His luck would not in fact run out that day. They left King's Landing through the Iron Gate unharassed, among a group of farmers returning to their fields with their empty wagons and carts now the market time was done. Already the air was better as soon as they stepped into the countryside. Without the cobblestones and winding streets in the way they could afford to go a little faster, so he tangled the reins in his right hand and circled his left arm around her waist to secure her against his upper body.

"You shall be safe soon, my Princess."

"Thank you, ser," she said shakily. He could hear that she was not one for talking at this moment. That was fine with him. They were going at a moderate trot. They would ride together for the first day to get as far away from the city as possible, and then the rest of the way he'd get down and walk. Domeric didn't want to risk overburdening Rhaegar when he didn't have a proper pack horse with him. Already he had pushed the poor courser too hard for his liking on the way from Duskendale, and he'd only had a day of rest since then. Under no circumstances would he let Rhaegar come up lame. They'd only ride double again if it was clear that they were being pursued. It would take perhaps a sennight to get to Duskendale at this rate, maybe less if they had to ride hard for portions of the way.

She did not speak a word for the rest of the sun's descent into the west, only clutching his left arm to remain steady.

As the day looked to end, Domeric turned Rhaegar off the road to find a place to bed down for the night.

"We'll make camp here," he said. They had reached a safe-looking copse of trees between a village and a farm about two days' walk to Rosby castle. Domeric dismounted, took off the dark helm, and turned to face her. Her eyes were glassy as if she were in some sort of daze. He motioned for her to grip his shoulders and placed his hands around her waist.

She looked down at him and spoke with a faraway voice, as if she thought she was inside a dream. "We're not in King's Landing anymore."

"No, we are outside the city." He helped her off of Rhaegar's back. Now she was looking up at him, studying his face as if his skin was glittering or changing color.

Perhaps his skin was indeed glittering, or a different color. Green, maybe, or red, perhaps, or both, like the Bloodstone Emperor. Aye. The Bloodstone Emperor. A usurper. A torturer, a dark sorcerer, a necromancer. He could have been a Bolton! He lay with a beast of a woman and then the Long Night came. That would be right. It was a dream, and he was dreaming he was the Bloodstone Emperor going to claim his red-haired bride. Qyburn had given him dreamwine, and he was still in his bed at Harrenhal, and Duskendale hadn't happened yet, and Harry and Lord Robett and Ser Kyle were safe and Ser Helman was still alive and tomorrow when he rode out he would tell them that his father hadn't had orders from the King at all and nobody would go off to Duskendale and they wouldn't burn everything and they wouldn't rape the farm girls, they would ride to Riverrun instead, and he'd talk to Ser Edmure and Lady Catelyn and then he'd go off to save the Princess, but he wouldn't do by himself, there would be ten men with him, and he'd just be giving orders, and they would have to kill people, and when they got her out he wouldn't have to think of anything to say to her, because His Grace would have given him a message to let her read, and gods be good, he wouldn't have to be all alone with Sansa Stark for however long it was going to take to get her clear across the countryside…

It had to have been a dream. Aye. This couldn't have been real. Aye. It had been too easy. No one had tried to kill him. No one had even tried to stop them. How long had they been riding? He didn't know. The sun had set, aye, but he didn't know how much time had passed. Mayhaps he had just blinked and the sky had turned purple when he had stopped his horse, but now he was touching her, and next he'd kiss her, and then he'd lay with her, and then she'd turn into a wolf like some sort of skinchanger, and then she'd start ripping his head off…

Her voice snapped him back. Not a dream. It was real. It was real and he would have to say something to her…

"You're taking me back to Robb? To my mother? Truly?" At the mention of her mother her voice started wavering. How long had he been standing numbly like that? She still hadn't taken her hands off of his shoulders even though his own had fallen away from her waist.

"I will get you there. Truly." That was his voice, but he didn't feel his mouth move. He didn't feel like he was in his body, but he was still looking at her, still watching her, and she was still touching him…

Then her tears that were threatening to come arrived for true. She started sobbing and pressed her face into his gorget. Oh. Now he was back in his body. Now he could feel himself again. Gingerly he drew his arms around her and placed one gauntleted hand on her back.

"Thank you," he heard her say between shuddery, sniffly breaths. "I'd thought I'd never see them again. Or the North, or a northman."

"You will, my Princess. Your family and the North." Was that the right thing to say? He hoped drawing her closer and rubbing circles onto her back would help her stop crying. He hadn't expected her to cry…

When her tears were done, he squeezed her shoulder and led her to sit on a tree stump. He pulled out the favor again, patted her cheeks dry and did his best to hold her blue gaze. It's real, she's real, I must be good to her. I must say all my courtesies. She is my liege lord's sister. She is my Princess.

"The Lannisters mistreated you, my Princess. That will stop. From this moment onward you will be afforded all due respect as befits a lady of your station." He exhaled in the steadiest way he could manage. "Please excuse me while I make camp."

Then he tied Rhaegar to a tree and then made to start a fire. That was easy. He could do that. Task-oriented thought was safer, more comfortable. He exhaled again. Easy. Another exhale. Just like before a tilt. Breathe in focus, breathe out fear.

They had no need to cook this evening but the nights grew cool so close to the ocean. He'd learned his lesson on the trip south. He found the pack with the food and gave her some salted meat, a roll of bread, and a piece of cheese. He took out his only bedroll and lay it out on the flattest patch next to a tree, and then he retrieved the bag with his clothes and positioned it on the ground at safe distance from the foot of the bedroll. Thankfully he had a spare saddle blanket large enough to curl up in.

"The bedroll's yours," he said.

The heat had not yet left the humid Crownlands air. He was still flushed and sweating from spending the whole day in full plate, and riding double was uncomfortable no matter whether you sat in front or behind. Besides, the armor was made for a man slightly shorter, slightly thicker, and the kit did not fit him properly. It pinched at some junctures and his shoulders were achy and screaming. He turned away from the Princess and began stripping off the stolen plate.

He had no idea what to say to her. Words usually came easy to him but his mind was utterly failing him now. This was the part that he had been waiting for. This was the part that he had been dreading. What if she asked him why he had broken with her brother's army to come and find her? He felt as if he might die if he had to tell her the truth but he couldn't very well lie and say that King Robb had sent him on a special secret mission. When they eventually reached His Grace, he would be exposed immediately. He might very well be punished for not retreating to Harrenhal with the rest of Condon's men.

His face was burning and his neck was sweating. By the gods, the south was warm. An evening breeze kissed his skin and gave him some relief, but the tense and brutal awkwardness did not abate. He knew he should have thought of something to say while he was watching her in the garden, or standing guard outside her door. The singers never sang about what the knight said to the lady the moment she was rescued. They just sang about how he rescued her. Knights didn't need reasons to rescue ladies.

That's only in the songs, a voice in his head said, and it sounded like his own. In life, knights don't go on quests to rescue ladies for love. They do it because they're told to. They do it for coin. Did you think you could be a knight from the songs?

Aye. What had he been thinking?

You weren't thinking. You were stupid. That was Robbie's voice. Didn't I say, don't be stupid? You're too smart to be stupid. Why did you do this?

Why indeed? That was Father…

When the ravens had flown out announcing that Lord Stark had gone south to serve as Hand, and that Lady Sansa had been betrothed to the Crown Prince, he'd had the fleeting idea to steal away down the Kingsroad and beg King Robert to legitimize Ramsay. He would have needed to pretend to like Ramsay, to respect and love him and deem him worthy to rule the Dreadfort, but it would have been worth it. Why? King Robert would have boomed, perched on high from that great barbed chair. Why beg for the rights of your father's bastard? So that I may swear my sword to the future queen, Domeric would have said. So that I may someday take the White and guard her always. And then everybody in court before the Iron Throne would have laughed, and word would have reached Father, who would have set Ramsay on him for shaming House Bolton. And then he'd be locked beneath the Dreadfort, and then the torture would begin…

So he'd thought better of that notion. Besides, he had only been recently knighted and there were many finer swordsmen, knights with countless deeds of true valor to their names. Domeric would not have deserved such an honor. Instead, he'd contented himself with composing music for his harp and writing his poetry. Perhaps he'd even gather his work into a collection and secretly have the maesters spread it around. Then all the ladies would smile, all the ladies would sigh, all because of him. He'd have his own lady wife then, of course, his own children, and he would be Lord of the Dreadfort and could change things for the better. But it would be all duty, and they'd respect each other without loving each other, they might even be friends, and that would be fine, because that was the best many highborn marriages could aspire to. No one but those who had known him as a young man in the Rills or in the Vale would ever need know the poems were his, and only Mychel Redfort would ever know that they were about the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They'd all be dedicated to the Queen of Love and Beauty and every woman would believe it was herself. The Lord of the Dreadfort was not supposed to write poetry about secret loves that would never spark. No Bolton of the Dreadfort was ever supposed to love a Stark…

He was not prepared for this. I hardly know her, he panicked inwardly. I can't say all that, she'll think me a fool, or worse. I haven't seen her in nearly two years, and I can count on two hands the number of times I've been to Winterfell and spoken to her. It was ridiculous, if you thought about it. People would be right to laugh at him. Father would be right to torture him. By the gods, why did I do this? I deserted the army and I don't even know what to say to her. She didn't need me, they didn't dishonor her, they don't do that to highborn hostages, they only talked about it and dressed her up wrong. They wouldn't actually do it. Robbie was right. I am too smart for this stupidity. I am such a fool…

"Ser Domeric?" The Princess' voice drew him away from his thoughts. He noticed that she was finished eating, and he was done taking off the armor. It was sitting neatly in a pile next to the tree. Now he was just in his linens and hose. He turned back to look at her. She was sitting prettily on the tree stump, staring at him with starry blue eyes. Her knees were together and pointed towards him and it looked like she didn't quite know what to do with her hands. Somehow even with her hair covered and her tear-tracked, snow-white face dirty with the dust from the road she seemed to shine.

"Aye, my Princess?"

"How did you know that they mistreated me?" Ser Osfryd's voice rang in Domeric's ears as he pictured how he first saw her coming out of the Red Keep's Great Hall. You like the wolf bitch, do you? I'm sure once King Joffrey's fucked her right proper he'll let us all have our turn. Said so himself. He clenched his jaw.

Any lady about whom common guards talked like that was being mistreated. Any lady forced to bandy about in clothes so tight they'd belong in a whorehouse mummer's show was being mistreated. It wasn't mortal jeopardy, but ladies deserved better than that. It was clear for anyone to see. Domeric frowned.

"When I hid as a red cloak the other guards spoke of you with gross disrespect. And your gown was too small. Everyone knows that highborn hostages should be kept with honor. That means providing appropriate clothes."

"Oh," she said, her eyes downcast. "That's not what I meant."

That wasn't what she meant? He struggled to think of things that might be worse. Were they starving her? Torturing her? They weren't keeping her in the Black Cells… He'd heard rumors that Joffrey was petty and cruel, but surely it couldn't have been so bad. Surely he would have been disinherited by King Robert or deposed like Mad Aerys already if he treated noble prisoners as poorly as Ramsay did. Surely she hadn't been dishonored as he had feared…

He stepped closer and tried to examine her more thoroughly without imposing upon her personal space. She had all of her fingers; her hands were perfect. If her feet had been maimed, they would be covered all the time and he wouldn't have noticed. That was the idea behind taking toes. Other people wouldn't see or suspect anything. He struggled to remember how she walked in the castle. Nothing seemed to be amiss with her gait. Perhaps any wound had healed already? He wasn't about to take off her boots to find out.

"What did you mean?" He tried to sound as gentle as possible, to keep the dread out of his voice.

She breathed in deeply, picked up a twig, and started drawing shapeless figures in the dirt. "Joff was terrible. After he took my father's head he made me go up on the walls and look at it. And my septa and our steward and the rest." Domeric remembered walking beneath the poor servants' tarred heads at Harrenhal. That would have been very painful indeed. He had suffered to look at the innocent Harrenhal servants. As much as it might have been satisfying to see the heads of one's enemies on spikes, he couldn't imagine what it would it have felt like to see that of someone he loved. He couldn't bring himself to picture it done to Grandfather or Lord Horton or Maester Uthor.

"After the Blackwater and the Lannisters betrothed King Joffrey to Margaery, he said I was nothing and that could have me anyway. He… He left me with my honor," she continued slowly, "but Joff would bring me before the court and make me naked and stuck a crossbow in my face. That started before the Blackwater though."

What? The last whole thing in him broke at that moment. The entire world was red. Sansa Stark, their beautiful princess, the jewel of the North, made naked before the court? Joffrey Baratheon had told sweet Sansa Stark that he would rape her, kill her? To her face and in front of gods only knew how many others? He'd never wanted to flay a living person so much in his entire life. Perhaps this was how his ancestors got their start. I shall skin the beast alive and drape his hide on my Princess' back. The bastard's screams will make the sweetest song.

"Then he would have the knights of the Kingsguard beat me with their gauntlets or the flats of their swords. Some of the wounds are only just healed but most are scars now." What? They beat her? Knights of the White Cloak, striking a highborn lady with steel? Some knights betrayed their vows, yes, it was no secret what Ser Lyn Corbray was like. But the Kingsguard? The order of the highest honor?

He could not believe what she was saying, but he would not dare disbelieve her. What motive had she for telling him anything but the truth? How could anyone make something so awful like that up? I will flay their hands and present my Princess with seven sets of gloves.

"He would do this whenever Robb would win a battle in the West, or whenever something displeased him. He did it for fun." Now he was truly fuming. They said that Bolton blood ran cold, but his was boiling hot. The campaign in the Westerlands had been folly from the start. Now he knew the true extent of it. Domeric had thought His Grace the fool, but now he simply hated their boy King Who Lost the North, who played at glory while his innocent sister took his wounds, when the lions drew her blood instead of his. I will tell all the Northern lords of this, he thought, and they will know their king for a fool. Were it not treason, I would challenge His Grace to single combat for the Princess' honor. It was His Grace that threatened her honor, aye, not just the Lannisters. Domeric would give Robb Stark back those wounds, strike for strike.

"I hate them all. Joffrey, the Queen, the Lannisters. I hate them." How could she keep a straight face while saying all this? Was that a smile?

"They will never hurt you again, my Princess. They shall all die by my blade, if the gods are just, if they are not already dead when we march south again come spring." Now he was promising her another southern campaign. He'd scoffed at His Grace's campaign in the West. He'd scoffed at himself for coming here. What a fool he had been. What a fool he was. He was right to desert and take the Princess away, and His Grace was even right in wanting to scorch the lions' den, even if it had been a bit too soon. I would have skinned lion pelts right along with him if he had had the sense to wait till spring. The King's actions were foolish, for they starved the North and hurt the Princess, but it was the Lannisters who struck the blows. Oh, how they all deserved to burn. Oh, how he desperately wanted to flay Joffrey and the Kingsguard and leave them to bleed out and die…

His mind was going places it had no business going. Such thoughts were not knightly. He scrounged about for his wineskin and took a long drink.

"I am going to eat as well, my Princess," he said to her, but also to himself. He did not feel like eating but he had to, needed to. It was already dark. He'd need to sup before he slept, so he returned to the pack with the food and helped himself to a roll and some cheese and salted meat. There were no other stumps so he sat against the tree by the bedrolls.

"You don't need to call me Princess, ser," she said. She gave him a soft smile that lived only a moment. Domeric was very glad that she changed the subject. "I'm just Lady Sansa or Sansa."

He shook his head. "You're the King's sister. You're a princess. Our Princess, the North's. Princess of Winterfell. That's how we thought of you anyway. We, the army I mean. At least the army my father commanded. We didn't hear much from the army with your brother.

"We prayed for you, you know. For your safety. For your honor. Especially after the Ironborn killed the little princes, and when Stannis was planning to attack King's Landing. Every day at Harrenhal, in the morning. Thousands of men kneeling in the godswood, cutting our hands and giving our blood to the heart tree. We prayed for other things of course, for the safety of our homes, for the defeat of the ironmen. But I wanted you to know. Even when our commanders wouldn't do anything, we didn't forget you. We cared." That was easy to talk about. Facts were easy. The truth was not…

Her bright blue eyes were wide and she was silent for a long moment. Then her mouth tugged upward.

"The gods must have been with you then, ser." She watched him as he ate. He looked into the fire. They didn't need it. Even in only his linens he could feel that it was a warm and balmy night.

Somehow one of the smallest meals in his life took the longest amount of time. Every time he looked up, he could see her starry, dreamlike gaze glinting in the flames. The sweet, serene expression on her white face was so at odds with her earlier tears. For all that he was glad to have made her happy – even if he did not know how – it was somehow more difficult to find something to say now than when she was sad.

He finished eating.

"I will sleep now," she said politely. She rose, so he stood as well. He was next to the bedrolls so she approached.

She quirked up her lips and looked up to him. Her smile was kind but her mouth was cruel. "Thank you again for taking me away from the city, ser. Good night." Then she pressed a hand on his chest, kissed him softly, and gracefully sank down to wrap herself in the bedroll.

His heart stopped beating. It galloped away. No! She couldn't! With the press of her lips to his it was done. Her teeth were digging into him, cutting down through his flesh to his very bones. She was cracking his ribs open, breaking the cage that held his heart in safekeeping. Every bit and piece of him she had torn asunder, only to come together again and reform anew in different places. She held him in her maw. He would fall to bloody pieces if she let him go, spit him out.

He stepped away from the tree and made for the stump. He sat, picked up the twig, and poked at the fire.

He would have been lying if he told himself that he had not hoped for this on some level. Ladies rewarded knights who rescued them with kisses, after all. But he was not prepared. Not at all. He hoped that it would stop with just the one. He'd have the one treasured memory, that one fine day, and he'd be able to hide it away and keep it separate from everything so he could get on with the rest of his life. Any more, though, and he would be ruined – the life of a normal highborn closed off to him forever. He wouldn't be able to just return her to His Grace and walk away like he had planned. He couldn't marry her after all, she was a Stark and he was a Bolton. Any more of her damnable kisses and he'd need to start making plans to spirit her away across the Narrow Sea, because he could not bear to ask His Grace for her and be told no, and they would say no, they should say no, because his name was Bolton. But he'd sooner run his sword through His Grace's heart than hear that he couldn't have the Princess who he loved and who he rescued and who was coming to him willingly. But that would be stupid. If he killed His Grace some fucking Umber would take his head, and he'd never be Lord of the Dreadfort, never even be able to rise in some sellsword company in Essos, never be able to ever give the Princess a lick of what she deserved. Perhaps he could choose go off and take the black like his friend Waymar did, but Waymar was dead, lost beyond the Wall, wildlings sucking the marrow out of his bones somewhere off in the Frostfangs. No. Terrible things would happen if Domeric allowed anything more.

It was all too much to process.

Domeric kept poking at the flames. He kept staring at the fire. Eventually he unsheathed his sword and began to sharpen it, and then he worked on his knife.

When his eyes were so tired they were falling closed he made for where he had lain his sleeping place. He wrapped himself in his cloak, and then again in the saddle blanket. He placed his sword on the ground and lay it down by his head. The bag of clothes made a decent pillow.

He hoped beyond hope that he'd get to kiss her again.

He was doomed before slumber took him.