DOMERIC was unable to repress the violent chill that went down his spine that he knew had nothing to do with the surprisingly cold sea breezes this early in the morning. He stared, numb and stricken, rooted to his spot for a moment as he ground his teeth as panic swept over him in nauseating huge waves as bile rose in his throat until he thought he'd be physically sick. His thoughts were reeling as he struggled to process her words. Why him and why bloody now?
It was bad enough she knew his bastard of a brother, but...but...
"Oh, gods," he moaned, as the realization hit him squarely in the chest. "Fuck."
The curse escaped his gritted teeth as barely a hushed whisper.
Like it or not, he held this young woman's very life in her hands, yet saving her life was admittedly the last thing he was prepared to do this morning. But at the same time, every fiber of his being knew that for her, he had to do whatever he could to try to save her life.
Years ago, when he had expressed an interest in learning the arts of healing, Maester Banal, gods bless the man, had taken him under his wing, he had dedicated his life to doing what he could to help heal others and curling them of their ailments as he searched for a cure for his own. He had taken an oath and he had no choice available to him whatsoever. No choice at all.
He would have to do what he could for her. For them.
Domeric ran as swiftly as he could with the girl in his arms. Her body was dead weight and dragged at him. The sight of the Keep in the distance was welcome.
Thirteen solid, round towers piercing the sky are the first thing anyone would see in the distance the moment they set foot onto the island, and they were connected by reinforced chunky walls made of basalt. Tall windows were scattered thinly across the walls in an asymmetric pattern, along with symmetric crenelations for the archers and their artillery.
The castle had long since stood the test of time itself and despite knowing some very rough times, the intimidating structure still proudly stood and Domeric suspected it would continue to do so for many years to come even. Perhaps even centuries.
Ignoring the flustered looks of several passersby, some of whom called after him as he made his way through the crowded cobblestone streets of the marketplace, he did not stop until he reached the servants' entrance of the Keep he resided within and kicked the door open with his boot. The door was so old it rattled in its hinges and creaked horribly as he kicked it shut again without bothering to look behind him. But Domeric couldn't manage to pretend to care.
The interior of the corridor was shrouded in darkness, though he did not stop to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness as he hurried down the hall and hurried into a spare cloister cell, darting inside and laying her on the edge of the bed that was shoved unceremoniously against the wall.
The mattress was yellowed, the ticking worn. He wished it were a fine mattress of goose-feather down and a silken quilt upon which to lay her to rest, though, for the moment, this bed would have to do.
He did not allow himself a moment to look her features over as he turned and immediately raided the closet shelf nearby, thankful that he had thought to keep a few old quilts and a few threadbare woolen blankets that had seen better days. He turned around and exhaled a shaky breath to calm his nerves as he draped the blankets over the woman. She did not stir.
In vain, Domeric tried to get the girl to drink something—water, dream wine even, but the liquid only trickled over the sides of her mouth and down her throat instead and onto the mattress.
The poor thing was out cold and likely would not rouse for several hours. His mind reeled, he darted outside and into the corridor and his frantic green eyes made a quick scan of anyone familiar who could summon Banal Zanas and Tallanda, an elder Maester whom he had studied under and Tallanda was handmaiden to Lord Jarral Rhalas, though the Lord of the Keep was currently away tending to matters and would likely not return for another few more days.
Even still, for reasons he could not understand, Domeric wanted a woman's touch, and for that, only Tallanda would do.
Spotting a young boy, he thought the lad sufficient enough and barked at him to stop.
"Boy, come here please," he barked in a hoarse voice, repressing the urge to roll his eyes to himself as the child nearly choked on his next breath. He could not have been older than seven but stopped in his tracks to stare at the sickly-looking man.
It was clear he was quite shocked at having come into contact with the reclusive man.
His wide brown eyes went from astonished to utterly terrified in a fraction of a second as he stared at the disheveled man who looked gaunt and ghostly, at the dark purple circles underneath his eyes and the man's lanky frame.
"Fetch Maester Zanas and the lady Tallanda immediately. You do know who they are, yes?" Domeric commanded, watching as a light ignited behind the child's eyes as recognition dawned on him.
The boy stammered a choked reply for a moment, unable to move a muscle, much less form a coherent thought, one Domeric could understand.
Frustration and impatience bubbled and flared to life within his chest.
"Quickly! Go! Don't make me say it a second time!" Domeric urged, losing his patience.
The urgency in his tone was enough to bring the boy out of his stunned stupor and he turned his heel and bolted down the street as Domeric was already turning around, not even needing to look to know the boy was following the path that would take him to Maester Banal's study within the servants' entrance of the castle and up the stairwell.
He hoped they would not take long.
He rushed back inside to tend to the girl and stoke the minuscule blaze in the hearth that could hardly count for a fire, cursing himself as his hands fumbled and shook as he sought to get the blaze higher until it was enough to send adequate warmth and light throughout the room.
When the fire was stoked high enough that he was satisfied, he filled a pot with water and set the cauldron over the fire to boil. Then, Domeric steeled himself for the daunting task ahead and returned to the young redheaded woman's bedside.
Domeric knew the first step in saving her life and the life of the babe burgeoning within her womb was to remove her of her wet things. Her dress was ruined, and she was chilled through to the bone. Which meant…he'd have to touch her.
An electrifying jolt went through his spine at the notion. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as a muscle in his eye gave a spasmodic twitch.
Domeric sharply turned his head to the left and gave himself a moment. He felt almost wholly undeserving to be under the same roof as this one, thinking that he had no right to see her in such a way and yet, at the same time, it could not be helped.
Gingerly, when he had recovered some of his courage, he lifted the layers of blankets that covered the girl. His hands began to shake a little as he brushed aside a fiery lock of her red hair and rolled her onto her left side until his eyes found the top lace of her dress at the back.
Clenching his jaw so tightly until he heard his molars give out an audible clack, he steeled himself and began to unlace her dress.
The woman still lay unconscious, completely dead to the world and oblivious to the flustered maester's rather clumsy movements as he first shrugged her out of one sleeve, then the other, rolling the previously-lavish looking garment over her pale arms and legs, dropping it onto the floor, where it landed at the base of the bed in an ungainly heap, a puddle of water already pooling around it. Her simple shift that she had once worn underneath it had once been white.
Her breasts and stomach stood out in such a stark contrast against the flimsy fabric that was now yellowed. Keeping his teeth tightly clenched, Domeric actively averted his gaze as he forced himself to honor the young stranger's modesty as he worked to peel the shift off her body too, and immediately covered her with a thin wool blanket.
Yet, Domeric did not need the use of his eyes to detect the subtlety and gentleness of the girl's graceful curves or the smooth texture of her pale skin.
He pinpointed the stranger currently resting on his bed at around seventeen summers if he had to hazard a guess as to her age, based on looks alone. He let out a hiss as his hands grazed against her skin and he withdrew back into himself quickly. Her skin was like ice. Domeric fetched more blankets and wound them tightly over her small form. Hopefully, it would be enough to get some blood flowing back into her ice-cold flesh and warm her.
Once that was finished, he took a staggering step backward away from the bedside and leaned against the rough timbered wood of the wall of the room as a support brace for his back and tiredly closed his eyes. Finished. That unpleasant part was at least over.
Though the difficult part was still yet to come.
The spare cloister cell Domeric had placed her in was less a room one could be comfortable in and more a refuge. Perhaps even a prison cell. No candles were lit throughout the room and the curtains were drawn. The room felt small and cramped. Claustrophobic even.
Domeric felt a chill go down his spine and he was struck with the odd sensation that he was about to crawl out of his skin. He gave a jolt as he realized, to the best of his knowledge, in the time that he had spent studying under the elder maester, that no one had occupied this particular cloister cell, this bed. Until now, that was.
He drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs as he let his gaze drift once more to the woman who lay unmoving underneath the blankets and quilts. Her body had calmed somewhat from the violent convulsions moments ago, which he was relieved to see.
Now, she merely appeared to be sleeping peacefully. The redhead's face was pale and serene. even in sleep, despite the trauma that she had endured.
Domeric thought over the girl's guarded first words to him.
I'm alive. That's…something. I suppose.
The words she'd spoken so faintly flitted through the flustered maester's mind. The girl still had not opened her eyes.
The words were ripped from Domeric's lips before he could stop himself.
"Who are you?" he whispered roughly in a harsh voice. "Just who the seven bloody hells are you?" The girl he had plucked from the beaches was a true woman of the tales of old from the stories that parents would tell their young children. A princess, a Queen.
He forced himself to look away, his facial expression twisting into a pained grimace. It vexed him how it physically hurt him to look at her, and he sharply turned his head away the same way he did whenever the sun's rays began to be too much for him.
Domeric wondered if it would be better for both of them if she were pulled away from here, still unconscious, left to always wonder which savior had saved her from the sea.
Despite Domeric's intense desire to keep this girl at arm's length, there was another part of him that wanted nothing more than to rush to her bedside, sink to his knees on the floor beside her, seize her shoulders and shake her, and plead with her to live, just bloody live.
Agitated, he began to pace back and forth in a restless line, wondering what in the seven bloody hells was keeping the maester and the handmaiden.
Repressing his taut of worry, Domeric took advantage of the eerie silence to observe the nearly barren surroundings of the cloistered cell he had brought her to, trying to observe it through the eyes of the stranger. Dull. Drab. Minimal furnishings and few candles.
He furrowed his brows, making a mental note to fetch a couple of candles and their pronged holders and scatter the objects throughout the room. It wouldn't be much but it would at least send the little fires' warmth and light throughout the room.
It was then that an inappropriate thought flitted through his mind as he was studying the sleeping beauty fast asleep on the cot.
Even in sleep, she held a look of intelligence about her. He wondered if she knew her letters and could read, and if so if she would prefer a book or two. In the beginning, when he had first fled from home, his books were his only form of escapism. He read constantly, allowing himself to escape into the worlds of make-believe. He'd clung to the stories he immersed himself in and into his studies as well as though they were his lifelines. They kept him from going insane. Impatience erupted within his chest and bubbled to life within him like a solar flare.
His annoyance with the elder but good maester's lateness drove Domeric out in the hallway to begin the search for the maester himself, unwilling to wait for the boy that he had flagged down, though the action wasn't warranted, as Maester Banal and Tallanda rounded the corner.
He nearly skidded to a halt as he accidentally barreled into the chest of Maester Banal and jumped back hastily and apologized with a light pink blush coloring his cheeks.
He hesitantly lifted his gaze to find the elderly maester and the young handmaiden to Lord Karne Malver's wife, eyeing him with furrowed eyebrows.
Tallanda looked relatively close in age to the young stranger within the cloister cell which left Domeric feeling relieved. Perhaps, when she woke, the two women could bond and the lady from the sea would not feel so alone in a foreign land. Tallanda was tall and statuesque, standing at around almost six feet tall and as tall as most of the men on the island, though despite her height, it was not a detractor in men leering at her backside whenever she walked along the shores of the beaches or strolled through the streets of the marketplace.
The young woman's face was more than enough to attract an entire garrison of men to her side with just her face alone. She was quite pretty, with slightly sun-kissed skin and a light smattering of freckles that dusted along the bridge of her nose. Her hair was a mousy chestnut brown and rippled down her back in braided waves, and when she smiled, Domeric was sure no other woman held such a smile. He felt some of the tension that had gathered in his shoulders release as he rolled his neck to crack it and he spoke to the pair of them harshly.
"Took you long enough. What kept you, Maester Banal?" Domeric demanded, almost sounding angry with the aging maester as he narrowed his wintry blue eyes in incense and despair towards the maester, directing the worst of his vexation at the old man rather than sweet Tallanda.
"What has happened?" Maester Banal questioned with no small amount of judgment in his tone as his one good eye that still possessed the gift of sight remained fixed on Domeric.
He ignored Domeric's annoyance and line of questioning as his eyes looked Domeric Bolton up and down from head to toe slowly, his lips pursed into a thin white line and his thick white brows receded so far up onto his forehead they almost disappeared into his hairline.
"Why send for us? What did you do, milord?" he grunted.
"Don't. I'm not a lord, Maester," Domeric shot back with a harsh edge to his voice that had not been there before. He felt his hackles beginning to rise. "I negated that title when I left home. These days, I am nothing," he growled through gritted teeth.
He motioned with a wave of his arm for Maester Banal and Tallanda to follow him into the cloister cell, turning around sharply on his heels and not allowing himself a moment to witness the exchanging of looks passed between the two of them. Banal and Tallanda shuffled in behind him. He need not even turn around to know the two of them were shocked, as he heard the audible gasps of surprise both let out as soon as their eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room and they caught a glimpse of the unconscious stranger on the bed.
With surprising speed, Banal darted forward and began to examine the seemingly peacefully sleeping redhead with his one good hand. The other was palsied, had been since birth, and useless to him except to move things by nudging them. When most men like Banal would have been content to wither and rot away without the use of one of their hands, the good man had willed himself to heal, and in essence, had taken up the arts of healing and studied for years to become a maester. He was as good as an uncle figure to Domeric, and one that he looked up to.
If Maester Banal could thrive with only the use of one hand and a blind eye, then perhaps there was hope for him yet in procuring a cure for that which continuously ailed him.
Tallanda darted towards the woman's side.
"What is this?" she demanded in a hushed whisper under her breath, immediately feeling the redhead's arms and her forehead for any signs of moisture, sharply whiplashing her head back around to glower at Domeric.
"She—she washed up on the beach from a shipwreck, my lady, that's all I know, I do not know her name or her circumstances," Domeric blurted out, his words sounding clumsy and blunt.
He felt more than inadequate and ill-equipped to be in this situation as he struggled to search for the right words to explain the turn of events this morning had taken.
Inexplicably, he was reminded of a moment in his childhood, when Father had gifted him a book of war, famous accounts and the heroes whose names were cemented in history and the numerous battles they fought, all for a stake in power.
He had not particularly wanted that book at the time, but what did one say when they were given a gift? Thank You. But Domeric did not feel thankful at all for the sea's little 'gift' this morn. Not one bit.
"She's still alive, Maester Banal. Tallanda. Isn't she?" he asked hesitantly, noticing how Tallanda was already kneeling at the waist, clucking her tongue in disapproval.
Domeric inched his way forward for a closer look.
"Yes, Lord, but nearly frozen to the bone, her and her little one. I see she's been stripped of her wet things." The handmaiden's tone was curt. She was just as familiar with warming chilled victims as he and Maester Banal were. "She needs dry clothing, and quickly."
Ignoring Domeric's flushed cheeks and how the man all but almost barked at her not to call him lord, she gingerly took one of the young girl's hands in hers and gently held it between her palms, rubbing the delicate appendage in hopes of getting the blood moving again.
"Aye, what a blessed day this is, Lord Bolton. I've never known the gods to give a man like you this gift."
Domeric nearly choked on his tongue upon hearing her words and took a staggering step backward, feeling his chest constrict painfully, temporarily blinded by this new emotion raging within his chest right now. It took him a moment to realize it was rage.
A gift? That was bloody foolishness. The insult was ripped from him before his mind could fathom the bitter words he spat at Tallanda, annoyed with her meddling as his temper raged.
"That's ridiculous. I would hardly call this pregnant woman washing up on shore a gift." The edges of his thin lips curled up in a sneer. "You're meddlesome, Tallanda, you were aware of that, my lady, yes?" he barked at the handmaiden in a hoarse voice and was almost visibly surprised at how normal he sounded.
"I'm proud of it," she fired back without missing a beat.
The edges of Domeric's lips twitched. If Domeric would have been the sort of man who smiled and smiled often, he likely would have just then. He felt some hope swell in his chest as he harbored a genuine liking towards both Tallanda and Maester Banal.
The handmaiden and the maester both knew when to keep their respective distances and when to offer a hand in support.
At the moment, he would be the first to recognize that he genuinely needed both of their help.
"Well?" Tallanda quirked a thin brow at him as she straightened her gait and brushed her dark hair off her shoulders as she huffed in impatience. "You have not yet asked if your…guest…is all right?"
Domeric nodded, feeling a light pink blush speckle on his cheeks.
"Is she?" he asked, suddenly dreading the strange glint in Tallanda's eyes as she turned her gaze away from him for a moment and turned towards the maester.
"Yes, lord." Tallanda nodded and toyed with the ends of her braid and bit down on her bottom lip. "She is unconscious. For now. Shock most likely, but with plenty of rest, care, and attention, she and her babe are going to be fine."
Domeric stiffened and almost recoiled at the mention of the babe burgeoning within the woman's belly, but he caught himself.
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he steeled himself, forcing himself to remain stoic and expressionless, a look he remembered Father perfecting and, in some ways he supposed, as a defense mechanism, he had perfected it as well over the years, whether he wanted to or not.
He grimaced as he watched the pretty handmaiden and white-haired maester flinch. He knew what they were seeing. The shadow of the ghost of his father flitting across his gaunt features, he was sure of it. He did not even want to look into a mirror to confirm his suspicions.
He knew too well just who and what he was.
"You must do what you can to look after her, Domeric, the gods have gifted this woman to you to tend to and care for, consider this a test, young lord," Maester Banal spoke, the old man's expression as grim as a graveyard.
The kind-hearted maester's thin lips pursed into a rigid line as he clasped his hands over his rounding middle and fixed Domeric with a pointed stare that at first he did not know what to make of now.
Domeric felt what little color was left in his complexion drain and for a moment, all he heard was the sound of his blood roaring in his eardrums.
Suddenly, his ears were burning and when he swallowed down past a lump in his throat, it felt like he was swallowing knives. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and it was a chore to summon enough strength in his throat to address Banal. He forced out a bark of laughter that was dry and bitter.
"What you ask of me, Maester, is impossible. I cannot even tend to a bloody dog! To say nothing of care for myself! I cannot keep a—a—" he started to say, though it was the handmaiden who quickly interjected, rapidly losing her patience.
"A woman, Domeric," Tallanda bit out, frowning at Domeric as she sensed the man's growing discomfort with the turn their discussion was now taking. "A poor thing who is carrying a child. My gods, but you cannot even speak the truth, even when it lies plainly in front of your eyes!" she protested, wildly gesticulating with her hands towards the bed behind her, and glaring at Domeric in abject disbelief.
Panic flared to life inside Domeric as his gaze flitted between Maester Banal and Tallanda. These two were bloody serious. They expected him to keep this she-stranger who had mysteriously washed ashore. Not just keep her, but tend to her every waking need and nurture her back to health.
An impossible task.
He could barely care for his ailments, let alone a young woman carrying a babe to full term, who had, it seemed, suffered greatly at his brother's cruelty, if he believed the girl.
"She's not staying." He fought to keep the urgent edge out of his voice. "If you will not tend to her, Maester Banal, then I will take her into the village. Someone there could find it within themselves to care for her surely. I cannot, Banal."
But it was Tallanda who was vehemently shaking her head in protest, sending away his feeble protest.
"No. Moving her as she is right now would only be a terrible risk after the shock she's been through. She must remain here."
"But she—" Domeric seethed and quickly clamped his mouth shut so hard that his jaw ached.
He let out a haggard groan and sharply turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose with enough force in the hopes that he could squeeze out a simple solution that way, but nothing was coming to Domeric. Domeric did not dare want to admit it to himself, but she was right, gods damn the woman. If something terrible befell her or the life of the babe within her as a result of moving her from this cell prematurely, then Domeric knew he would feel responsible.
Always, he thought as an abrupt bitterness seeped into the pit of his stomach.
"It is the law of the gods," Maester Banal spoke in his ancient and warbling voice, running his weathered one good hand, his left, through his fading wispy white hair. "The gods have gifted her to you. You must accept it, and cherish her. Nurse her back to full health and ensure she carries the babe to term. She has no one else."
"No," Domeric answered immediately through gritted teeth. "I don't believe in the gods anymore, Maester Banal. I can't."
"You can and you will, and it does not matter what you believe. It is still true. There are things in this world that we have no control over and that we have no right to question. This girl's arrival is one of them. You will keep her, Dom." Tallanda scowled heavily at Domeric and set her hands on her hips.
Every cord in his pulled was pulled taut and tight as every single fiber in Domeric Bolton's body tensed and protested in almost painful denial. He would not—could not—accept this young woman into his world.
"No, Tallanda. She—she can't stay with me. It's not proper." Fear quickly turned Domeric's soft, tenor-like tones into a heavy whiplash of anger, and even he was surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice. "I cannot give this girl anything. Whatever it is you seem to be deluding yourself into thinking I can give her, help, love, hope, healing, whatever it may be, I can't. Do you not understand? There is nothing for her here with me, are you blind? She would stand a better chance down below in the seven bloody hells than to stay here with me! She has to go, Tallanda! I won't keep her!" he shouted angrily.
The words were ripped from his lips of their own accord before Domeric even fully knew what he was saying. His harsh statement rang with an undeniable truth that could not be overlooked and stemmed from the poisoned darkness inside of him.
The maester and the handmaiden exchanged a dark, knowing look with one another before collectively nodding their heads as if they had reached a silent agreement with one another. Domeric's suspicions were confirmed when they murmured a few low words to one another that was too faint for him to make anything out of what was being said.
Then, Tallanda cocked her head to the side and frowned.
Her eyes flared with a surprising intellect that startled him.
"You've made such arguments before, Domeric. They didn't hold with us then and it's certainly not going to now. You have no good excuse to turn her away. You will do what you must for this poor girl's sake. This child. And her babe. Years ago, my lord, you came to the Isles looking for an escape but you've let your life pass you by in the blink of an eye. The sea has given you a part of your life back. Do not waste this chance."
The two turned heels and left the room.
Domeric was floored, rooted to his spot, and unable to move, his shaking fingers curling into clenching fists at his side. There was no doubt in his mind that Tallanda knew what she had just done. In the years that he had lived here, no one dared to be as blunt and brazen as she had just been with him. Tallanda had crossed a nonnegotiable line of their friendship.
No one here in the Keep spoke to him of his past. No one. That was how he had coped.
By repressing it deep within himself and yet he could not escape it with each breath he took. He stalked out of the cell and into the corridor, shouting after Maester Balan and Tallanda who were already halfway down the hall.
"Stop! Gods damn you both to hell!" he roared at the top of his lungs, suddenly no longer caring if he roused the sleeping beauty within the room with his tone. "Get the hell back here and help me!"
The maester turned slightly to regard him just as the handmaiden veered sharply left to travel down the corridor that would take her back up the winding stone steps.
Maester Banal furrowed his brows in disapproval and pursed his lips as he shook his head.
"We cannot, lord. This young woman is now your charge and therefore, she is your responsibility. Look after her. The gods have put this girl in your path and are testing you."
And then, without another word and without bothering to look back behind him, he was gone.
Domeric ground his teeth and bit down on his tongue so hard that the taste of iron lingered on his palate. It took him a moment to realize it was his blood.
Forcing himself to swallow it back down, he pulled a face of disgust and took hold of the doorknob. He stood there rooted to his spot for a moment, wondering what in the seven bloody hells had become of his isolated and relatively quiet existence.
How it had become disrupted by the sleeping beauty in the cell. Then, in a fit of agitation, he thumped his forehead against the door, once, twice, thrice, four times. It didn't help.
And, just outside of this door, on the other side of the ancient carved oak wooden panel, the beautiful woman from the sea slept on, oblivious to his torment.