A mile from where Domeric Bolton had made his home and a life for himself on the island, white and purple thunderclouds loomed in the distance above Domeric Bolton's head, though the true-born noble son of Lord Roose Bolton paid the weather no mind.
The salt in the air from the sea could barely disguise the smells of rotting meat and heavy spices used to disguise that little-known fact from the village that he had trudged through to reach the shoreline of the beaches.
Domeric crinkled his nose and pulled a face of disgust as he looked towards the rising sun. The water sparkled as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the clouds were kissed into brilliant white light by the sun. They moved south towards the ocean, together but independent. Gaps between the clouds would widen and close, one would slide under the other, and the clouds above him were constantly changing shape.
When he was a boy, he used to make out various shapes in the clouds, but not anymore, as a man. Most days, Domeric preferred not to look. Not to feel. It was better that way. If he looked too long, his mind would take him down a familiar dark path he would rather not venture. It had seemed so long ago that he had done the unthinkable and fled home to escape the life that his lord father wanted for him, for not a single day went by with Domeric being reminded of what vicious bloody cunts his father and brother had become, hungry for power. Lord Roose Bolton had always been a reviled and feared man, the Warden of the North, but…Lord Father was dead now.
He was murdered by his brother if Domeric believed the rumors. His chambers that he occupied within the Keep where he took pride in his work at assisting the Keep's maester, were nestled tightly within its cold stone walls.
Various knick-knacks from his travels throughout his freedom, once he had fled Dreadfort to forge a new path for himself, covered the many bookshelves in his rooms. The forlorn man had woken not long ago from another nightmare.
Mother's face, and Father's too, and of faking his death. What his family must think of him if his brother thought about him at all these days? He'd woken, troubled, and in pain from his usual ailments of the stomach that only continued to worsen depending on his moods and diet, he'd risen out of bed. Sleep would not be returning for him. In a groggy stupor, not wishing to return to the realm of sleep when he knew what awaited him there, he quietly slipped out of the Keep and had chosen to take a walk on the shores of the beaches in the hopes of clearing his mind and settling the rolling of his stomach.
Though it was taking him much longer than expected. Domeric Bolton's pale face was illuminated by the pink and red luscious sunrise that was not at all phased by the threat of the encroaching storm clouds.
Deep purple shadows clung to the skin underneath both of the young man's eyes, indicating just how sleepless he was. He was sure that he had not received a full night's rest in moons. He was working himself to death to avoid dwelling on memories.
The wind ruffled his wavy shadow raven black hair gently, and the man's already thin lips held a deep line that only deepened by the second, creating a groove near the edges of his mouth that was not at all attractive on the sallow-faced man's features in this bright light.
He halted in his footsteps, a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the coming storm caught at Domeric. The disturbance in the air was like feeling the breath of the Stranger himself, breathing down the back of his neck.
It stuffed the chills down his spine and throat and he was not sure what made him catch his eye to spot the mass of seaweed and remnants of what looked to be a shipwreck, having washed up on shore. He furrowed his dark brows in confusion. Shipwrecks here on the Isle of the Three Sisters were not exactly an uncommon occurrence. Thick strands of brown kelp shrouded a shape that looked entirely too large to be a dead seal or beached fish from the oceans. Animals, unlike people, knew better than to carry on for too long.
Domeric stared numbly at the shape on the beach for several minutes to see if it would move. As he was unable to tear his gaze away from the odd mass on the ground a few feet in front of him, he felt…something. Though what it was, he could not immediately say.
A dull knife twisted in his gut…but what was it? Not pain. Not interest, gods no. But…inevitability. Perhaps even…even destiny. For a moment, his eyes widened in abject shock.
He scowled as the foolish thought flitted through his mind, and he felt his feet begin to move as if by memory towards the object. His feet in his boots were no longer taking direction from his mind, which was screaming at him to turn and flee the scene.
Remnants of whatever had washed up on shore were not his business. Scavengers would likely pick over what was left if anything was salvageable.
Turn around...turn around... His mind was practically screaming the command to him, drowning out all other sounds, but it was perhaps the one command that Domeric could not bring himself to obey. He covered the distance between himself and the mass of seaweed at the beach's edge with an alarming speed that surprised even himself.
He dropped to his knees and drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs. He went stock-still and afraid, like a deer caught in the sights of an arrow.
His catlike green eyes went flat, the way an animal did when deciding how best to deal with its fear as Domeric thought for a moment. Domeric Bolton had been a man who had been afraid for a very long time, though no one on the island would believe it.
To the people in the Keep and the Isle of the Three Sisters, Domeric Bolton was solid, rugged, and uncompromising as the sea. People always called him strong, fearless, and afraid of nothing. If only they could know how he had fooled them all.
He was only thirty summers, but he felt ancient. His body continued to betray him as the days passed Domeric by in a waking daze.
Now, he stood in front of the mass utterly alone, and the fear twisted his insides into a dull ache.
He did not understand why this could be so. Surely, it was just a beached seal or a—
The thought immediately left the flustered man's reeling mind as his skittish eyes caught the sight of something familiar within the heap of drenched kelp in front of him. He felt what little color was left in his face start to drain.
Seven bloody hells. Oh, gods, oh sweet Stranger, how could this happen?
Without even thinking, as the chill of the soaked sand began to seep through his robes, his hands began to shake and grow clammy, something Domeric had not anticipated as he struggled to decide where to start, though his hands did not seem to want to consult his brain regarding this precarious position he now found himself in.
Domeric felt as nervous as a groom on his wedding night, plucking off bits of kelp as a groom would pull back the veil of a bride to reveal the sweet mystery of her lovely features. He drew in a sharp breath of chilled air that pained his lungs as he plucked a strand of seaweed in between his thumb and forefinger to reveal a barefoot.
Her foot was as cold as ice, yet delicate. His hands kept working despite the shock that was welling in his veins, snaking its way to his heart and winding its icy cold tendrils around the feeble quivering damned bloody muscle that was his heart.
His movements were frantic and laced with panic and dread, the sound of the blood of his heart now roaring in his ears. His heart was in his throat as his eyes made a quick scan of a skinny calf that was pale and dotted with a light smattering of freckles, which was almost a stark contrast against the person's lifeless bone-white ivory skin. Domeric clenched his teeth and swore under his breath.
He used to talk to the Gods, and prayed to the Seven, though now, he swore to no one in particular. The gods were sly cunts if they could do this to a person. It felt as though the air itself had turned still in terror right alongside Domeric. He had come to the very ends of the realm hoping to escape his past, and he could not escape it. He could not help thinking about it from time to time and now was no exception as he realized what the sea had gifted him today. A young woman, and a beauty. His violently quaking hands moved upward and uncovered her face. Domeric immediately wished that he had not, for when he caught a glimpse of her face, he knew now why it was that he had felt so compelled to turn and flee the beach a moment ago. An angel, a goddess from the heavens, died on the beach today.
The endless strands of dark red hair flowed around her head like a halo, and her face alone had been sculpted by every artist who ever hoped to turn marble into poetry. Her beautiful face was one that hopeful dreamers imagined when they believed in miracles.
But this beauty was dead, her soul departed from this earthy coil and returned to the realms of the goddesses and angels where she belonged. Where she should have never left at all. Domeric did not want to touch her, though his hands did.
His idiot shaking hands. Gingerly, he stretched out a hand and tugged at one of her bony shoulders gently, at the same time, moving the mast to which she looked to have been tied down too. He could see her fully now, from head to toe.
He felt the blood drain from his face. This woman, whoever she was, was pregnant. His heart dropped to the pit of his churning stomach as bile rose in his throat. Rage surged through him like a thunderbolt. Why were the gods such vicious and bloody cunts? Was it not enough that the gods had seen fit to take this beautiful young woman, but the babe within her belly had been taken? Two lives had been snuffed out by the gods' cruelty, by the cruelty of the wall-sized waves that had filled this woman's lungs with nasty seawater.
"I…I'm alive…" she echoed in a small and meek voice that was barely above a whisper. "I guess…that's something. You...you're not...him?" she whispered, staring up at him with azure eyes as round as saucers. The look of incredulous disbelief flaring to life in her features was almost too much for him to bear.
She spoke not a word after her brief statement but began to convulse violently and uncontrollably. She felt like a fish out of water, thrashing the way that she was, desperate for air, and it was all Domeric could do to try to keep from dropping her.
She needs to be inside, in warm clothes. She'll freeze to death without help. A faint voice chimed a warning bell in his mind, and it was more than enough to spur the young master into action as he rose to his feet and turned his heel, and ran.
He ran faster than he ever had before in his life, and as he ran, he was struck to the bone with a cold and debilitating fear that the gods had just brought something new and extraordinary into his life, whether Domeric wanted it or not. He skidded to a halt as he stopped for a moment in the middle of the marketplace and nearly barrelled over a passing vendor who barked at him to mind his step, though he paid him no mind. The girl in his arms muttered something incoherently under her breath about a man and he thought he heard a curse.
As he looked down at her, Domeric frowned at the mistrust brimming behind the stranger's deep blue eyes. A part of him could not bear it, and she began to squirm in his arms in a feeble effort to shirk away from him, perhaps to free herself. Something was wrong.
Something more than just how she had come to be washed up on shore. He vowed to find out what ailed this woman. It was obvious by the way she was eying him wearily with such mistrust and perhaps even venom, that he harbored a physical resemblance to one who had harmed her. Rage curdled his blood at the thought of any man daring to so much as lay a finger on this gentle dove.
"Who, Lady?" he whispered, his curiosity piqued as he tilted his head to the side as he looked down his nose at the woman in his arms. "Who do I look like? You have very obviously been injured, but by whom? Who could put this much fear into your eyes, Lady?" he growled, anger swelling within him at just the notion. He exhaled a shaking breath as he felt the mysterious redhead violently tremble in his arms and forced himself to remain calm. "Please. I can help you, but you must be honest. This man who has hurt you, Lady. Tell me his name?" he asked her softly, hoping his tone was non-judgmental and soothing to her.
It was apprehension and fear that kept the woman silent for a moment. For a moment, he thought she was not going to speak again, though her cracked lips that were tinged blue parted just slightly, and her first attempts at speech were garbled as she coughed up the last remnants of seawater in her lungs. When her throat was cleared, she tried again. Her voice was so faint and barely above a whisper, that Domeric was certain he had misheard her at first. She spoke a man's name that when uttered, instantly stuffed the chills down his throat.
Her voice was so faint and barely above a whisper, that Domeric was certain he had misheard her at first and as she spoke, he felt all the blood drain from his face as she spoke the name of a man whom Domeric had long thought lost to him.
"Ramsay Bolton."
