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He had a plan. He always had dozens; spinning in his mind, evaluated and discarded and reformed within an instant, some harmless and some grotesque—and all evaluated with the same lack of sentiment. But this particular plan would decide something. Change something.
End something.
Domeric Bolton had been raised in a world he could never understand. All around him where people who wept in sorrow, laughed in joy, and screamed in rage.
Yet he felt nothing.
What Domeric did feel, clear and true, was the oldest emotion in sentient history—a need ingrained into humanity’s very lifeblood: the need to survive. Growing in the care of Roose Bolton, Domeric—who'd always been an intelligent child—had grown to understand that survival meant success. His father would throw him away and start again should Domeric not meet his expectations. Domeric held to ill will nor grudge towards this fact; he believed that, had he a son, he’d expect much the same from him.
Whether or not he'd discard the child away was...more complicated.
So, Domeric learned how to live in this alien world with these strange creatures that acted in illogical, mind-boggling ways. These beings that wept for a lost loved when, not understanding that death was only natural, and they should in fact simply understand that and continue on with their lives.
Those who died young had failed at humanity’s greatest prerogative, and were not worth remembering. Those who lived until their natural death were successful and only worth admiring in a detached matter—to understand how they did it.
Domeric soon learned that to be successful, one needed power, and power resided in how many other humans were on your side. To get these partners, Domeric needed to appeal to their emotions and traditions—he needed to pretend that he cared.
That he understood them. That he was their kin.
So he learned how to lie, which was the most important task, and then he learned the other skills that these creatures valued: intellect, war, strategy, empathy.
Although riding on his horse was different, unique; his heart would beat, and the muscles in his mouth would stretch, and for a moment he knew he ’d grasped some hidden truth the rest were born knowing. But that faded as soon as he touched the ground—making it all the more valuable.
One could say that if there was one time he was honest, it was atop a steed.
Everywhere else, he was an actor on a stage.
Domeric learned to mimic the aliens so well, that he started to understand things like cause and effect: why they acted like they did, what drove them, and, most importantly, how to manipulate them. How to use them to ensure his own survival.
Yet, something was missing. He was missing something.
It was only when he learned of Ramsay that he began to comprehend it. Domeric wasn’t lonely—it was not possible—but he did appreciate the idea of having another person who was like him. Constantly pretending was time-consuming and tiring, yet Domeric still sought the presence of others. It likely another inherent human need ingrained in the blood. Yes, he'd decided; Ramsay was necessary, as was his father: they could understand Domeric, so he wouldn’t need to act.
They could be players on the same side of the board, within a complicated world. They could share strategies, and interpretations, and explanations. He supposed that was what ‘family’ was for, and he rather liked the idea.
Survival and companionship: Domeric would have both.
He’d never expected to find these things in one of the aliens. Jon Snow, that boy he’d met years before, who so easily fell for Domeric’s act, so easily trusted a stranger all because he'd expressed desire to know his bastard brother. Another conquest, Domeric had thought, planning to end the day away from Jon, yet not forgotten in the other’s memories. “Domeric Bolton is a good man” Jon Snow would think, opening a channel between them for future use. Jon was heir to the entrance of the North, and had a direct link to two powerful lords and, through both, to the king. A worthy person to spend time on, had been Domeric’s initial assessment.
And yet…Jon had grown into something…unique, in those years they spend together. Survival…companionship…and something more.
He never understood me...and yet my act had faded.
While Jon was no longer that trusting boy, and had been long absent from Domeric's presence due to his hunt for vengeance, the intangible link between them remained. But if Domeric went through with this plan, Jon Snow would be lost to him. He was still an alien, no matter their bond. There would be no returning to those days spent climbing trees and forging arrows under the negligent care of Oberyn Martell. If he went through with this and—should Jon survive his quest and discover Domeric’s culpability—Jon's considerable wrath would turn towards them.
It could be their ruin.
Yet, it was not this pragmatic assessment of a future threat that fueled Domeric's sudden...reluctance—it was the sensation that he’d be losing something important. Something as essential as survival and companionship. Something he’d never get back.
And so, for a single heartbeat, Domeric Bolton understood sentiment.
It dissipated in the next instance.
When the king and queen stepped into the hall, smiling in greeting, celebrating what they believed was the dawn of a new alliance, he turned to his father--because he was a Bolton.