Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

              The Lord’s solar is silent and heavy with a tension it has not seen since, perhaps, the days of the Winter Kings themselves – for Winterfell has never been home to great scheming, southron plotting and the game of thrones.

Lord Eddard Stark cannot bring himself to grieve this change – not when his hands still shake and he sees only horrors every time he blinks.

Lord Howland Reed sits, uncharacteristically still and uncharacteristically nervous, on the other side of Ned’s desk. Beside him sits Lord Roose Bolton, with all the still danger of a predator lying in wait.

A moon, he has been waiting for this meeting. He has not been able to make the preparations he wishes in the meantime, and he is viciously aware that he is living on borrowed time with every breath he takes. Jon Arryn will die soon. Robert will ride North, soon. Winter will fall, soon.

“Well?” Lord Bolton asks, drawing the word out into something sharp and bladed, his dead man’s eyes unblinking. His tone is the only indication of his ire; he had arrived before Lord Reed, after all, and Ned had made him wait to explain the cryptic and – frankly – alarming summons he’d sent but a moon ago.

Ned’s had nearly that long to consider how to begin this conversation. Another man – another Ned – would have lost his voice and his words, but that man, that Ned, has not watched his wife and children and country be razed by corpses and dragon flame.

That Ned is not this one.

“Bran is a greenseer.” He says. Lord Bolton blinks; he’s cultivated something of a reputation for skepticism over the years, especially when it comes to the gifts of the Old Gods, but Ned knows the man maintains his own Godswood in the most traditional of manners all the same.

The Starks cannot afford to lay lives at the foot of their weirwood with the South’s eyes so heavy on them, but their farther-flung Lords are free to do so, so long as they keep it quiet and in line with Northern notions of justice. Such has been the law of the land since the North Knelt.

“Bran has not woken into his talents yet, Ned. How do you know this?” Lord Reed’s words are slow, deliberate.

“Did the boy have a vision?” Lord Bolton asks, frowning, and Ned shakes his head.

“He sent me one, with the aid of the Old Gods. An older Bran – showed me what was to come.”

“And you believed it.” Lord Bolton’s disbelief is genuine. Ned cannot fault him for it. He lets out a sharp huff of air and presses his spine hard against the back of his seat.

“In a week’s time, we will receive word that Jon Arryn is dead. My goodsister will write my wife accusing the Lannisters of killing him, for he has only just discovered that Robert’s trueborn children are Lannister bastards – sired by the Kingslayer on his own sister. Robert will ride north, to beg me to take Jon’s place.”

Lord Bolton looks genuinely shocked – a rare enough feat for any Bolton, let alone Roose, whose blood runs colder than Winter itself – and Lord Reed – Lord Reed looks agonized.

“About a moon back – my Jojen’s nightmares stopped abruptly. His…his gift runs strong in his blood, but he’s not much skill reading the dreams yet. He just saw death. So much death – he wasn’t sleeping, he was falling ill. And then he wasn’t.”

Lord Bolton’s eyes drag between the two of them.

“I understand why you would tell Lord Reed, but why am I here, Lord Stark?” Lord Bolton’s voice is cold.

Good.

“The North has need of House Bolton, if we wish to survive the Long Night.” Ned says. A moon ago he would have been unable to fathom any circumstances that would drive him to say those words, to speak them and the promise therein into existence. He knows exactly what unchaining the Flayed Man will amount to, and his ancestors had knelt rather than face the consequences of such extreme action, but –

“What’s your plan, Ned?” Lord Reed asks softly; Lord Bolton frozen at his side. Ned swallows, flexes his fingers and folds them together.

“Much of what I saw is out of my hands. The South is, as of this moment, a lost cause. The Queen will kill Robert, and her enemies will out the truth of her children’s blood, and we will have war. What I hope to do is keep the North out of it, this time, because before that war ends – the Others will arrive.”

He’s made moves of his own, in the interim. Winterfell is doubling its glasshouses and he has sent materials for more to the keeps farther north. He’s managed to purchase a great deal of dragonglass from Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, under the guise of experimental glasshouses. He’s managed to send Arya to the Mormonts to foster, much to Catelyn’s fury and his daughter’s excitement, and sent word to Castle Black that his brother is needed in Winterfell.

It is not much, not in the grand scheme of things. But it is – something. Arya will not go south, now. There will be more food, more weapons, in this life than in the one Bran had shown him.

But if he wants to make great strides, if he wants to truly change things – he needs the cooperation of the men before him.

“You’re angling for Northern independence?” Lord Bolton asks softly. Ned hesitates, but – nods.

“How?”

“With you.” Ned answers, and Lord Bolton leans back in his own seat, shocked.

X

The thing of it is – Ned has no head for politics. Most Northerners, true Northerners, don’t, and Ned’s ineptitude had made up for his otherwise southron ways learnt at Jon Arryn’s knee, in the eyes of the North proper. But House Bolton – well.

House Bolton is one of those Northern secrets no one talks about. Men and women, uniformly born with a chunk of ice where their heart should be; cruel and practical and always, always hungry for a challenge.

They are not assassins. They make wonderful torturers, of course – cold hearts almost always lead to some degree of sadism – but they are, first and foremost, the North’s politicians.

The North doesn’t play the game of thrones – if it did, House Bolton would be the only House playing, the only house winning.

Ned’s ancestors have underutilized them, kept the North wholly separate, as much as they can. They should have sent a Bolton down south years ago, generations back, but this –

“You want to nominate me for Hand in your place.” Lord Bolton’s voice is not so heavily tinged with disbelief as Ned had expected.

“A wise choice.” Lord Reed murmurs thoughtfully.

“I have no household, no network – “

“You’ll outstrip them all, Roose.” Ned says softly.

He’d spent his formative years in the Vale, but Lyanna and Benjen had stayed in Winterfell, and they’d grown up with Roose as a peer, if not friend. Roose Bolton’s father had been uninterested in raising his child, and Roose had used the leeway that inattentiveness gave him to start feuds and cause drama for his own amusement – often with Lyanna at his side. The North may have been kinder to a Bolton, by virtue of their shared northron heritage, but Boltons did not have friends.

The South would be no great challenge to a man that had mastered the North as a boy of ten-and-five.

“What do you expect me to do in the South?” Lord Bolton asks warily.

“Promote and protect the North’s interests as you see fit.” Ned replies readily. His words are not sacred, but are a bastardized saying held close to the chest of all northron Lords; leeway given freely and wholly, trust given freely and wholly.

“What did I do in this future you saw?”

This is the most dangerous part of what Ned has planned; not speaking treason, not revealing Bran’s gift, not speaking madness of the Others.

He tells Lord Bolton the truth; his bastard’s murder of his trueborn son, Roose’s betrayal of the North and of Guest Rights, the taking of Winterfell and Roose’s own eventual death at the hands of his bastard. Roose looks as astounded as it is possible for a man like him to look; which had been, even in the throws of Bran’s vision, Ned’s reaction.

“Why?”

And this – Ned closes his eyes.

“Cat is southron still. I was dead before I could tell my children of the Proving – and to the south such a practice is treason wholesale.”

“She never told him.” Lord Reed whispers, appalled, and to his credit – Lord Bolton looks just as uncomfortable.

“Robb failed. And the consequences of that were writ in the blood of both our houses.” Ned says, each word painful and bladed on his tongue.

Peace between the Winter Kings and the Red Kings of Old had been hard-won, and harder maintained. The Proving had been a solution, in that the Red Kings refused to bow to lesser men – only ever equals – at the urging of House Umber millennia back.

Before taking the title Lord of Winterfell, a Bolton and an Umber must test a Stark. House Umber prefers to make their challenges publicly, before the rest of the North – challenging an heir during a moot being their favored method, a challenge to test the spirit and honor of an heir under the eyes of the Old Gods. To fail is to be cast down; a second son risen to position of heir or, in the event of a total failure by the whole line, rebellion and usurpation.

House Bolton prefers warfare. Often times through the use of bandits or wildlings, sometimes through use of the South. Roose had always been subtler than his kin; his challenge had been to set Cat against the North proper, and to test Ned’s resolve to put the North above his wife. Half the challenge of a Proving is to recognize the challenge as such; the rest is in how the challenge is met.

Ned has no idea why his wife would have kept such a threat from their son; if she thought the war in the South more pressing, if she thought Roose’s priorities would have been different, but – Robb had taken title to Winterfell before succeeding at his own Proving, and that necessitated a Proving as soon as possible, feasible or not, smart or not. The North would not tolerate an unworthy leader.

“Did he fail for his ignorance?” Lord Bolton’s question is slow. Thoughtful. He still looks visibly uneasy, warily eyeing Ned as if he’ll strike him for a sin not yet committed, but –

“Lyanna passed despite her own ignorance. Brandon failed despite his own knowledge.”

Lord Reed stiffens, and Ned flinches at the mention of his siblings dead and buried, but –

The warmth that unfurls in his chest is soft, aching and old.

“I will make no promises for the rest of your children, but you will work with me on devising a proper test for your heir this time. I suspect you will seek to remedy his…future deficiencies before they become too great a weakness.”

“Why offer such kindness?” Lord Reed’s voice is too raw; he’d been as close to Lyanna as Ned had been to Robert, once upon a time. Lord Bolton’s dead man’s eyes do not blink, do not waver from Ned’s own.

He does not answer.

He does not have to.

There isn’t much House Stark can give House Bolton. They are, or were, equals from their inceptions; the only true rivals the other had in the things that matter, dedication to the gods and willpower. The Red Kings had worn cloaks of Stark skin, and the Kings of Winter had impaled living Boltons on wierwood and left them for winter’s chill. If the dragons had not come, their dance would have ended either with both houses dead and gone or both houses joined, either outcome inevitable before the eyes of the Old Gods themselves.

The North may begrudgingly acknowledge House Bolton’s worth but it certainly does not like them, and Ned cannot offer the goodwill of their people but this – this is different.

It will not be without cost.

“I want your bastard dead. I care not how you do it. For what he did to my family – to my people, to my daughters – and for what he tried to do – I won’t have that thing breathe any longer than it must.”

“A mad dog must be put down.” Lord Bolton murmurs, unblinking.

“In return Domeric will be betrothed to Sansa.” Ned says, and Lord Bolton smiles.

He’d have killed the bastard without a betrothal, Ned knows now, and it is for that reason that he still offers it – and –

Sansa had been betrothed to monster after monster, in that future he saw. Endured at the hands of madmen and animals beyond what any living soul should suffer.

Domeric shares blood with one of those animals, but Domeric – Domeric, by all accounts, play-acts having a beating heart better than his father and far better than his grandfather ever had. He may be just as mad as the rest, but he is already tempered and intelligent and Sansa will need the loyalty of a madman if Ned’s efforts fail and the Wall falls, if the South marches North and war comes to Winterfell.

Domeric will flay men alive for Sansa – Roose will ensure it – rather than flay her alive; rewarding Roose comes secondary to that.

Ned turns his attention to his old friend.

“I want Bran to foster with you. A betrothal when he is older, if you are willing. I don’t like sending him south with what is about to fall but – he told me a three-eyed raven will prey upon him if he stays.”

Lord Reed scowls, black fury twisting his face, and he half stands before sucking in a sharp breath and forcing himself back down.

“The – fucking – bird – “

“Howland – “

“We will take him, Ned. I won’t let that fucking – not one of yours. Not one of the North’s.”

Ned doesn’t know what the bird is, what it means, but Howland’s fury is –

Reassuring. The Bran he’d seen had been – emptied. So very empty.

“You’ll want to bring the wildlings over the Wall too.” Roose says softly. Ned has no idea how he got to that conclusion, but –

“Let them settle the Gift, in return for manning the abandoned keeps on the Wall. They can hold to their own laws internally, but will be subject to the laws of the North outside the Gift and in dealings with our own.”

Roose twitches, drums his fingers on his thigh. It’s a – it was something Lyanna used to do, when thinking. Tap away at herself of a table or a book or –

Ned swallows the aching lump in his throat with some difficulty. He’d known the Boltons borrowed mannerisms, ticks, things to make them appear human. He had never considered seeing his dead sister in the man before him. Never truly considered how close they must have been, once upon a time.

“I will think on this. I will need – we will have to come up with an ironclad contract, and soon, before Robert arrives. The whole of Westeros assumed your eldest daughter would wed his eldest son. I will call Domeric from the Dreadfort immediately. Give them time to…know each other…” Roose trails off, eyes distant, and Ned nods.

“Time is of the essence, but there is – enough for you to weigh your options.”

And if there isn’t, Ned must make it himself.

X

Roose takes only an evening to think matters through. At the next morning’s meal, he locks gazes with Ned and nods, and the real work begins.

X

Ned lies about a message from Jon Arryn. Tells Cat he’s been sitting on it for far too long, but that he intends to put an end to any whispers of a betrothal between Sansa and Prince Joffrey. Cat is incandescent with fury, until Ned tells her what the alleged message had contained.

Pregnant animals carved up, newborn kits and pups alike smashed to bits in the boy’s bare hands, his terrorizing of his siblings –

“And you want to betroth her to a Bolton instead?!” Cat screeches.

Cat adores their children; but she also wants what is best for them, and she has…for their girls at least, there is a certain amount of give Cat is willing to make where Ned is not. He is powerful enough to demand his girls’ safety uncompromisingly and maintain it with naught but a word. Cat is not, nor has she ever been, nor had her father been. Cat loves him, Ned knows, sees him as a good husband, but Jon lays between them as something she considers the cost of a man who is otherwise honorable and just to her. Giving her daughter a throne and near the whole of Westeros would be worth giving that daughter to a man who tortures animals as a hobby. If Joffrey’s interest remained in animals, or his enemies, if he was not already ripe with the kind of madness Aerys Targaryen held – she may have had a point.

“House Bolton should have been honored for its contributions to the North generations ago. If not Sansa, one of our grandchildren – and I’ve received reports of Roose’s son, too.”

The point Ned is trying to make is that he doubts any child of Domeric Bolton will be half as relaxed as their father, the North’s not lucky – or unlucky – enough for that. With Sansa especially, the children will be unholy terrors, because Sansa only adheres to the customs of a noble lady – and polite society in general - because she enjoys it. It does not surprise him that she’d worn the Winter Crown in the future Bran had shown him.

And Cat’s receptive, calms down and begrudgingly begins to agree – until she sees the report that mentions Domeric’s interest in his father’s bastard.

He’s only ever pulled rank on Cat twice in the course of their marriage. Once when she’d tried to protest Jon’s presence in the nursery, and once mere weeks ago when he’d made the decision to send Arya to Bear Island to foster.

This makes it the third.

X

Cat very nearly makes it to the children before Ned does. It is only her southron propriety that keeps her from screaming her fury out before the whole of Winterfell, and he has never had to herd his children to his solar so fast before.

“What’d we do?” Bran asks, spooked.

“Arya’s not even here and I bet it’s her fault.” Sansa mutters, folding her arms over her chest petulantly. Rickon, perched firmly in Jon’s arms, tilts his head like a bird at Ned, eyes narrowed and as intent as any predator’s.

“Sit, all of you. Your mother is mad at me.”

“What’d you do, then?” Sansa asks doubtfully, but Jon nudges her and Robb rolls his eyes and the whole lot of them scrabble for seating. Without Arya there’s even enough chairs.

“You know that the King and I were friends as children.” He begins, and all of his children’s eyes narrow, Jon’s included, just like Cat’s had.

“Yes…?”

“There has been an assumption that we would marry our children together. Robert never had a daughter of age with Robb, but Prince Joffrey is of age with Sansa.”

Her eyes get massive. He knows she would have heard whispers, Cat’s insinuations at the least, but he’s relieved that this seems to be the first time she’s ever heard it said so explicitly. If his daughter had come to expect a throne – this would not be an easy conversation.

“I’m going to marry the Prince?”

“No.” Ned says gravely, immediately.

“Why not? What that’d bring to the North…” Robb trails off.

Rickon grabs Jon’s hair and yanks until his elder brother bows his head and then mumbles something in his ear; Jon looks far more indulgent than he should when he recounts his youngest brother’s words.

“Rickon says he doesn’t want Sansa to go away.”

“Jon Arryn may not have met you, but he is still like a father to me, and to an uncle to you. There were some – concerning rumors. He sent word once he had confirmed them. And I will not marry my daughter to a boy that tortures animals for his own amusement.”

Ned does not get into the graphic details, he does not have to. Sansa cries but he’s a Prince! and both Robb and Jon promise to make sure Sansa never has to marry him, and Rickon starts snapping his teeth, and then Bran, bewildered –

“Then why is Mother upset?”

“Politics.” Ned says gravely.

“How come?”

“Because while a betrothal was never said aloud nor written – Robert won’t take no for an answer.”

“So what do we do?” Robb asks, arms thrown around a pale, terrified Sansa, and Ned hates that she’s so frightened, but –

“I have accepted no betrothals for any of you, because I will not marry you without your consent. I love my father, and your grandfather was a good man, but forcing Lyanna’s betrothal to Robert was a death sentence for her I will not see repeated in my own children.”

Bran’s the quickest to put it together, the most romantic of his children, although Jon sucks in a sharp breath an instant after Bran perks up.

“You need a love match!”

“Or at least the fiction of one, until Prince Joffrey is engaged or married himself.” Ned agrees.

“I won’t have…I won’t have to marry?” Sansa asks weakly, faint. Ned reaches over his desk to take her hands in his; small, calloused from her work with needle and thread in the same way Cat’s are. She is so very small, so very young, nothing like the scarred woman he saw years from now.

“Not If you don’t want to, love.” He whispers, and she bursts into tears.

X

The children are wholly amenable when Ned tells them about Roose’s son. Domeric’s well-known interest in the softer noble arts endear him to Sansa, he thinks, although she knows full-well that he will have the same dead man’s eyes and ice blood as his father.

“Mother doesn’t think it’s different, does she?” Sansa asks reproachfully, because for as southron as she looks she is still a daughter of the North, a daughter of the Winter Kings, a daughter of House Stark. Robb groans.

“We’ll have to smooth that over then.”

“Does Domeric want to marry Sansa?” Bran asks curiously. Rickon has crawled out of Jon’s lap and into Ned’s, and is squirming like a whole knot of eels, pointy limbs jabbing into Ned’s stomach and forearms and thighs with no regard for the bruises left behind.

“Roose has already sent for him. Roose is here on business with me, and Domeric has been fostering for some time, it is not unusual for a Lord to desire a visit with his heir.” Unusual for a Bolton, yes, but the mere presence of a Bolton in Winterfell is generally enough to put the North on notice that something bad is about to happen and Roose has always made a point to be that warning bell. No one will say a word about it to anyone of southron blood.

“How much older than me is he?” Sansa asks, nose wrinkling.

“He’s a year older than Robb and Jon. Five-and-ten.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know everything.” Bran simpers, sticking his tongue out at Sansa. Rickon senses the oncoming conflict and stills long enough to giggle at his brother and stick his tongue out at his sister, before going back to pummeling Ned’s kidneys.

“Old enough to know how to treat a lady then. Unlike some boys.” Sansa sniffs disdainfully, eyeing her younger brother like he’s a pest, and Jon very abruptly looks at the ceiling. Robb is visibly chewing on the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling. And – gods, Ned loves his children so very much.

“Are you alright with our plan, Sansa love?” He asks gently. She blinks at him like he’s an idiot.

“As long as Theon doesn’t chaperone.”

“Why would we let Theon chaperone?” Jon asks, bewildered, and then blushes when Ned smiles at him.

“I’ll do it.” Bran sighs, long-suffering.

“You’re two, you can’t chaperone.” Robb says. Bran’s jaw drops, and Ned hides his face in Rickon’s curls as he shakes with silent laughter as his boys begin wrestling over the insult.

Sansa stares unimpressed at the chaos, and then gives Jon a pointed look, who nods hesitantly immediately. She smiles, and stands, steps around her brothers and presses a kiss to Ned’s temple.

With all the poise and grace her mother could ever have wanted of her, Sansa leaves.

X

Cat seems absolutely befuddled by Sansa’s willingness to join the game; Sansa approaches Lord Bolton with a proper greeting at that night’s evening meal and though Roose looks deeply amused by the situation, he reciprocates her manners in kind. Howland merely sweeps her up into a hug, propriety be damned, and then must deal with Rickon tackling him in an embrace as well. Howland spends the whole evening swinging Rickon around the dance floor, or Bran, or even Jon twice or thrice – and Ned for the first time feels like all is truly possible. They will survive this.

X

Howland explains to the both of them what greenseeing entails, the dangers of warging and the age-old knowledge of northron magic. Roose stares blankly at him once he’s finished, and then turns to Ned.

“You must realize I will not let this engagement fail now, with your girl a warg herself.”

“I am counting on it.” Ned confesses. Roose clucks his tongue, but he is visibly amused.

“The great and honorable Ned Stark playing the game himself – are you certain the South will not suit you?”

“Considering that I got myself executed…”

Howland looks horrified; Roose laughs.

X

Cat is upset about Bran’s leaving – she thinks as poorly of House Reed as most of the North and all the South – but Howland takes her aside for long walks in her sept and the godswood on a near daily basis, and she eventually does relent long enough to give Bran her blessing.

Bran himself was already enthused to learn from one of the men who braved the Tower of Joy alongside his father, but when he – and the other children – are told of what their wolfdreams mean truly, he grows near uncontrollable. Ned had pulled Arya aside and told her of what her wolfdreams would mean before she’d left; a gamble, but Arya knew how to keep a secret and she’d been smug enough to lessen the sting of leaving her siblings behind.

“It’s because I’m special.” Bran declares, grinning.

“Get ‘im!” Rickon shouts, tiny face scrunched up and hands fisted at his side, and Shaggydog hurtles out from behind Ned’s desk to tackle Bran with an excited woof!

X

The ravens arrive.

“…If you were mad it would still have been to my benefit.” Roose doesn’t sound particularly upset to be faced with proof of all Ned has told him. Ned sighs.

“Did I tell you about the dragons?” He asks, and Roose’s head snaps around so fast Ned thinks he hears a crack.

x

Domeric Bolton arrives far more simply than his station would demand; he sends no outrider and slips into Wintertown before anyone recognizes his presence, and so his arrival is all the warning they get. The boy’s smiling, when Ned greets him, but his eyes are hard and wary, and for that and that alone, for the way the boy’s tension eases only when he clasps eyes on his father, Ned would forgive the impropriety.

Holding a Bolton hostage would be a particularly stupid move on anyone’s part, let alone a Stark’s, let alone without cause – because Roose is too smart to have left evidence of any of his own actions behind. But Domeric is still a child, and despite the long years spent distant from his father, Ned is heartened to see them both orbit each other so closely. It isn’t the intimacy he shares with his own children, but it is a closeness, and that should be cherished.

Domeric’s eyes linger on Jon, when Ned’s children are introduced to him. Bright, curious.

Sansa greets him with every curtesy, and eyes him just as intently.

“I’ll be attending to some House business the next few days; I will return upon completion of my duties. Domeric will represent me in my stead.” Roose says that night curtly, eyes on his son interacting with Ned’s children. Ned nods slowly.

“May the Old Gods guide your path, Roose.”

X

“Father indicated you would be able to explain further.” Domeric says. His tone is carefully pleasant, even if he is as blunt as his father.

“Aye.” Ned murmurs, and studies the boy. They are alone, the two of them, in his solar. Roose had given him permission to be honest with the boy, but slaying the poor boy’s dreams of a brother are – hard. Even with the softened blow Roose has given him leave to deliver.

“You are aware that your father sired a bastard some years ago.” He begins, and Domeric’s comfortable, easy posture tenses. Too eager; but he’s young, yet, and believes them to be speaking of family.

“Yes, Lord Stark. Is – has he gone to retrieve him?”

“Your father has gone to put him down. He’s asked me to explain to you why.”

Domeric drops his polite boyhood act, and it crashes from him like something physical, tangible. Dead man’s eyes stare back at Ned out of a face carved of ice and bone; Domeric goes still enough that Ned half-suspects the boy’s stopped breathing.

“You condone the murder of a child?”

“I condone the slaying of a rabid dog that would hunt my children and kinslay at the soonest opportunity.” Ned keeps his voice measured. He has never approved of killing children, never for the sins of their parents – the poor Targaryen siblings in Essos, Jon – but this –

Roose’s bastard is no child, no human. It is not even an animal.

Domeric rears back, physically. It is unsettling to see, given that his expression does not change in the slightest.

“What has he done?” The boy demands.

Ned speaks the sacred words of House Bolton, and tells the boy of what his bastard brother would have done. Tells the boy of the wars to come, and that he has sought House Bolton’s aid in the coming conflict. Tells the boy what he and his father have plotted, to ensure that future never comes to pass.

“And Father believes this.”

“Your Father arrived at a time when I could provide him evidence. If you remain in Winterfell until the King arrives, you will be able to ascertain the truth of our accusations yourself.”

“You speak as if I have a choice to remain here or not.” Domeric replies coolly. Ned sighs.

“Your Lord Father is not opposed to giving you siblings, Domeric. He will wait to speak with you when he returns, but as I understand it – he will take another wife if you wish it.”

The boy’s throat bobs.

“It won’t be the same. They’ll be – young.” Domeric’s voice hesitates on the last word. There’s grief there, however shifted and twisted, and Ned grieves for him too.

“Your good-siblings, if this engagement works out, will be near your own age.” Ned offers softly.

This is, perhaps, a mistake – given the sudden gleam in the boy’s eyes. A wholly stupid thing to say, to risk planting in the boy’s head when everything is so tentative and frustratingly up in the air.

Or, perhaps, the one thing that needs to be said to make things work.

Only time will tell.

Chapter Text

              “What do you want – or, would you want, I suppose – of this union?” Domeric asks her. Jon and Robb are standing guard behind them, playfighting with Ghost and Grey Wind. Lady is laid out primly at Sansa’s feet, eyes closed despite Domeric Bolton’s near presence. The godswood is empty besides them, secure from prying eyes and ears.

The question is still so abrupt and blunt that it startles Sansa. She looks at him incredulously, but he is unblinking, wholly uncaring of his breach in etiquette.

She looks back to Lady, and considers his question.

“I like being a lady. I enjoy courtesies and manners and all the subtle messages one can give with them. I enjoy needlework and sewing, and dresses and fine things. It might be vain of me, but – I want a romance like my Mother and Father should have had.”

“I cannot offer you the south.”

The flash of rage that takes her leaves her breathless.

“I think I will stab the next person to accuse me of being southron in the throat.” She says, a pleasant smile on her face, and then launches herself to her feet and stalks out, Lady at her heels, before she can try to strangle him herself.

X

“Everybody thinks she doesn’t have a temper or get mean because she’s the lady.” Robb advises him. This does not help. Domeric turns to Jon Snow, who is far less amused than his brother.

“She knows what her reputation is. She knows what is whispered about her behind her back. She knows what happened to the last daughter of House Stark to refuse tradition.” Jon Snow’s voice is clipped and sharp. And brings far less clarity than he seems to expect.

“She’s afraid?” Domeric asks, frowning. Jon Snow rolls his eyes.

“She likes fine things. She likes embroidery and lemon cakes and visiting with the smallfolk and dancing. She likes playing hostess and preparing for feasts and holidays. Being a lady allows her to do those things without anyone ever looking over her shoulder. If she didn’t want to do it, she wouldn’t. She’s never prayed in her mother’s sept, though she prays in the godswood all the time.”

And that, he realizes, tarnishes her perfect southron image in a way that would be unrecoverable to anyone devout of the Faith. Something she would not do if being a southron lady was her end-goal, her aspiration.

“…I think I see what you mean. I underestimated her.”

“You’ll continue to do so.” Jon Snow says flatly. Domeric looks at the boy, startled, but Jon Snow is already walking off. How brazen, he thinks, but he suspects the younger boy is not wrong.

His attitude is interesting though. Domeric watches the bastard leave, and swallows back his own rising black fury.

He could’ve had –

But he couldn’t have, not if what Lord Stark said was true. His father isn’t back yet, but if he’d told Lord Stark about –

He wants to kill Ramsay Snow himself. Flay the stupid boy alive for – Domeric would have given him everything. And he would’ve just –

He breathes out slowly, and reaches for the chill in his veins.

He needs to speak with Lady Sansa.

X

She meets with him, her face carved from marble and her eyes cool despite her pleasant smile. Pleasant is a very good word to use for her; now that her brother has pointed it out, however, he can see how bladed it is. Intentional, slipped on like a favorite cloak instead of something natural under the circumstances. Like recognizes like, after all.

“How are you finding Winterfell, my lord?” She asks. She pours them both tea with her own hands, her direwolf regarding him predatorily from where it is lounged across her bed. Ned Stark himself is hunched over his daughter’s desk, scribbling intently at some parchment. Domeric raises an eyebrow at the sight, to which Sansa’s smile merely hardens and she repeats herself.

“Winterfell is lovely, my lady. It reminds me much more of the Dreadfort than Barrowtown.” He allows some nostalgia into his voice; it’s been years since he has been to his family’s ancestral home. Aunt Barbrey is as good as his mother, of course, but there’s something nice to see Winterfell built as defensively as the Dreadfort, if not quite so extreme.

She looks unimpressed, however, by his compliment.

“Your Lady Aunt is much unknown to me, I am afraid.”

“Aunt Barbrey has something of a feud with your father.” He says smoothly. She doesn’t know why, but neither does she press him; she sees the carrot he is dangling in front of her and dismisses it.

Aunt Barbrey won’t, not for much longer. A marriage between himself and a Stark is – well, she’ll still hate Lord Stark, but not the family. Especially if Domeric is willing to do so for more than his father’s orders.

“Your brothers informed me I have made a misstep with you. I apologize for any offense I’ve given. I worded my thoughts and my inquiry poorly.” He says, choosing to be blunt for the sake of expediency. He thinks she will appreciate it.

“Perhaps you may try to speak without putting your foot in your mouth now.” She answers coolly. She’s been talking to her brothers too, he realizes, and he finds the thought delightful.

Lord Stark doesn’t snort, doesn’t interfere in their conversation, but his shoulders give a twitch. It’s a good reminder of their audience, however proper Domeric intends to be.

“I find myself skeptical of the long-term happiness of this arrangement, given what I know about you, Lady Sansa. I am perfectly content to maintain our betrothal only as a mummery to slight the King, but my father will expect us to stand before a heart tree. I would not have you agree to this arrangement now only to grow hateful of it in a year’s time.” He says frankly.

His father had loved his mother as best a Bolton was capable of, and she’d loved him in turn. It is why he hasn’t taken another wife, why he has only submitted to the indignity of sullying her memory for Domeric’s desire for siblings, and why Domeric will tell his father no when he returns – especially if the bastard is dead for threatening Domeric’s position, he doesn’t want to weaken it further with secondary heirs. How stupid of Roose to consider it.

Domeric wants that. He wants a large family, a large family with blood as cold as his own. Winter in their veins, for nothing else could challenge the Winter Kings – and their coldness is what had led to bending the knee to House Stark, Domeric thinks. You cannot challenge an enemy with his own weapon. The Red Kings were never going to rule the North.

Sansa’s lips press into a flat line.

“What little you know of me is worth less than nothing. I do not think you are incapable of giving me anything I desire for my future, but, then, if you’ve such an image of me built in your head I doubt you will listen to what I tell you of myself.”

She could be exhausting, he realizes. He looks to Lord Stark – he’s stopped scribbling now, although his daughter either doesn’t notice or care. Domeric has a sudden, deep flash of understanding of the dynamics of House Stark’s Lord and Lady, and he finds it intolerable.

“Perhaps we should best start over, then.”

Her body language does not change. But the wolf, staring unblinking at him from her bed with a lovely bow tied about its throat, relaxes back into a sprawl. Fascinating.

“Perhaps that will be for the best.” She says quietly, and offers him a small, real smile.

X

Starting over entails gathering all of the Stark children together.

“We don’t have the time for you two to argue if we’re to publicly present you as a love match by the time the King arrives.” Robb says pragmatically when Domeric asks, and so the whole lot of them abandon Lord Stark to his daughter’s room and troop down to the kitchens and from there the kennels and from there, to the glass gardens.

“Can I bite him?”

“Not yet.” Jon Snow soothes, pressing a kiss to little Rickon Stark’s curls. Little Rickon pouts, and waits until Jon’s attention is turned to the direwolves weaving around them before offering Domeric a slow, toothy grin and chomping his teeth together.

These boys will be his good-siblings, he thinks not for the first time, and has to swallow the wild urge to grab.

He hopes his father makes his bastard suffer.

“King’s Landing is a viper’s nest. There are a lot of politics tied to every action or inaction there. The Dreadfort is not so two-faced, but our smallfolk do tend to share in House Bolton’s…characteristics.” Domeric says carefully, when Robb Stark prods him to speaking after they’ve settled in a small flower garden filled with rose bushes; the famous blue blossoms have not yet opened, but he can see spots of color through the lush greenery.

The smallfolk that House Bolton lord over are…odd. The whole of the North knows to send their odd children to Bolton land if they want them to thrive; travel may be dangerous but risking a cold-blooded child losing control outside of Bolton lands is a death sentence regardless. This is not unknown to the Stark children, but Domeric thinks it bears emphasizing.

“I don’t know how to handle that.” Sansa says promptly, eyes flitting to the snow.

“We have time. I am not concerned by that; I can teach you, and my father will too.” He assures her, and she takes it as assurance. A Stark, hearing a promise of – her brothers too, Robb only eyes him warningly even as he nods his agreement and that is –

“I won’t be cruel for the sake of it. I won’t have our children be cruel for the sake of it.”

“I cannot have a warm-hearted heir.” He counters. She frowns at him, but doesn’t look angry.

“Perhaps we will foster, then. I won’t have you killing our children, but the Dreadfort should remain in House Bolton’s hands.”

“Jon’s good with children.”

“Your Lady Mother would kill me.” Jon Snow protests immediately.

“If she sends any babes to me you’ll be in charge of them anyway.” Robb says dismissively, and Jon Snow looks – pleased. Sansa giggles.

Domeric realizes, sudden and abrupt, that his concerns are not true concerns – the sticking points he is so worried of will be as-of-yet uncovered conflicts, not…

And he has time, he realizes. Time to shape her, for they will not marry before the two of them are fully-grown. To teach her, bend her so best as to not break, as his father had done with his mother once-upon-a-time – for their betrothal is bound to be a long one, much longer than Domeric’s parents’, and it will bind him to the North instead of the squiring his father had considered in the Vale. The Dreadfort is not so far a journey from Winterfell.

“Your Father told me he was seeking to head off an engagement with the Baratheon boy for his cruelty. I may have manners but I am no less violent and no less cruel.” He finally says, warns.

“If you hurt her we’ll kill you ourselves, Bolton.” Jon Snow says flatly.

“What does hurting animals do for the South? What purpose does it serve? I may not like the necessity of it but I do understand cruelty, when wielded properly and in a restrained fashion. Your father would not have so confidently put you forward if you were not capable of restraint, Domeric Bolton.”

“He would have. Please do not overestimate my father’s ambition.”

“He would have had you killed after you’d successfully sired a child, then.” Sansa says reasonably, shrugging.

She’s not wrong.

She doesn’t know about the bastard, he realizes. None of the Stark children must.

“There are some of my House that are born too cold. Father calls them mad dogs; men and women incapable of controlling themselves. A weapon that cannot be directed is no weapon at all. We kill them, Lady Sansa, and I’ll not stray from my traditions in that manner.”

“You kill dogs?!” Little Rickon demands shrilly, and draws himself up to his full height. Jon Snow winces as his little brother stands on his lap.

“No, he kills kids.”

“Oh.” Little Rickon says, and warily settles back down on his brother’s lap.

“Rickon, no oh, that’s worse.”

“Old Nan says – “

“And no more bedtime stories from Old Nan for you.” Sansa sighs. Rickon whips his head back around so hard he nearly bashes Jon’s mouth in.

“Bran’s not here to tell the fun ones so – “

“I’ll tell you a story at bedtime.”

“Will you do voices?”

“Robb will.” Jon Snow replies evenly, without missing a beat, and the child grins toothily and settles back down.

Maybe a younger sibling would not be so bad, Domeric thinks, aching.

“I would expect us to have to go South at some point, for Joffrey’s wedding if nothing else.” Sansa says suddenly. Domeric grimaces, but the thought of parading her in front of a boy who lost her before he even had her is…appealing. Especially if she continues to prove herself suited to being Lady of the Dreadfort.

“I understand.”

All three of her brothers look at him like he’s an idiot.

X

Robb is an excellent tactician, Domeric learns. Robb may lose the first few – dozen – games against an opponent, but once he has dissected their strategy he is near-unstoppable, and he never falls for the same tricks twice once he understands them.

He’s better than Domeric with a blade, but it is Jon Snow who is truly talented with a sword; Domeric joins the both of them for their morning training sessions and is fascinated by how well Winterfell’s weapon-master handles their disparate gifts.

The boys train off each other, a tactic done deliberately, of course, but this is not merely forcing the two to learn the ins and outs of the other’s style, this is challenge. Robb must think faster than his brother to beat him, and is expected to do so; his success in training hinges less upon his martial ability or strength and more upon his quick wits. Jon’s given increasingly complex drills to run and far more varied forms of combat to memorize – a long blade, a short blade, bladeless, and bow just to name a few – and while intelligence is certainly not discouraged, subtlety in showing it is.

Even training, the two are being positioned into roles that will best serve House Stark’s future – Jon the guardian, sworn shield, unparalleled warrior and Robb the brilliant strategist fit to lead House Stark and the North into a brighter future.

Jon’s stiff formality around other highborn feeds into this, he realizes – for all that Jon is willing to call Domeric a fool, he’s only also so open with the Greyjoy hostage, who is almost a sibling, from what he can gather.

Domeric had learnt to pick apart interactions at his aunt’s knee, but he’s never engaged with his observations like his father had at his age. He is building a name for himself as a reasonable Bolton, an approachable Bolton – he finds tongues are looser and deals friendlier like that.

If he’s to insert himself into so settled a dynamic, however, act he must.

The question he supposes, is how.

X

Lady Catelyn does not hide her dislike well. She’s courteous when she must be, but she toes the line blatantly and she is not exempt from the consequences of that.

Winterfell, Domeric comes to learn, has tolerated her. The sept built in her name is an insult to most of them that permanently barred her from any true warmth, but she’s a capable Lady and gifted at soothing southron tempers, and she’s given their Lord five children. She does not undermine her husband or disrespect the Old Gods, and she is amenable to accommodating requests made to her.

She insists on septas and septons for her children, however. She insults her Lord Husband’s bastard son, however. And now – she insults a Bolton.

There had been a great row between Lord and Lady Stark when Jon Snow had first been brought to Winterfell. The whole North knows of it, but he learns the details as maids and guards and servants refresh those stories in the wake of this newest spat. Lord Stark had not raised a hand against his wife but he had barred her from the nursery for a moon’s turn after some attempt to banish little Jon Snow to the servant’s quarters at best. He’d made damned sure his sons were raised as siblings, not equal in station but equal in treatment and his regard.

Jon Snow has been the only real conflict in Lady Stark’s marriage; up until Lord Stark suddenly began to foster his younger children.

He’s public about his reasoning, and it is sound – as sound as it can be, Domeric supposes, given that he’s no real idea of the children’s personalities or the truth of the matter. Arya Stark is wild and fierce and desperate to fight to the point of spurning her lessons wholesale; the Mormonts will give her the skill with a blade she so desires but also shape her into a proper Northron lady where southron teachers have blatantly failed. Bran Stark’s fostering is less pointed but no less reasonable; given the disaster that was Ned’s own fostering – his first few years as Lord were difficult given he’d received no training or education for it – it is no insult that he sent his young son to such a dear, trustworthy friend.

Lady Catelyn Stark doesn’t care. She sees the absence of her children as theft and crime, and loathes her husband for it.

She sees Domeric’s betrothal to Sansa as a threat, however, and that is different.

“You seem unnerved.” He says quietly. Sansa’s lips pull down into a frown for only a moment before her expression smooths away and her eyes leave her mother for him.

“She thinks Joffrey is a safer choice. He will give me more, and neither of his parents have the reputation your father does.”

“Does she not believe the reports sent to your father?” He asks, surprised. She shakes her head.

“No, I don’t think that’s the issue. She doesn’t understand why you are allowed to live, let alone rule the Dreadfort. You meaning your House.” She adds, when he squints at her.

“…She’s upset because she’s southron.” He deduces, and Sansa scowls fiercely but nods, and Domeric realizes why she’d been so offended by his initial comments to her – he’d compared her to her mother, however indirectly.

“I’ll not hurt you, my lady. Nor will I allow my people or my father to.”

“I know.” She says simply, and with a self-assurance that hides her misconduct, takes one of the sausages off his plate.

X

He begins to court her properly, beyond merely spending time with her and her siblings. He begins this process by cornering Jon Snow.

“I have heard that you were roped into her sewing lessons.” He says. The bastard scowls at him.

“And?”

“Will you teach me?”

Jon Snow’s expression clears. He studies Domeric silently for a moment; something brushes Domeric’s hand and he risks a sharp glance down to see Jon Snow’s direwolf peering up at him as inscrutably as its master.

“You’re making an effort.”

“Does courting not require such?” Domeric asks blankly. He earns an eye roll for his question, and then Jon Snow crowds up against his shoulder and steers him down one of Winterfell’s many corridors.

Jon Snow has a small, warm room in the family wing; his is the last, the farthest from his Lord Father’s room, but still beside his siblings’. His furniture is simple and worn but in good condition, and the detritus of the boy’s life similarly well-cared for. He bullies Domeric onto the fur before his fireplace and digs into a chest at the foot of his bed. He returns with an armload of sewing supplies.

“I still embroider something for her for her namedays. Robb will buy the cloth or the dress or whatnot, and Arya and I do what we can. We’ve no talent for it, it’s always ugly as sin, but she wears the gifts proudly anyway.” Jon tells him, and shows him how to stitch.

Jon’s stitches are neat and orderly, but wholly without imagination. The other stitches on some of his half-finished bits and bobs, Domeric sees, are the ugliest, messiest stitches he’s ever seen in his life but wildly creative in scope.

Domeric can’t even get his needle to pierce the cloth and not his flesh.

X

Little Rickon doesn’t so much like music as he likes noise, but Domeric whispers that it will impress his mother and the boy plops right down in front of him and lets Domeric show him how to hold his harp.

“Shaggydog likes it. So I guess it’s okay.” Rickon announces, plucking at random strings in no apparent order. The sound is discordant and horrific, but well worth the price of listening to it.

“So you’ll help?”

“Only because Lady is gonna be there.” The boy says carelessly, but nods his head.

Domeric does not smile, but it is a near thing.

X

Little Rickon distracts Lady Catelyn with Domeric’s harp, and Domeric makes his move.

Sansa laughs so hard she weeps when he presents her his token, little more than a handkerchief bordered with little red sigils representing a flayed man. There is no detail; for speed’s sake he’d gone with something simple and fairly abstract. This has the unfortunate effect of making each flayed man look more like a little red star than a corpse.

“You went to Jon, didn’t you? He’s so stupid – there’s an easier stitch to use, he just refuses to learn any more in case he forgets how to do the first – here, let me show you – “

The servants stare with wide eyes and whisper, but she takes his hand in hers and leads him towards her rooms, and Domeric cannot help but consider this whole endeavor a success.

Chapter Text

              Betrothal hunts are an ancient tradition in the North; they are not often indulged in by nobles – rarely does a noble couple have the time or luxury when their weddings lean towards rushed, political affairs – but the meaning in them is as hard-baked into Northern romantic tales as the South’s Queens of Love and Beauty.

Domeric will not insult Sansa Stark with another Southron comparison; so instead he pesters Winterfell’s Maester and a withered husk of a woman introduced as Old Nan for equivalencies, and this is the one best-suited for a daughter of House Stark. For a son of House Bolton, too – and for the union betwixt the two.

Sansa has no enemies for him to slay, no men for him to make a cloak of, but there are rumors of a great beast of a bear menacing the smallfolk two days ride from Winterfell proper. A pelt that big is a little – Lady Stark will probably try to skin Domeric alive, given that the general use for furs that large would be for the marital bed and Sansa’s only twelve, but - the greater the kill, the greater the prize, the greater the devotion, and the greater the approval of the Old Gods.

And – he’s certain he can convince Jon and Robb to go with him. To hunt with him. Men bond when killing things, Aunt Barbrey has told him time and time again. It will give the Stark boys a way to measure Domeric’s dedication to their plot; and, indirectly, to their sister. Reassure them of his intentions.

Earn him their favor, he hopes.

It’s a fool-proof plan.

Except –

X

“If Theon dies on this journey, Sansa will be wroth.” Jon’s tone is…shockingly mild. Domeric raises an eyebrow at him; Robb and the Greyjoy hostage are ahead of them, bickering good-naturedly. Domeric hadn’t been planning on using the boy as bait. Not seriously. But, he supposes, it is a good thing to know.

“As opposed to you not being upset?”

“I’ll probably cry. But Theon’s the sort to make everyone he can miserable when he’s in a snit. And he is often in a snit.”

A bully, then. But not – malicious, perhaps. Jon doesn’t look as angry as he would be, if that were the case.

“He’s like an annoying cousin. None of us have met Sweetrobin, but he and Bran write sometimes – he’s family but I’m not convinced any of us wouldn’t try to drown him in the hotsprings if we had to spend time with him. We have to spend time with Theon.”

Domeric barks out a startled laugh.

“You describe it as my aunt describes her relationship with my mother; they might’ve loved each other fiercely but they hated each other just as much. Father says visits between the two of them were colder than the Long Night itself; he still gets twitchy talking about it.”

Hosting had become something of a battle, from Domeric’s understanding. Mother had taken great pleasure in making Aunt Barbrey’s visits just uncomfortable enough to be such, without ever tipping over into outright disrespect. Aunt Barbrey had returned the favor with enthusiasm.

Jon’s smile is a flash of a thing, softens his whole face from his usual dour countenance.

“Sansa would love that. If you get the scratchy napkins at dinner, you’ll know you’ve upset her.”

Noted.

X

Domeric expects to spend some time tracking the beast, but in the single most astounding display of luck he has ever witnessed, Greyjoy tries to break away for a piss and promptly runs right into the damned thing dining on a cow.

Greyjoy comes hauling back towards where they are stopped, screaming, the bear – a proper winter bear, not just a fucking bear, huge and ruffed and furious – on his heels. The horses begin screaming; three of them make a run for it. The fourth is not lucky enough to get out of Theon – and thus the bear’s – way.

Domeric drops his people mask, falls in-step with Jon and Robb, and the three of them take full advantage of the seconds bought for them by Robb’s noble steed.

There is something wrong with the bear; they realize it the moment they make contact with it.

It might be cold in the North, but it is still summer – and the heat of summer brings rot. Domeric is no stranger to the smell of death and decay and meat gone sour and bad, but the stench wafting off the bear as they step under its shadow is – beyond that.

It is the smell of a carrion field, a battlefield, corpses piled ten men high and twenty wide, wet and foul with all the vile things that come with a derelict killing field.

It is a scent no mere animal should bear; and, sure enough – it is no mere animal.

When it rises on its hind legs and screams – its underbelly is empty. Fur hanging limp and loose in flaps, flesh oozing and weeping and spoiled where it clings to bone. Every score on the animal’s body is a killing blow; and yet – it still stands.

How many, Domeric wonders, had it killed on its journey south?

How had it gotten past the Wall?

“Wight.” Jon chokes. Domeric meets Robb’s gaze; sees wild terror and wolfrage there, and the future Lord of Winterfell swallows and bares his teeth.

“To pieces with it – we burn it after!” Robb bellows. It is not the cry of a Lord; it is the cry of a King, and Domeric feels his blood thrill with the cold of winter. The Greyjoy hostage gathers himself, must draw on the iron his people so love – and Jon bares his teeth like the beast of an animal he calls friend.

The wolves scream back at the bear – thus far on the hunt they had been content to wander the wilds of the North until nightfall, where without fail they burrowed into Jon and Robb’s bedrolls and whined for pets. Their appearance would have startled Domeric, if he’d a warm heart. Grey Wind throws himself forward –

And so does Domeric.

X

The fight is brutal, and wholly blessed. Domeric’s worship is more lip-service and pragmatic than devout, but there is no other explanation for the battle’s outcome and he will see this favor repaid a hundred-fold in the after.

He strikes the first blow against the beast, and severs one great paw from the rest of it – a feat that should not have been possible, but he wields a castle-forged blade where the bear’s prior victims had likely used inferior weapons, and he strikes bone already cracked and split.

Jon saws off the second while the wolves hold it down and the rest of them distract it; Theon Greyjoy manages to genuinely shock Domeric by taking off the third.

Ghost tears off the bear’s jaw, and Robb sends Theon to start a fire while Domeric and Jon get the final limb gone. The bear is still capable of moving without them – and the limbs are squirming, still, where they fell – but its determination cannot give it great speed or coordination. Domeric guards it, and stares steadily into glowing blue eyes the whole while, considering.

It is to this scene that Lord Eddard Stark and a dozen Winterfell guard are treated when they ride in some time later. They are burning the bear, now, though enough of it remains that its nature becomes apparent immediately; jawless or not it still screams at them where it lies writhing in its own gore. It’s a disappointment, to set his betrothal furs aflame, but even if offering a wight’s skin wouldn’t infuriate Sansa, even if the furs weren’t fouled by dark magics and cursed by the gods – death has made them a poor prize, ragged and filthy and gore-crusted and decayed.

Lord Stark goes still to see the beast, while his men exclaim in shock and horror; one of them tumbles off his horse and empties his stomach right then and there. Even Greyjoy hadn’t been that weak and he’d still pissed himself –

“We haven’t tried to track its path yet.” Domeric offers, when Robb and Jon hesitate to speak to their father, and Lord Stark’s eyes snap to him.

“Was it alone?”

“To our knowledge.” Domeric allows, but he shrugs all the same. Lord Stark dismounts heavily. His boys flinch – not out of fear, Domeric thinks. Lord Stark would not raise a hand against his children if his life depended upon it; he’s a soft man, at the heart of it.

“Lord Stark, it’s moving – “ The man who speaks sounds terrified; he’s cut off when another reaches over and cuffs him upside the head.

“Fucking Southron pansy – it’s a wight.” For all the speaker’s bravado, he’s as pale as a ghost. As pale as Ghost, who is sitting regally beside the flopped-over form of Grey Wind, as if he had not body-slammed his brother into the ground moments before Lord Stark’s arrival.

“How’d it get past the Wall?” Jon Snow’s voice is low, but his father turns his attention to him immediately.

“Are any of you hurt?”

“Not so much as a scratch – lucky, too. Wounds would have been tainted.” Robb says awkwardly. Lord Stark responds by crushing his heir in an embrace; he repeats the gesture with Jon, and even with Greyjoy – and to Domeric’s surprise, himself as well.

The hug is – warm. Oddly comforting, if harder than his aunt’s. More importantly; this means Lord Stark likes him.

The Lord of Winterfell takes over immediately; he’d taken the time to arm himself with Ice before leaving Winterfell, and while the burning of the corpse is still necessary, the bear dies on his blade without much fuss. A stroke of luck, Domeric thinks.

“Why would the wights be susceptible to Valyrian steel? Will the Others be too, do you think?” He asks curiously – absently, not genuinely intending anyone to overhear, but to his surprise, Lord Stark nods.

“Aye. Valyrian steel and dragonglass. Fire for the wights, of course.”

This, of course, begs the question – how does the Warden of the North know? Domeric knows, of course – but the men do not. His sons do not. His ward does not. Lord Stark is, to his credit, quick to realize this.

“What did you boys come out here for in the first place?” An inelegant change of topics, but not ineffective. Jon and Robb both look at each other and visibly hesitate.

“A betrothal hunt. I can’t return until I find something appropriate.” Domeric answers, and steps before his soon-to-be good-brothers. Lord Stark won’t be angry with them, but they apparently do not know that. It’s a small gesture, but one he thinks will engender goodwill and further cement what grew during the battle with the wight.

Lord Stark raises an eyebrow, but something in his gaze softens. Domeric memorizes the way his face moves, buries it for something to replicate later. Or – partially replicate. Sansa may not be pleased to see her father’s mannerisms on her betrothed’s face, after all. Perhaps Domeric will merely save it for their children.

“Then let us hunt.”

X

“Burn the bodies.” Roose orders, and draws a well-worn bit of fabric from his side to clean the blood from his blade.

“My Lord…this was quick.” It isn’t a question. Roose flicks his gaze away from his sword and to the man who’d spoken, one of the five he’d taken with him. His men, of course. His trusted men, insofar as he trusted others.

He can appreciate that they recognize something is off, that he killed the bitch and her welp and the creature Umber had set to watch them so quickly. It is for that and that alone that he forgives the comment.

“We ride for the Dreadfort next. I will be heading South and will need an appropriate household. Domeric will also need proper attendants, and Skeine will need time to prepare his replacement.”

The man salutes immediately, and gets to work with his fellows.

There is a common misconception that the Dreadfort’s people don’t care to ask questions – that all of them, everyone, prefers unmitigated violence without reason. Roose’s father certainly believed it – and look how that had turned out for him. Roose had better success laying out at least the barest bones of his plans, if only because his people strived to not fuck them up with a flattering amount of dedication after.

They aren’t Lannisters, after all.

“My Lord.” Roose sheathes his blade and carefully tucks the cloth away before attending to the speaker; another of his men, this one holding a box in his hands.

“You found it, then?”

“Aye, my Lord.” The man affirms, and then pries the lid off for him.

Roose had not needed proof of the bastard’s madness, not after seeing him, but the curl of satisfaction and glee that rise within him to see the knife and dried herbs contained within…

His son will rule the Dreadfort with a Stark for a wife; the South will fall, the Winter Kings will rise again, and Roose will be the first Bolton in eight thousand years to skin an Other.

And the dragons, too…

“Burn it.” He orders, and his man obeys.

X

The Bolton boy doesn’t even make a show of it, is the thing, and that – that’s what convinces Jon.

Sansa’s blushing so hard her entire body is as red as her hair, red as weirwood leaves, her eyes huge as Domeric presents his kills – and they are his kills, because the bear had only been the most impressive of the leads they’d gathered before they’d left Winterfell, and no Bolton would let another man do violence in his name while he was capable of doing it himself. They’re in the courtyard, servants and visitors and nobles alike staring as Domeric displays each fur and hide for Sansa’s approval. He’d prepared them himself, taught Jon and Robb and Theon a few tricks while doing so. They still need to be treated, but –

The crown jewel of the lot is the fur of a shadowcat dappled white and grey. Stark colors. Domeric presents it beside the blood-red pelt of a summer fox; Bolton colors may be pink, but red is the color Domeric himself has claimed, and it means something to him, for this is not the only time he has chosen to present Sansa with it.

Sansa’s voice is high and sweet and elegant as any Southron lady when she accepts; she recites a betrothal prayer then and there without so much as a flaw in the old tongue’s pronunciation.

Domeric – he’s so odd to watch, his reactions often delayed by a second or two as he sorts out what it is he should be doing. The smile that splits his lips at Sansa’s acceptance is startled, wild and fanged – the smile of an animal, not a man.

Jon’s seen that same grin on Shaggydog’s face.

Domeric softens his expression into something more appropriate, genial. Lady Catelyn has already seen it, though, and she stares, blatantly horrified, as her daughter clutches the betrothal furs close to her chest, skips forward, and presses a chaste kiss to Domeric’s cheek.

The servant beside Jon coos softly.

“Aly, he’s a Bolton!”

“The lil’ lady knows that! An’ look a’tim! Monster’s smitten.”

Jon regards the servant carefully out of the corner of his eye. He knows the names and faces of all of his family’s household; Aly is a young woman but a hard woman, come to Winterfell with her father some years back.

She sounds approving.

She sees him looking, and raises an eyebrow at him; her companions see him too late and flinch – bastard or not he is their Lord’s beloved son and they were gossiping about his trueborn sister. His little trueborn sister.

“She could do worse.” He says, a little dryly, and Aly bursts into such loud laughter that they draw attention from the rest of the courtyard.

Domeric meets his eye, when he glances over to them. Jon sighs to do it, but he nods – and Domeric’s face twists into that same sharp gleam again.

X

Ned is bent over a map of the Wall when the roaring begins.

The thing is, the Greatjon’s such a loud man and he’s so prone to his bluster and bragging that – well. Ned does not register the sound until it is accompanied by the rapid clank of armor, thundering footsteps and his solar door banging open in a fury.

“YOU!” The Lord of the Last Hearth roars, one massive finger pointed directly at Ned. Behind him are a panicked group of Umber men and a baffled group of Stark men. The Greatjon’s men look nervous, but none have weapons drawn.

Ned’s gaze goes back to his fellow Lord, and he raises an eyebrow.

“By the grace of the Old Gods, Eddard fucking Stark, what is wrong with you?!”

The Greatjon’s voice cracks. He sounds devastated, and it is at that exact moment that Ned recalls Roose sending a few ravens out before taking his – temporary – leave of Winterfell.

“What did Roose say to you?” He sighs, and shoves his papers out of the way.

“Roose? You’re calling that fucking leech by his first name?!”

All of the men behind the Greatjon suddenly share his absolute panic.

Ned points to the chair across his desk. There is a long moment where he’s not sure if Lord Umber is going to hurtle himself over the desk and at Ned’s throat or collapse right where he stands, and then the Greatjon staggers into the seat and drops his head in his hands.

One of the Stark men slowly reaches a hand out, grabs one of decorative iron bars on the door, and just as slowly pulls it closed. No one else moves to assist, and so Ned is left standing awkwardly with a hysterical half-giant until the door snicks shut.

“I can’t do this again.”

“Do what, Greatjon?”

Bloodshot eyes peer out at him from behind thick fingers, and Lord Umber sighs long and loud and gusty. Sags back in his chair and drags his hands down his face and his beard.

Ned narrows his eyes.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a reoccurring concern. So there wasn’t any need to be telling you.”

“What did you do?”

“Bolton lost his fucking mind when his wife died, Ned.” The Greatjon says desperately, more serious than Ned has ever seen him.

And then he starts talking.

X

Ned had been aware that Roose had reacted poorly to his wife’s death. The whole North had. It is to the late Lady Bolton’s credit that he had; while legends of Red Kings gone feral with grief exist, no Bolton has cared overmuch for lost loves or kin in – well, since the Conquest.

Ned admits that he did not take the reports as solemnly as he should have, in retrospect.

“It wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle, but – it nearly was, Ned, he was so close to…” The Greatjon works his jaw for a breath, and then his expression cracks in two; a deep, terrible sort of shame twists his face.

“I made the decision, and I stand by it. Wasn’t anything else I could’ve done. But Bolton was still bloodied and frothing at the mouth when I locked him in that nursery, Ned, and he’d already struck the Skeine.”

There is a wealth of meaning to the Greatjon’s words that Ned can only grasp the surface of; he knows the name of House Bolton’s stewards, knows their faith puts the whole of the North to shame, puts the devotion of the Andals to their Seven to shame – he understands viscerally what the Greatjon means by nursery, because there has only ever been one Bolton babe born in the Dreadfort’s cold embrace.

But he does not understand the weight of that in the way an Umber does, because the Umbers have been kin and brethren to House Bolton for millennia, and something like watchers since the Conquest.

House Bolton manages its own affairs, for the most part. House Umber keeps what it can from reaching the attention of the Starks, either out of spite or loyalty or for the sake of peace. House Stark has only ever stepped in when absolutely necessary.

“You feared he would kill Domeric.”

“The boy was the last bit of her he had. Either he’d have killed him or it would’ve brought his mind back. I knew the risk. I did it anyway.” The Greatjon’s voice is hollow.

“…And what brought about that decision?” Ned asks. His voice is, miraculously, even.

He has to ask. He is Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and he is to the whole of the South and the whole of the North an honorable man. An honorable Lord. And no honorable lord would ignore the fell deeds of their bannermen.

Not with an audience.

If he does not ask; the Greatjon will know. And House Umber must be told the truth of what is to come if the North is to survive – but Ned cannot afford to break their faith in him before, for that is a wound that will blacken and fester no matter how oft he lances the wound in the future.

The risk, of course, is Roose – Ned has unchained the Flayed Man and he will bear the consequences of that gladly to avert what his son has shown him, but he will have to act if the Greatjon reveals a breaking of the laws of the North, and that will alienate Roose at the most critical juncture of all.

It will alienate Domeric, too.

The Greatjon drags his fingers through his beard, and single-handedly saves the whole of the North when he opens his mouth.

“You know of his bastard?”

“Aye.”

“T’wasn’t First Night. Bolton cares little for bedding – I called him a sword-swallower as a lad, once. Your sister about took my eye from me for it.” The Greatjon’s fingers flit up to the narrow, pale whisper of a scar just barely visible above the bush of his beard; it takes everything within Ned not to soften at the mention of Lyanna.

“But?”

“A young couple married without his approval. Smallfolk, but – arrogant. They flaunted their disobedience. Bolton was already rampaging blood-mad through the Dreadfort’s lands by then; even if he hadn’t been hunting, I think his people would have turned them in for the insult.”

Aye, that Ned can see; Northern loyalty has always been like that.

“He raped the woman?”

“The both of them insulted his wife’s memory. The Skeine had already called for me – I came up as he was tearing the skin from her flesh. The boy – I still have foul dreams of it.”

“And rumors spread?”

“The girl waited until the babe had been presented before spreading tales. I made sure they never took, not in my lands, but I’ve long heard whispers from other Lords, and Ned – if Roose loses another like he lost his love, I will not be able to stop him.”

Ned makes a – noise. Too telling of a noise.

The woman had waited until she had an heir to begin dethroning Roose; an accusation of First Night is almost a death sentence in of itself even without proof and has been for generations. Domeric, he recalls, had been considered a sickly child.

The bastard’s entitlements make…much more sense in that light.

“What did you do?” The Greatjon demands, sharp and half-panicked again.

Ned blinks, and forces his focus to his fellow Lord. Sighs.

“The bastard was plotting to murder Domeric. Domeric has always wanted a sibling, and had heard tale of his father’s spawn. Roose tried to soften the blow, I believe, by offering Domeric a new sibling in place of the old.”

The Greatjon’s relief is immediate and palpable; it delays the suspicion by a whole heartbeat.

“How do you – “

“The Long Night is coming. I’ve unchained the Flayed Man.”

The Greatjon’s hand spasms where it rests on the arm of his chair.

The wood explodes.

X

“Excellent choice, my Lord.” Skeine sounds cheerful as he sweeps another outfit out of Roose’s line of sight, and that pleases him insomuch as he can be pleased by bringing another joy. A pale facsimile of empathy it might be, but it has stirred within Roose often enough for him to recognize it.

He would be irate if those for whom he felt it numbered so few; two alive, two dead, and Domeric could hardly be counted a concern.

“I will leave the leeches behind. A small set to Winterfell for Domeric’s use, of course, but they offer too great a risk in the South.”

“And no way to transport the blood. Hmm. Would you like me to look into alternatives, my Lord?”

Roose stares down at the wet, dark things layered over his bare arms, and huffs out a short sigh.

“No.”

A pity, but – too great a liability. Most will think him merely eccentric, but the eunuch…and he has heard things of the Lannister imp as well. It would be an entertaining game to play, of course, but Roose has never been fond of great risks with so little assurance of success.

Domeric will see to this particular task well enough in his stead.

“I have begun to train a household for the young Lady Stark.”

“Intermediate, I hope.”

“Oh, yes. They will have to integrate with whomever she brings with her. Lord Domeric has already sent quite a detailed list of recommendations to work with.” Skeine adds slyly, and Roose lets out an honest snort of amusement.

It isn’t her that his son is so taken by. Not yet. But if all goes well, she will take root in his chest like the grasping spears of a weirwood of old.

A servant steps forward, eyes downcast and head bowed, and carefully begins to pluck leeches from Roose’s exposed skin. The boy does not speak, and Roose has not been gone very long but he is still pleased by Skeine’s dedication to detail. Winterfell has been perfectly accommodating, but its servants belong to the wolves of the North. Roose doesn’t begrudge them that, but it is dissatisfying all the same.

“Will the Dreadfort hold in our absence?”

“Aye, my Lord. My son will be heading to Winterfell with us to attend to Lord Domeric. My daughter shall remain behind.” Skeine says, and that, too, pleases Roose.

“She would do well to earn Sansa Stark’s favor.” Roose murmurs. The Skeine’s Daughter is his favorite of Skeine’s children. She has shown herself to be as ruthless and exacting as her father, and is far better skilled than her brother at retaining a mask of normalcy while going about her duties. He hopes she will take over for her father.

“I believe she’s already anticipating doing so.” Skeine says warmly.

The servant finishes plucking the leeches, and retreats. A second materializes as soon as Roose stands, and helps him from the tub. Skeine bustles over with a towel, a third following him with ointment and bandages, and Roose allows his people to tend to him.

“Have her prepare for war; for the longest winter the North has ever seen; and for war after too.” He instructs.

Skeine smiles, and bows.