True to his word, Ser Domeric bought Sansa a grey palfrey and a saddle and more rope the morning they left Rosby. With the saddlebags split between two horses they could go faster, at a brisk trot.
"We should get to Duskendale in two days, my princess," he'd told her when they were clear of the village. "This horse looks a bit better than I had expected, we can push her a bit faster than I had thought to."
"Sansa," she broke in. "I insist you call me Sansa, ser."
"If you insist, my - " he stopped himself. "Sansa. Then I would ask you to call me Domeric. Or Dom, that's what my family calls me. Not my father, the rest of my family. And my friends." She couldn't see his face but she hoped he was smiling. "I'll have a hard time with that. You are my princess, Sansa."
"Domeric," she said, "I shall call you that." Domeric. Sansa liked the way his name felt, how her tongue grazed the roof of her mouth and her lips parted and closed and parted again when she spoke it. She ignored the last part. She could be his princess if he wanted. She was just glad the formality was gone.
It was good to be on the road, under the shining sun and clear sky, breathing in the clean coastal air again. Being outside and riding his horse seemed to greatly improve Domeric's mood from the night before.
It had all started out so well when they left the Rosby tavern's common room and went up the stairs. Domeric had followed her up, just two paces behind, and as they ascended the air around her seemed to crackle. With every step her heart seemed to double its pace, and when they reached the door she waited for a few moments for him to open it for her before realizing that she had kept it in her skirts the whole time. Embarrassed, she had fumbled with the key, and it took her a few tries to get it into the lock and turn it correctly. Then she turned the knob and Domeric held it open for her while she went inside, and then he barred the door behind him.
Sansa had gone to the Myrish glass to free her hair. It is not supposed to hurt. Shae would do this right. She removed the pearled net and the pins, one by one, and when the last pin came out, she caught Domeric's eyes in her reflection. Sansa smiled, and he smiled too. As she untied the thong around the end of her plait and unwound the sections from each other, her hands shook, and it felt like she had ten thumbs. She ran her fingers over her scalp and through her hair, and trying her best to only break his gaze for the shortest moment, and turned around to face him. Her chest and tummy were full to bursting with bubbles and bats, rising and popping and fluttering against her ribs in a pitter-patter that sounded in her ears and set her veins to tremors.
She was done with her hair, so she rose and went to him. "Thank you, ser," she said. "For the song... It was so lovely. You played so well." She wanted to tell him how much his song had moved her, how powerful his voice was, but doubtless he had already heard all of those things. She wanted to speak of Bran and Rickon and Arya how much it meant to her that there was someone who knew just how much she grieved for them, but the words would not come, they all died on her tongue. She felt so graceless. All she could say was 'lovely' and 'well'. So she looked up at him and hoped he could see it all on her face.
"It was my pleasure, princess," he said, and he was speaking softly again, like Domeric Bolton and not like the cheeky and confident Donner the hedge knight. His smile was tiny, just tugging up at the corners of his mouth, and his lips were parted the smallest amount. His pale eyes twinkled like glassy baubles, and overall his expression was very strange. He will kiss me now, she thought. I know he will. She did not think it possible but heart sped up even more, and the bubbles in her chest started floating and popping but more kept forming to take their place.
It wasn't ladylike at all, but Sansa took another step closer to him, because she wanted to get closer, and she lay a hand on his arm, because she wanted to touch him. Domeric was tall, but Sansa was tall too. The top of her head was at the level of his eyes, and he wouldn't need to bend down at all. She only had to tip her face up and stand on her toes a bit and they could be kissing. So she leaned forward off her heels, smiled up at him, and lowered her eyelids.
But he didn't move to kiss her. Instead she felt a finger under her chin and a breath on her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that Domeric wasn't smiling anymore, but he wasn't frowning, either. His eyes shone like moonstones, and they shifted from her eyes to somewhere by her ear, in and out of focus, and then he held her gaze. His mouth turned downward, and a furrow appeared in his brow. Then he picked a section of hair near the front, close to her face, and he wound it through two fingers and twirled it around his palm. Sansa's hair was long, so even when he had wound it around several times, there was still slack, and it did not hurt.
"Have a care for your honor, my lady," Domeric said, running his knuckles against her cheekbone. "Your honor, and mine." His touch left a trail of gooseprickles on her skin. Sansa felt her hair bounce against her face and fall away from his hand, and then the air moved. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the stiff strain in his voice was obvious, just like the melancholy in his pale face. "Have a care." Then he drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly, buried his nose in her hair and gave an audible sigh. His chest was hard and warm, and Sansa could feel his heart beating quickly too. After a time that felt too short, he unwound himself from her and spun her around. As she turned, her hip brushed the pommel of his sword and he gently pushed her away from him.
"We'll have an early day tomorrow, princess," he said. "You should rest now. I will look away so you may prepare for sleep."
Too confused to be disappointed, Sansa nodded meekly. She went to stand between the bed and the shuttered window and removed her boots and her gown. The shift was still clean; she could sleep in that. Then she placed her boots at the foot of the bed – Domeric had placed his bedroll on the floor – and hung her gown in the wardrobe and crawled under the furs until only her eyes and nose were out.
"Good night, ser," she said.
"Good night, princess," he replied. Then he drew the grate around the hearth so the light in the room was nearly gone.
But Sansa did not sleep. She couldn't. Not with her heart still pounding loudly in her ears like a drum in the deep. What did I do wrong? She wanted to ask, but Domeric didn't sound like he wanted to be talking anymore. So she feigned sleep as best she could and watched through half-closed eyes. A stripe of moonlight eked its way across the floor like milk spilled on stone, and in it she could see Domeric standing by the fire, eyes cast low. He went to sit in one of the chairs by the window and put his head in his hands for a moment, muttering something under his breath. Then he rose, rid himself of his swordbelt and his boots and tunic and breeches and made for the bath.
This is wrong, Sansa thought. I should not be watching now. She screwed her eyes shut and pulled the furs over her head, but she could not help but hear.
He entered the water with a perfunctory plunk. Then he cursed at the cold and she could hear him scrubbing himself down for a while. He cursed again. Then there was another plunk of him dunking under, and then a splash when he rose.
"Others take me," he said. Then she heard what must have been him toweling off, and then the pads of footsteps, and the shuffle of him entering the bedroll, and then silence.
She shouldn't have listened. She still had no answers. So Sansa slept.
The difference in Domeric's bearing as they trotted towards Duskendale was like summer and winter. There was no sign of sadness in him when he was play-acting Ser Donner Stone when they broke their fast, when he bought her palfrey, or all along the road.
It was another fine autumn day. They passed golden fields of wheat and corn and millet and barley, and beds of carrots and potatoes and all sorts of crops. They passed pastures and pens filled with livestock, copses of trees topped with brittle browns and blushing reds and happy yellows and flaming oranges, all waiting for the winter winds to strip them bare. Then the fields turned to limestone hills, and that was how they knew they were getting close. Ser Domeric kept looking over his shoulder, as if he expected Lannister soldiers to come crashing down the Rosby road to seize them both, but they never saw a single red cloak. Every few minutes they passed fellow travelers along the road, farmers with their carts or journeymen looking for work, but mostly they were left alone. Sansa let Domeric do the talking if talk was demanded.
"To find news," he said, but there was little and less to be had.
There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, What did I do wrong the foremost among them. But it was never the right time. It never seemed to fit in any of the conversations they had while riding or while eating lunch or even when they had made camp for the evening. They were all too happy. Sansa didn't want to ruin Domeric's good humor by raising a subject that would make him upset. Later, she kept saying to herself. Later. Don't spoil this.
They reached Duskendale by midmorning on the next day, or rather, they reached the Dun Fort. The Dun Fort was on the southern edge of the harbor's inner point, the curtain walls and drum towers and inner keeps obscuring the port town beyond.
"That's a weirwood," Sansa said. She could see the five-fingered red leaves just poking out from behind the pale, shimmery walls.
"Aye, the Dun Fort is ancient. It was the seat of the Kings of Duskendale from the days of the Hundred Kingdoms. The Darklyns. They were of First Men stock, and the old gods ruled here before the Andals came. The weirwood here is probably one of the oldest south of Harrenhal. Before King's Landing was built, Duskendale was the most important port between Maidenpool and Storm's End, and much blood was spilled over its control. The Darklyns were sworn to the Ironborn, the river kings, the storm kings, and the kings in the Narrow Sea, all at different times."
Sansa liked that about Domeric. He seemed to know everything that there was to know about everything. At Winterfell she had been the best at histories and letters, well, after Jon, but around Domeric she felt like she hadn't known anything at all. He knew not just what happened, but always had a story, a why, for every event in the past that he mentioned. He knew more stories about King's Landing and the Red Keep than she had, and she had lived there for over a year.
They rode around the Dun Fort and soon came to one of Duskendale's gates. A guard stopped them on their way in, and waved them through once Domeric explained their story.
"We'll stop at the Seven Swords in town. That's the big inn on the main square. We'll get a room there, for as many nights as we need before the next ship to Gulltown comes." Then Domeric furrowed his brow. "You should stay in the inn this afternoon. I have to ride to the battlefield and retrieve something I left there." Then he turned to face her. "We could get you something to work on for a few hours. Some parchment or a moleskine and a quill, or some fabric and thread. Would you like that?"
Sansa looked up at him on his tall red courser. She wouldn't like that. She wanted to go wherever he was going. "I… I would feel safer at your side, ser," she said.
But he shook his head. "You would be far safer inside, my lady. There may be looters and thieves about, to take what they can off the fallen. And I would not have you see where your father's men lay dead."
They rode on through the cobblestone streets of the town and Sansa mulled on his words. She remembered Domeric's sad song about Robb's war, how he had said that what the army had done in the Riverlands was terrible, how Robb had led the Northmen south for nothing, and was silent all the way up to their suite in the Seven Swords. They were fighting for us, she thought. And now they are dead. She bit her lip. I have seen dead men. I am here now. I will remember them.
"Domeric?" she said, while they were unpacking their things. When she said his name all the features of his face brightened.
"My lady?"
"I would see it. The battlefield. I would see the men who died for Robb and send them off to the gods. I would pray for their souls."
His smile withered away. Domeric studied her, his face inscrutable. "My princess, it will be dangerous." His tone was even. His voice was soft.
She did not flinch away from his gaze. He looks like Roose Bolton, she realized. She dismissed the thought. "I have been in danger. I will be safe with you."
Then his jaw twitched, and he let out a breath. "As my lady commands."
Domeric's shoulders tensed as he led their horses through the square in front of the inn. He breathed in with a sharp noise and stopped abruptly in front of a peddler hawking armor picked off the dead from the battle, who had many pieces to sell. Thieves and looters, Sansa thought. Perhaps not so many anymore.
"That sword. And the pine tree rondels. I will buy them."
"You again? One dragon." Domeric narrowed his eyes at the peddler and made the exchange.
Sansa was silent again until they existed the town and they mounted up. "Did the peddler know you?"
"Aye. I sold Rhaegar's mail to him."
"Why did you buy the sword and rondels?"
Domeric did not turn to look at her. "They belonged to Ser Helman. I knew them on sight. They belong to Eddara Tallhart now. Or her mother. I will bring them home." His voice was very tight. "I had hoped he had lived but the rumors of his death have proven true."
Sansa rode up next to him and laid a hand on his arm. "We will remember him." Sansa had known Helman Tallhart. He was always a gracious host whenever the Starks visited Torrhen's Square.
"Aye," he said. He was sad.
They rode by the sea north of the town. On the beach there was a large cairn of rocks, more than three times the size of the sept at Winterfell. In front of the cairn there was a driftwood plank staked into the gravel. Carved in rough lettering were the words HERE LIE THE WOLVES.
"This is where we will pray," she said. Domeric helped her dismount, and when she knelt, he followed. Sansa touched the rocks of the cairn.
"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell," she said. "You came away from your homes to fight for the name of Stark, and you died for it. On behalf of my house I thank you for your valor. Of you all I only knew Ser Helman Tallhart, Master of Torrhen's Square, a kind man, and brave, but none of your deaths shall be forgotten. May the gods care for your souls as we all smile on your memories. House Stark will remember."
"The North remembers," Domeric added softly. "I am sorry," he said to the cairn, bowing his head. After that they knelt in silence for a few more moments, and when Sansa stood, Domeric helped her onto her horse. He wore a look of plain dismay on his face. He was thinking of the dead he had left again, she knew. It wouldn't do well to disturb him.
He led the way to wherever he was going, and neither said a word for near on an hour.
They were riding up a slope, through what looked like it had once been farmland. Now the ground underfoot was a muddy mess and it did not seem fit for growing anything. Every so often they passed burned-out hovels, or mills that had been torn apart. When the wind came off the hills Sansa could smell the ghosts of smoke. They must have burned it, Sansa thought. She remembered how bountiful the lands south of Duskendale had looked. It will be a long time before these fields return to how they were. They are ruined. How awful.
"They deserved better," Domeric said abruptly, as they neared a burned-out hovel that looked much the same as the rest. "Ser Helman and the rest. They shouldn't have been sent to fight here. And they should be buried at home. In a lichyard by a godswood, or in a crypt where weirwood roots can reach them. A marker with each of their names. Not thrown together under a pile of rocks on some southern beach." His voice sounded bitter.
He stopped and dismounted and tied his red courser to a tree with a gash in its bark, and took a spade out of a saddlebag. Then he helped Sansa off her palfrey and tied it to the tree too. His eyes were far away. Even with his hands around her waist it did not feel like he was totally present. Finally, he went into the hovel and shoved a broken bed against one of the crumbling walls and started to dig.
As the piles of loose dirt came up he spoke again. "My uncles. Lord Willam and Ser Mark. They died in the south, after the last war. In Dorne. They went with your father to find the Lady Lyanna and bring her back. Then they died, just like her. They were left in cairns like that. In Dorne. Your father told my aunt Barbrey. That's where they are. Under cairns in southern sand. We always wanted their bones back." More piles of dirt came up to reveal something black in the hole, and the bitterness in Domeric's voice only deepened.
"But we can't bring them back. Not any of them. I don't know which one Ser Helman is. Lady Tallhart and Lady Eddara will only ever have his sword and those two rondels. Just like my aunt only ever got Lord Willam's horse. And we got nothing back of Ser Mark."
Sansa wondered if there was anything she could say and laid a hand on his shoulder. "They died heroes' deaths, ser," she said, "and they will receive heroes' honors." She did not know if she was speaking of his uncles or Ser Helman. She did not know what honors those would be. She'd speak to Mother and Robb and they'd come up with something. But she had to say something, for him.
Domeric looked back at her, and his face was tight with something that looked like gratitude or shame. "Heroes," he said, his tone wistful. Then his eyes softened and once again he looked sad. "Thank you, princess. Sansa."
He was done digging now. Domeric began to take the black things out of the hole, and it was clear that they were a kit of armor. There was also a bundle of fine clothing in Bolton colors. He set aside the clothing, and one by one, he deliberately laid the pieces of armor on the bed in the shape of a man, fitting them together so as to make sure all the parts were there. The kit looked to be his size. It was clear it was his.
He needed something to distract him, so Sansa changed the subject. "Your armor is quite striking, ser. You must appear so fearsome when you face your foes. And the work is very impressive."
Nothing she had said had been a lie. Domeric's armor was black plate from tip to toe, engraved with blood red enamel. Having been buried, it was dusty now, but she knew that when he cleaned it properly it would all shine. The sabatons and greaves and gauntlets and vambraces bore carvings made to resemble the bones of the feet and fingers and shins and forearms, and the couters and rerebraces and poleyns and cuisses were likewise carved to look like skinless muscle. The pauldrons and the tassets were skinless muscle too, and the rondels were all embellished with little flayed men or grinning skulls. The gorget was plain, but the helm sported a tail of blood red horsehair, and on the shoulders were two horses' heads with flashing red rubies for eyes. They were both chomping at the bit, their teeth clamping down on his heavy pink greatcloak which lay unfurled beneath it all. But by far the most beautiful piece was his black breastplate, undeniably a work of art. Here the engravings depicted skin being peeled away from the chest to reveal a broken cage of ribs, at whose center was a heart. It's bleeding, Sansa realized. It's bleeding rubies. She wanted to giggle but she stayed silent.
He is the flayed man. The one being tortured. It was something only a Bolton would wear. All his enemies would fear him, Sansa thought. They would quake just to look at it. She smiled. No one would ever hurt a lady whose lord looked like that. No one would ever hurt Lady Bolton.
Domeric straightened at her words. "I designed it myself, my lady," he said. Did he? How morbid. How wonderful! She could see his chest puffing up a bit. That was wonderful too. "I am glad you think well of it."
"It is a beautiful kit, ser. You have a talent."
"The smith had a talent. I just told him what I wanted."
Domeric was much more affable on the ride back to town. There saw hardly anyone on the trail, so they could speak freely, speak as themselves. She asked him a few more questions about his armor, because many men liked talking about their armor, and he was no different. He was very enthusiastic about the subject, she found.
Lord Bolton had commissioned it from a master smith in White Harbor when Domeric had sent a raven home with the news that he'd been knighted and would be returning to the Dreadfort soon. He hadn't brought the whole thing with him; there were a few extra pieces made special for the joust which had been left at Harrenhal. When the war had broken out, he'd been in the Vale, and he'd been planning to attend a tourney at Wickenden to celebrate the wedding of Lord Waxley's only daughter, but he'd needed to go to Moat Cailin instead.
"Have you ever ridden in a tourney, ser?"
"Only squire's tourneys. Never as a knight."
"But you'd been a knight for two years, before the war. You could have ridden then."
"Aye, but I had duties at the Dreadfort. The only tourneys in the North are at White Harbor, and Lord Manderly's next major nameday isn't for years and years. Might be he'll host one when Lady Wynafryd is wed. If he can afford it after the war."
"You could have ridden at the Hand's Tourney for my father."
"I thought about it."
"Why didn't you come?"
They were only a few minutes away from the town walls now. Domeric stopped his horse.
"Because if I had won there would have been a scandal."
"A scandal?"
"Aye. The worst kind. Can't very well crown another man's betrothed, much less the Crown Prince's." He was smirking at her.
Sansa's eyes widened at that, and there were bubbles in her heart again. That was me! He's loved me since before the Hand's tourney! For more than a year…
She opened her mouth wide to say something but he had started off on the trail back to Duskendale again. When she sped after him, she could hear him chuckling.
