmar Frey. The other one was larger, and his name escaped Sam.

"If you will excuse me, Sam," Domeric's voice was tight and his dark eyes flashed, "it would appear my squire is in need of a lesson." The heir to the Dreadfort did not wait for Sam to answer, he went off to make his way to the sparring yard. His red cloak billowed behind him like a shadow formed from blood.

Sam did not linger. He left the bridge, chased away by the phantoms of his father and Ser Alliser.

He was already sweating.

The harvest feast hadn't even started, and I've already made myself a fool. It didn't help that he was sitting on the dais above the other tables and benches that had been set in Winterfell's great hall. Sam had been given a place of honor as envoy of the Night's Watch, a seat at the host's table. He sat at the far end of it, on his other side sat Lord Domeric. On the other side of the table sat Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. The latter was separated from them by an empty seat, which also happened to be the most important and impressive seat in the hall. The seat of the Starks.

The rest of the great hall of Winterfell was loud and crowded. Looking out he counted the eight long rows of trestle tables with four on each side of the center aisle. There were no empty seats, and to his relief, none were looking this way. They all turned their attention to the opening of the wide oak and iron doors.

"STARK! STARK! STARK!" Filled the great hall, as tankards hit tables, many were shouting and clapping, wanting their voices to be heard the loudest and the clearest. They had all risen from their seats. Sam stood as well, but he didn't call out any names. The Night's Watch was to be impartial.

Lady Sansa Bolton walked into this crowded hall with her head held high. Her poise didn't crack at the tumult that thundered in her family's hall. At her side was her large direwolf, Lady, a clear sign that she was still a Stark despite now being Sansa Bolton. Lady moved in step with her mistress. The wolf was so big, men had to back away to avoid impeding the direwolf's path.

The Lady of Winterfell looked elegant in a grey dress. There was a touch of garnets that were woven into the sleeves, but the grey silk and white pearls sparkled along her bodice. Just as prominent as her father's colors were the direwolves that were stitched into the fabric. When she reached the dais, Lord Domeric stepped forward to offer her his hand which she took with a bright smile. When she finished climbing the steps, her husband bowed his head and kissed the back of her hand before stepping back. A display of deference to show all in attendance that she was above even her own husband as the Lady of Winterfell.

Their little scene seemed to work since when he looked out into the throngs of guests, Sam saw no sour faces nor any hint of suspicion or grumbling. Instead, her presence only elicited fresh cheers and shouts of Stark! Winterfell!

He then saw them begin to sit, he glanced to his side to see they were obeying a gesture given to them by their host. Sam joined them. He took a small sip of his ale, and like all the rest in the hall, he rested his eyes on the Lady of Winterfell, who was now the only one who remained standing. Even her direwolf, Lady had taken a seat, lounging herself behind the dais.

"I welcome you all in the name of my father, Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell," she said the words smoothly despite the slight interruptions of voices rising at the name of her father. She continued without any signs of fret or any stuttering of her speech which earned further cheers at the mention of their victories in the south.

Young Wolf! White Wolf! The crowd was pleased and proud to celebrate Lannister defeats especially when led by Starks. She was not ruffled by these outbursts, but remained poised, giving gratitude to the old gods and the new for said victories and of the bountiful harvest. She praised those who had remained in the north, thanking these men and women whose plows and farming were just as needed as the swords and fighting in the south.

"Winter is coming, and we will be ready," were her final words before she picked up her father's silver goblet, which was mirrored by all in attendance, they drank and cheered. The sound of tankards and cups clanged across the great hall, but Sam kept his to himself since he sat only beside Lord Domeric, whose focus was solely on his wife. Sam didn't mind, instead of sloshing or spilling his drink in a clattering of cups, he just drank from his. As the sweet taste went down, he prayed he could make it through the feast without making a fool of himself.

Sam couldn't recall how many courses had been presented to them, but the sweet scents and spices still wafted in the air, mingling with the smoke and warmth. There was a low rumble of noise from all the voices of the guests, nobility and smallfolk, all coming together in thanks for the harvest and in support to those they knew and loved who were in the south fighting.

That made him think of Dickon. The son his father had always wanted, and whose birth led to Sam's exile to the Wall, but he never hated his brother. Hatreds were for his father not for him. His younger brother may have learned how to fight and how to lead as the next Lord of Horn Hill from their father, but he did not take to father in his interactions with Sam. In thinking of Dickon, images flickered across his vision first of his brother, tall and proud and then of his sisters, and Mother who he all missed. He wanted to write to them from Winterfell, wanting them to know that he was doing well at the Wall, that he was in a position of respect as an envoy at the Night's Watch, but that pressing worry that knotted around his heart would always stop them.

My brother fights under Renly's banner. My hosts fight under Stannis'. He tried not to think about a battlefield where his brother fought on one side while Stark direwolves prowled the blood drenched fields, looking for enemies to kill and devour. Enemies like my brother.

The image that followed of his wounded brother trying to fight off a direwolf the size of Lady made him jerk upwards in fright, nearly knocking over his tankard. His fingers were able to grab the cup despite their shaking. There was a nervous coiling in his stomach that he tried to drown out with wine. He took a shaky sip and then a longer gulp as if to give him strength. He peered over the brim of his cup to see some space had been made for dancing. Lord Manderly had brought musicians with him from White Harbor who had settled themselves cozily in one corner, while they played harp and fiddle and horn and another sang, their reaction from the crowd depending on which song was picked.

In the middle of the dancing, he saw the Lady of Winterfell with her husband. The other faces blurred together; half-forgotten names that swam in his mind as he tried to place them with the faces. He was not having great success with it, and he blamed the hot spiced wine. He didn't want to think and watch. He wanted to dance. He wanted to leave his thoughts behind on the dais and let his feet carry him to where others were enjoying themselves. He loved to dance, it reminded him of home, of his doting mother and smiling sisters. He was good at it, but it was not a talent that made his father proud. If Talla was here, she would dance with me , he thought glumly.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?" He blinked, seeing grey and white before him thinking perhaps his hope had conjured his sister, before his eyes dispelled that hope to show him it was the Lady Sansa not Talla.

"My lady," In his rushed fumbling to rise he slammed one of his knees into the table. He bit back a cry and ducked his head to hide his wince.

"Sam?" The concern in her voice sounded genuine.

"I am well," He forced himself to smile. "Is there something you need, my lady?"

Her blue eyes studied him for a long second, considering his words before speaking.

"I was going to see if you wanted to dance."

"My lady?" The pain in his knee began to lessen at once as if her words were a soothing balm.

"My husband is dancing with his aunt," she gestured behind her, and Sam's eyes soon found the Lord Domeric and his Lady Aunt Barbrey Dustin. "I've already danced with his grandfather and one of his uncles, when I saw you here alone."

"I-I," He stammered, he could not reject the Lady of the castle, "I would be honored," He moved around the seat without hindrance. The pain in his knee was forgotten.

They took to the dance together and in the music, Sam was able to shed his fears as if they were a burdensome cloak. He knew all of the steps and moved with a grace he could never achieve in the sparring yard. All too quickly the dance was done, and the song had ended. The applause followed, directing at the musicians while others shouted requests for what the next song should be.

"Well done," Sansa clapped along with them.

Sam's cheeks were warm, and he could feel the wide smile on his face. "You as well, my lady." He dipped his head, not having felt this happy since he was back home with Talla and Mother.

He felt a tug on his sleeve, and he turned to see that it was the Lady Beth Cassel, she wanted to dance with him next. Sam looked over his shoulder to make sure he was not blocking another partner, who she was asking, but there was no one. It was for me! His voice didn't stutter when he accepted.

They began the next dance and he never stopped smiling.

Ned:

"Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Davos Seaworth," Lord Horton Redfort greeted them with a courteous smile in the hall of the Redfort. "May you be safe in my home, welcome in my hall, and warm by my hearth."

Ned and Davos said their thanks. The former inclined his head to Lord Redfort at the presentation of bread and salt. The bread was warm and filling. When he finished chewing his mouthful, he helped himself to some of the offered ale.

"I pray you were not troubled on your trip?" Lord Redfort looked small behind his table. He was old and round. His hair was grey and kept short. There were a few unkempt grey whiskers sprouting stubbornly along his chin and cheeks.

"It was," He was not sure how he could manage if they had been forced to fight. As if to remind him of his worry, a throb went through his leg. He wobbled where he stood, and it was Ser Davos who carefully grabbed his arm to insure he kept his balance.

"Sit, sit," Lord Redfort rose from his chair and even when he did, his chin wasn't too high over the table. "Where are my manners," he raised a hand to a doorway tucked in the back, giving silent orders to unseen servants.

"Thank you," Ned tried not to grit his teeth as he endured the ache that pulsed around the wound. He took to the nearest table by the dais. Ser Davos guided him, silent and helpful. He nodded his thanks to him, and the former smuggler made a small shrug as if it was a simple and expected thing to do. He then took a seat to Ned's other side allowing them both to look up at Lord Redfort.

"Richards," Horton Redfort turned to the thin man standing behind his seat, "get something for our guest to dull the pain."

The maester bowed, and when he did his links jingled while the chain looked likely to slip all the way down his reedy frame.

"Thank you," Ned's pain won out over his pride. It had flared up while they traveled on the road to the Redfort, but he had hoped it would have improved now they weren't traveling on rough roads.

"Of course," Lord Redfort assured him.

"What of the others?" Ned wanted to distract himself from the pain. They had arranged to meet with a few of the more powerful Vale Lords who would be the most likely to be agreeable to an alliance between them and King Stannis.

"You are the first to arrive. I suspect Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood will arrive in the next day or so. I hear Lord Royce is bringing his eldest unwed daughter." There was a sly smile that seemed an odd match with Lord Redfort's kind eyes.

"He is," Ned had merely inquired to the Lord of Runestone before he had set out for the Vale, asking if he would be agreeable to consider bringing his daughter for Ned to meet. Just as I had to marry Cat, he thought of the betrothal that was meant for his brother, but the one he had to fulfill to receive Tully swords. Robb may be needed to marry to bring in the Vale. House Royce was an old and respected house and had married into their line before. It would be a good match.

"I had considered betrothing one of my sons to the lady Ysilla."

"I meant no intrusion and there has been no promise," Ned could not tell if Lord Redfort was upset by his interference or simply curious.

Lord Redfort raised a wrinkled hand. "I hold no ill will to you or Lord Yohn. The heir to Winterfell is a far richer plum than a fourth son."

"Has there been any news from the capital?" It was the first time Ser Davos had spoken since arriving.

Their host turned from Ned to the smuggler. "I imagine there has been a battle, but I've yet to hear which claimant was triumphant."

Ned tried to hide his disappointment. He had thought it possible that word would have reached the castle before their arrival. It would seem the fate of King's Landing continued to evade him. He did not think it possible for the Lannisters to retain the Iron Throne, but he did not know how the Vale viewed Renly. Did they view him as a usurper or a king? He needed an answer and King Stannis needed the Vale if they were to win this war.

The next few moments passed silently as the servants had brought out food and drink for Ned and Davos. Lord Redfort was content not to trouble them and let them eat. It was appreciated, but despite his strong appetite there was much to do. He glanced to see Ser Davos was considering the same thought. The smuggler was wiping chicken grease off his fingers when he addressed their host.

"Will the Vale fight for King Stannis?" Davos went right to the point of their journey.

Amusement flickered in Lord Redfort's eyes at the former smuggler's bluntness. "There are many who wish to honor the alliance between houses Tully, Stark, and Arryn," he answered, "Sadly, that counsel has fallen on deaf ears. Lady Lysa does not have the stomach for war. She fled the Eyrie with her son, our future Lord of the Vale. She prefers to coddle and swaddle him then do her duties as regent." Lord Redfort's distaste for Lysa's inaction was clear.

Ned did not fault his good sister for not having a stomach for war. It was ugly and brutal, bloody business, but he rose above his thoughts on it out of duty. Out of what was expected of him. He fought because he had to, not because he wanted to. This will be my third war, he realized with a sigh, may it be my last. He cleared his head to ask the next question. "Will she meet with us?"

There had been no response to any of the ravens they had sent to the Eyrie. They received one good stroke of good news when it was his good son, Domeric who had received a raven from Lord Redfort, informing him that there was grumbling amongst the Vale lords who sought to fight the Lannisters.

"I do not know." Lord Redfort wiped his upper lip with a long finger. "She is not guided by reason." He hunched over his table. "I'd consider her a poor regent in peace, but in war," he shook his head in disgust. "She will likely do nothing. She's very good at that."

"She is my good sister," Ned felt honor bound to defend Cat's sister, "And the Lady of the Vale."

Their host didn't look perturbed at Ned's chiding. He smiled down at them as if they were his children and he was to give them their first lesson. "When was the last time you saw your good sister, Lord Stark?"

Ned frowned. "It has been some time." He had of course heard rumors while he was in the capital, but he had given them little credence seeing her as grief stricken, a widow who was terrified of the Lannisters. Some of that chipped away when he had spoken with Ser Brynden and even Ser Davos, who both had seen and interacted with her these past few years. Ser Brynden as not only her uncle, but as the Knight of the Gate. While Davos had observed her on his trips to the capital when he served Stannis, who sat as Robert's Master of Ships.

"She is," Horton paused for a second to try to consider the word to choose, "unwell."

"You still wished to marry her, father." A voice to their far right that was partially obstructed from the dais. Just by looking at him, Ned could see this was one of Horton's sons. He guessed this was Jasper, who looked old enough to have fathered a few children.

He was taller than his father, but he would never tower over anyone. His hair was brown and cut just below his ears. He had a trimmed moustache and clean-shaven cheeks.

"Pah," Lord Redfort dismissed him, "I withdrew my offer." He defended himself, but he was smiling at their new guest, before he turned back to them. "Allow me to introduce to you my son, Jasper Redfort. My boy this is Lord Eddard Stark and Ser Davos Seaworth."

"Well met," Jasper stopped at the bottom of the dais to bow his head to them before he climbed the red stone steps.

"You withdrew your offer?" Ser Davos had not let a new face distract them. He broached the subject respectfully.

"I did," He nodded, actually looking proud of his decision. "On my last visit she was presented with evidence of an alliance between the Lannisters and the mountain clans." His mouth twisted bitterly, "she refused to hear of it even called Domeric a liar." That made Horton's face redden, "Shame on any who questions Dom's integrity. I left the next morning, after informing her of my decision." Some of his smile returned with his next words, "She did not look too broken up about it."

"She already had to marry one old man, father," Jasper didn't try to hide his grin, "Can you fault her if she didn't want to marry another?"

Lord Redfort took to the teasing with his own chuckle. "Lord Stark, Ser Davos pray your sons don't become men. They get a few hairs on their face, and they think themselves wiser than you." He said in mock rebuke.

Ser Davos chuckled. "That's why I sent mine away, my lord."

That made their host laugh, there was a slight wheeze to it, but he did not look sick, he was only old. He wagged a finger at Ser Davos. "Well said, ser, well said."

Ned found himself smiling, enjoying the reprieve of war and politicking. Where they were just three fathers talking about their sons. When their sons would only have to worry about raising their children instead of marching to war. When they could watch them grow into men to be proud of instead of cut down on a battlefield, forever young.

"How is Dom faring, Lord Stark?"

"He is doing well. He is at Winterfell," Ned answered Jasper, who was sitting beside his father. "Him and my daughter married and now rule Winterfell in my stead."

Jasper looked pleased that his friend was well off as did Lord Redfort. He had fostered Domeric for a few years at the Redfort, and Ned knew that his good son looked back at that time fondly. He had even written to Lord Redfort asking after Domeric when he was given the chance to foster Lord Bolton's heir. It was only a few years ago, but it suddenly felt like a lifetime had passed between then and now.

"Domeric will serve you well, Lord Stark," Horton Redfort said with the utmost confidence.

Ned nodded, despite their disagreement about those sellswords, he never doubted Domeric's ability or his loyalty.

The Redfort maester returned with his apologies. "I was not sure what you would prefer, my lord." He was a tall, young man, thin as a reed. His chain of links dipped so low it looked more like a belt than a sash.

"A potion tonight," Ned was thankful for his concern, "And a salve tomorrow if it is still troubling me." He knew it would, but he did not want to draw too much focus to his wound.

"You're in good hands with Maester Richards, Lord Eddard. Don't be fooled by that young face, he's a smart lad," Lord Redfort's praise made the maester's face redden which matched the color of the few pimples the young man still had across his brow.

"My thanks," Ned drank the potion in one gulp. The pain had already subsided after he had sat down, and the dinner and discussion had helped to distract him from it further. The tonic was a bit bitter, and he swallowed what was left of the ale to chase that bad taste away. He felt drowsy, but knew it was not the medicine. It couldn't have worked that fast. He suddenly felt the drain of the day and their journey finally washed over him, whittling him away to leave him a weary shell. Their first news of their hopes of an alliance in the Vale did not serve to boost his mood. He wanted to excuse himself, but another thought struck him first. One that would most certainly improve his mood.

"If it's not a bother, Lord Horton, could I borrow one of your ravens?" He had not talked to Cat since he left for the Vale. He had no way to use ravens while they traveled by ship and their stay in Gulltown had been so brief. He thought about her every night, and his good dreams were of her and him back at Winterfell with their children where there was no war.

Lord Redfort's arm made a brief wave of his hand. "Richards will see to any message you need to send."

"I can send the raven this evening or in the morning, my lord," Richards complied.

Tonight, Ned had decided. He wanted to send it tonight. He could only pray that he was still at the Redfort when she wrote back.

A/N:

This was obvious foreshadowing for the epic dance off between Sam Tarly and the Night King which will decide the fate of the world. You've been warned.

I hope you're liking my take on Sam. I'm trying to find a believable balance of how his character would act and interact in this AU. He had it much worse at the Wall in this story not to mention his father's attitude/treatment toward him. In regard to the scene on the bridge between him and Domeric, I was trying to convey that Sam was basically having a panic attack. I'm sorry if I didn't do a better job at it. It's the best I can do. Dom didn't notice b/c Sam was hiding it.

I did try to write a scene between Sam and Lord Manderly which Dom touches upon, but didn't like anything I wrote, so I sadly discarded it.

I do enjoy writing about Sam's growing friendship with Sansa. I think friendships are just as/or more important than relationships so I try to include them when I can as well as where I think it could be believable. Here, Sam sees Sansa as a surrogate for his sister, Talla, who he dearly misses and will likely never see again.

I wasn't quite sure if Renly's victory could get there or not in the time that had passed, so played it safe, but don't be surprised if they already know of what happened in King's Landing in the next chapter that has us visiting the Vale. (Whenever that will be)

Just a reminder I'm not following the book timeline. Martin planned/needed for Mance's army to invade in the third book, while here Mance will be invading much sooner.

Thanks for the kind words. They really mean a lot.

-Spectre4hire