Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage, Rape/Non-Con

Relationships: Domeric Bolton/Sansa Stark, Roose Bolton/Walda Frey; minor Mychel Redfort/Ysilla Royce; minor Alys Karstark/Sigorn of Thenn

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence,Domeric Bolton Lives, Roose Bolton is His Own Warning, Ramsay is His Own Warning, The Dreadfort, Harrenhal, House Bolton, Parental Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Period-Typical Sexism, Courtly Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, War, Psychological Torture, Torture, Dark, Murder Fantasies, sexual fantasies, Sexual Content, Sexual Possessiveness, Jealousy, Intrusive Thoughts, House Royce, House Redfort, The Faith of the Seven, Westerosi Politics, Expy Medieval Catholicism, Religion, The Old Gods - Freeform, reference to suicide

Summary: He'd rather be known as the one who rescued the Queen in the North from the lions' maw and restored Winterfell to the Starks, but if the singers insist on calling him Ser Domeric the Kinslayer, Domeric of the Red Smile, and only tell of how he ran his sword through Ramsay Snow and hung his flayed corpse from the heart tree, so be it. The old gods' curses be damned, he would fit in just fine with Rogar the Huntsman and Royce Redarm.

A Domeric Bolton Lives AU. Part war story, part chivalric romance, part tragic irony. A look at the weight of curses and at Roose Bolton as a husband and a father. Sort of inspired by Dante Alighieri's La Vita Nuova.

OR: Frustrated with the War of the Five Kings, Domeric Bolton deserts the Northern army and rescues Sansa Stark from King's Landing.

This mostly follows book canon until midway through ASOS, but I have used the ages from the show. Fun fact, if you play the Game of Thrones CK2 mod and start at Robert's Rebellion, take a look at Roose's court and you'll find Domeric, a poet from the tender age of four.

My son. Robb Stark is calling the banners. You are needed. Come to Moat Cailin posthaste. Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.

The raven arrived at the Redfort barely a fortnight into his visit, his first since he'd earned his spurs nearing on two years past. There was no real business he had at the Redfort, but living at home at the Dreadfort he was going stir crazy for someone to ride with, someone to talk to, someone – anyone – who wasn't his father Roose or a cowed, tongueless servant.

When he'd first returned home, he'd thought to go ride up the Weeping Water to meet the Bastard, despite his father's advice. Winterfell had a bastard. Hornwood had a bastard. He'd met them both, and by his lights they'd seemed agreeable fellows. Along the way he thought to call on Old Lord Overton's holdfast at the base of the Lonely Hills. Old Lord Overton had clapped him on the back, sighed and disabused him of the notion that Ramsay Snow was any sort of an agreeable fellow. Lad, he'd began in his rough way, I like you lad. In fact, I'm more than passing fond of ye. Trust yer father on this one. Then Old Lord Overton shook his head and whispered in his ear about hunting horns and smallfolk girls disappearing in the dawn, of blood found against tree trunks, barking hounds and a scheming stinking servant and a bitter, jealous miller's wife.

Domeric had never met the Bastard. Now he hoped he never would – certainly he would never call him brother, Jon and Larence Snow aside. Stark and Hornwood are fine men, and perhaps that was why Jon and Larence Snow were agreeable fellows. But Roose Bolton was not a fine man. Not a fine man at all.

Hopes dashed, he'd finished his ale with Old Lord Overton, stayed to play a song or three on his harp for Overton's family, thanked Overton for the pleasure of his company, saddled Rhaegar, and returned home. He'd need to pack more things for a ride to the Rills with stops at Winterfell and Barrowton on either way.

It seemed so silly to leave the Redfort so soon – so wasteful. He'd caught up with Lord Horton and was planning to join his dearest friend Mychel on a tour of the major castles of the Vale. They'd stop at Runestone at least, and certainly the Gates of the Moon, and maybe he'd be able to convince Mychel that since he was a fourth son, he was free to do anything he wanted, so he should make an honest woman out of Mya and marry her. It would be like Duncan the Small and Jenny of Oldstones, if Duncan were a high lord lower than the crown prince, and Jenny was something nearer to a king's bastard.

It wasn't like Duncan and Jenny at all, really. Mychel and Mya had it far easier.

Plans ruined, he'd begged his leave of Lord Horton and Lady Redfort and the girls, bid goodbye to Jasper and his wife, left his regards for Creighton and Jon, and apologized profusely to Mychel. There's always next time. He rode hard for Gulltown in the morning and three days later had boarded the next ship for White Harbor.

He didn't stay long in White Harbor, just one night at an inn in the city, and didn't enter New Castle either. Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla's company he found perfectly pleasant, but Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse and his sons Ser No-Saddlebags-for-Me and Ser Slower-than-a-Trot he could barely tolerate without bursting into peals of laughter and breaking his placid Bolton mask. On the one hand, it would be discourteous. On the other hand, his father would take a toe if Domeric so much as chuckled in front of more than two Northern lordlings who were not close and familiar relations.

It wouldn't do at all to beg the hospitality of New Castle.

He rode straight for Moat Cailin and only stopped to sleep or piss. When he arrived, he had the whole castle to himself for three entire days. Beneath the broken towers and ruined walls, encouraged by the humming sounds of the green, green life of the Neck, he breathed in the humid, swampy air, lay on the ground, took out his travel harp, and sang to the stars, savoring the opportunity to pretend he was Rhaegar Targaryen at Summerhall before his father's men or the Umbers and Karstarks or any other Northern army could descend on the Moat and spoil his quiet, dreamy peace.

Soon the whole army arrived at the Moat. The peace and quiet broke when the first host (the Starks, Karstarks, and Umbers) came within ten leagues. Ten leagues are as close as any Bolton should be to any Umber, his father would say, Umbers are too loud. Even so, somehow, he wound up drinking in a drafty room off the hall next to Smalljon Umber, with Daryn Hornwood, the three Karstark brothers and a few sons of the hill tribes after the long commander's meeting in the great hall. He'd drink alone, but he knows that this whole war is a chance to get to know the men he'd be dealing with for the rest of his life.

Moreover, he needed the drink, because today he had learned from Steelshanks Walton that the Bastard has been called to the Dreadfort and named castellan, and the thought turned his stomach. One only knows what the Bastard would do, what ideas he would get, once he'd been given the keys to the castle and found all its secret rooms. Hunting horns and missing girls and bloody tree trunks and barking hounds, he thinks. It will get worse. And Reek will be there too. His only memory of Reek from before he left for Barrowton was that Reek stank very very much and that half the Dreadfort was very very happy when Reek was sent away. As happy as one can be at the Dreadfort. Domeric drained another cup of ale and shook his head to push the disgusting thoughts away.

Robb Stark should be here, he thought instead, he's only a green lordling like us. But Robb Stark was still in the great hall with his lady mother, discussing Lord Stark and the Stark girls' captivity in King's Landing. He wondered if Robb Stark would lead a rescue party to bring his sisters back from the South out of the clutches of the crown and the Kingsguard like Ned Stark did so long ago, and it isn't until the Smalljon next to him shouted Bolton! So you've eyes for a Stark bride, do you! and heartily guffawed that he realized that he'd wondered aloud. A hill tribesman smirked at him and joined in the Smalljon's laughter, intoning that Robb Stark would never let a Bolton join his rescue party, let alone have his beautiful sister – they all know which sister – and then the Karstark brothers and the hill tribe heirs struck up a loud debate on beautiful Northern ladies – beautiful women in general – and it was easy for him to quietly slip forgotten from the discussion. Daryn Hornwood quirked an eyebrow at him, also silent – Daryn was betrothed to Alys Karstark, and wisely said nothing, since in the room were three drunk Karstarks and only one drunk Hornwood, and anything Daryn said was like to earn him a blackened eye, a missing tooth, or a broken nose, and they hadn't even left the North yet.

Thankfully the conversation was interrupted by a squire's opening the door to summon them all back to the great hall for some important announcements from Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn. The Northern force would be split once they reached the Twins, with Robb Stark in command of the host in the west, Domeric's father the host in the east. His father would take the Kingsroad down to the Trident to cut Tywin Lannister off from the Kingslayer in the West. Robb Stark would take the horse west across the Ruby Ford and lift the siege of Riverrun.

A battle guard for Robb Stark was also named, twenty for now, with more to be named later, when the Northern army joins up with the rivermen. Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn called the names of most all the young lordlings that had been drinking in their tent – save for a few hill tribesmen and Harrion Karstark – and some older nobles, like Robin Flint and Ser No-Saddlebags. Lady Catelyn even called his name, and he dipped his head at the invitation.

Halfway sober, he thought on the honor House Stark had given him. He'll be counted among Robb Stark's close companions - any group that consists of both Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy would eventually become thick as thieves, like Ned Stark and Howland Reed, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and his uncles Lord Willam and Ser Mark. The pick of the North would come to see him as more than Roose Bolton's son, they'd see him as Ser Domeric, gentle and kind and true, they'd see why all the Rills swear he's Ser Mark come back to life with dark, dark hair and ghost-grey eyes.

He'd met Ser Mark only once in his life, and regrettably he couldn't even remember it, since he'd still been on his mother's teat at Aunt Barbrey's wedding to Lord Willam. Everyone who'd he'd ever spoken to about Ser Mark only had good things to say. Mother had fondly told him that Ser Mark was a true knight, and when Mother had died and he'd been sent to Barrowton, Aunt Barbrey had recounted story after story of Ser Mark taking her and Mother on rides through the Rills as little girls, Ser Mark making her smile, Ser Mark holding her shoulders as she cried when her heart was broken. Grandfather and his other Ryswell uncles had always praised Ser Mark's skills in the lists, his skill with the spear, and above all, his ability to get them to stop their squabbles. Even Lord Stark had humored him when Domeric had occasion to beg a story about Ser Mark from Robert's Rebellion.

More than once Domeric had wished that Ser Mark had been his father. Ser Mark deserved to ride with Lord Stark; Domeric would prove he deserved to ride with Robb. He would earn the trust of the other Northern lordlings, he would be named their friend, their brother if he was lucky, and in twenty or thirty years when Roose was dead the Dreadfort would be a place where smallfolk and high lords alike stopped on their travels, where other houses sent their sons to foster and offered their daughters to marry. Hopefully their fate wouldn't all be the same as that of Ned Stark and his companions, though. Hopefully they would cut down enough Lannisters to bring back both Ladies Stark and ride back North with their lives. And he wouldn't even need to ride in the same army as Roose; the camps would be nowhere near each other. He might even freely laugh at something the Smalljon or Greyjoy said without his father catching word of it.

But it wasn't to be. When the throng of lords and heirs dispersed into the castle, his father placed a hand on Domeric's shoulder and lead him to where Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark were standing.

"My lady," his father started softly, "Lord Robb. I thank you for the honor you have given my son. I fear that with myself in command you show House Bolton overmuch favor. Surely there are some other names that merit the position? You must allow me to beg that my son ride in my company."

It was another moment that Domeric could not control. His father would brook no public disagreement or complaint from him; he must calmly nod his head in assent if he wished to see the dawn with both his feet intact. For all that Domeric was a hand and a half taller than Roose, the chilly squeeze his father gave his upper arm left him feeling very small. So he nodded at Lady Catelyn, and blinked his eyes.

He could tell that Lady Catelyn and his father were thinking the same thing. My son will not die for yours. But that was exactly what Lady Catelyn wanted him to do if need be. He could tell that she wanted to keep the leash onto the Boltons short and tightly held. Where Smalljon and the others had been rewarded for their families' well-known devotion to the direwolf, Domeric would have been a hostage to ensure Roose's loyalty in the field. They were not truly giving him a chance to prove his worth. It all went back to Roose.

Lady Catelyn gave both of them a tight smile. By the way her, blue eyes narrowed and flicked to Robb's he could tell that she had lost this battle, had given into Roose without fighting. Whether they'd discussed this before, he didn't know. "Of course, Lord Bolton. We will find someone else," she said. Father and son both dipped their heads. Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark turned to leave, and Domeric watched their two copper heads recede out of the hall.

Now that he would be marching southeast with his father instead of southwest, opportunities to prove himself true and brave and trustworthy and un-Boltonlike to the North would be few and far between. He'd have to make them himself.

Later, he heard that Lady Catelyn offered his spot in the guard to Dacey Mormont.