The sun was low when they got back to the inn. While Sansa bathed, she watched it sink out of the purple sky into the grey-green sea, a great orange disc disappearing under the horizon. They had one of the best rooms in the Seven Swords, on the topmost floor and with a splendid view of Blackwater Bay.

"My lady?" Sansa could see Domeric's silhouette behind the screen separating the tub from the rest of the room. She hadn't heard him come upstairs. He had been in the common room listening for news.

"Ser?"

He was silent for a moment and then spoke slowly. "There is a beach under the cliffs where the tides don't reach all the way. Between the harbor and the Dun Fort. The lights from the town and the castle and the lighthouse reflect off the water and keep it bright enough to see. We could eat there, instead of the common room. Or up here. Whatever you would like, my lady."

Eating outside meant that they wouldn't have to play-act as a sellsword and a seamstress anymore. She wouldn't have to wear the hairnet, she could just be Sansa, and Domeric didn't have to put on any funny airs. And maybe he will give me a kiss…

"I would like that, ser. Thank you."

Even behind the screen could see him brighten at her response. "Excellent," he said. "We'll go after I've had my bath."

The beach between the town and the Dun Fort was covered in fine sand, mottled black and white. It was much nicer than the beach north of the town where the Stark army had been laid to rest. To the east was the sea, a rippled black mirror that shone jade green under the glow of the lighthouse. To the south, on the limestone cliffs above the sea, sat the Dun Fort, watching the town and the port and the harbor from above. The Dun Fort's outer curtain walls stretched around far, far behind them, splitting off to the west to wrap around Duskendale and shield city and castle alike. As Domeric dismounted and helped her off his horse, Sansa felt a twinge if sadness that the short, slow ride was over. She'd ridden behind him, the satchel with their food and wineskin strapped to her back, her arms winding around him to clasp together at his front. Sansa had relished the feeling of pressing so tightly against him, for he hadn't worn any armor, and she had felt the hard muscles of his sides and back through his tunic.

The only other time she'd ever touched a man so closely was when the Hound had saved her during the bread riot, but it hadn't been half so pleasant. Here on the beach at Duskendale there weren't any angry, shouting smallfolk, no flying rotten fruits or grabbing hands. It was just Sansa and Domeric, and it was quiet. It was safe.

Domeric dismounted and helped her off his horse. Rhaegar, she thought giddlily. How funny. We're dragonriders. She reveled in the feeling of his hands on her waist and her hands on his shoulders. For those brief moments they were closer than if they were dancing. Dancing was better on the whole, though. Dancing lasted longer. Oh, how wonderful it would be, to dance with him! Perhaps they would, once they got to Runestone.

He took the satchel from her and spread the saddle blanket on the ground, far up from the reach of the sea, with cliffs and rocks and caves at their back. A short and skinny tree was growing in the sand, and that was where he tied his horse. Their red dragon. Rhaegar. He bade her sit, and so she sat, and he did too.

Domeric opened the satchel and produced a wineskin and bundles of food wrapped in linen napkins. He unwrapped the bundles, shook out the napkins, and handed one to her. She spread it over her lap as he began to unpack the food.

"They're pies," he said. "Beef and fish and apple and berry. I – I know you like lemon but they didn't have any – "

"They're perfect," Sansa said. "Thank you, ser."

He cut the meat pie and fish pie in half with his knife, and handed her one of each. His hands are beautiful, she thought. His fingers are so long. Graceful. In the moonlight they were white, snow white, like ice spiders. Sansa broke off a piece of the beef pie and put the rest in her lap. They ate in silence, staring at the moon on the sea.

"Have you ever been to the sea before?" he said, after a while. "On the waves, or on a ship?"

Sansa shook her head. "No," she said. "I have been to White Harbor, but never on a ship on the waves. I have seen Blackwater Bay. The Tyrells took me sailing on a river barge on Blackwater Rush, and I went on a riverboat with Robb and Uncle Edmure when I was at Riverrun a few years ago."

"Riverrun," he repeated. "Sansa?" He was staring at her. "Will you be happy? When we reach your family?"

His question came when she was still chewing. He looked embarrassed at this, but she nodded in acknowledgement. The chewing gave her time to think. Was she happy? She hadn't really thought about her family since he sang their song at Rosby, except for the brief moments they'd spent praying by the cairn on the beach.

"I will be glad to see my mother again," she said slowly after swallowing, "but I do not know how I am going to speak to Robb. It seems as if he will be so different now. As if I will be meeting a stranger. Or as if I had lost all three of my brothers at Winterfell instead of just two, and my sister. As if someone else will stand there in my brother's body. My king, but not my brother. I fear I will not know him."

Sansa's throat was dry. She turned to look for a flask of water, a wineskin, but she couldn't find one. As if he knew her thoughts Domeric produced his wineskin from his hip and handed to her. Their fingers brushed on the neck. Sansa took a sip.

"Robb… he was my hero. When we played monsters and maidens with Arya and Jon, Robb would always be my champion. Arya would be Jon's squire. When Old Nan would tell us frightening stories, it was Robb who would hold me if I would start to cry. Robb was always there. I don't remember a time without him. I don't remember a time without Arya either, but I would always quarrel with Arya. I rarely quarreled with Robb. Robb I knew best. He was there the longest. Bran and Rickon, I love them, but I remember when they were babies, when they were born. I got to know Bran some, but we were always doing different things when he became old enough to truly talk, and Rickon… he never got the chance to get that far." When she finished, she didn't feel like speaking anymore.

Domeric was still staring at her. "I lost young brothers too, you know," he said after a few long moments. She hadn't known. She shook her head. She'd only ever heard that Lord Bolton had one trueborn son. "They were all babies, when they died. I never got to know them, either. Not even the last. Roger. He died during the Greyjoy Rebellion. My mother died then too. A fever took them both." He looked at the moon.

"My mother… her name was Beth. Bethany Ryswell Bolton. She named Roger after her brother. Roger Ryswell. My uncle. He had a daughter a few moons before. Another Bethany Ryswell. Another Beth. Roger Bolton and Beth Ryswell. Because Beth Bolton and Roger Ryswell loved each other very much. They were each other's favorite siblings. Mother told me so. Uncle Roger too. Now… there's just Roger Ryswell and little Beth, and Beth Bolton and little Roger are both gone.

"I know well my cousin Beth. She's around your age. But my brother Roger, I never… I never got to know him. He was talking, walking when he died. Always chasing after me through the halls of the Dreadfort. He wanted to play with me. I never wanted to play with him. He could talk, but he didn't have anything to talk about. He could walk, but he couldn't run fast enough for me. Or ride a pony. All I ever wanted to do was ride my pony." Domeric took a long breath in and let a long breath out.

"If I had known – if I had known what was going to happen – I would have just played with him. I wish…" His voice, as always quiet, had trailed off into silence. Sansa took his hand in both of hers and looked into his eyes. They shone brighter and paler than the moon. The muscles in his jaw were twitching.

"You wish that you had spent more time with him," she said. "You wish you could have just been there for him like he wanted you to. That you could have accepted him as he was. That you had been a better brother." His eyes widened and he nodded. "I wish… I wish I had been a better sister. That I had held Rickon more, and told him that I loved him every chance that I could. I wish that I had spent more time with Bran, and that I hadn't fought with Arya. I wish I had realized how important they were to me." Sansa released his hands and ate the last piece of berry pie to swallow the pain in her throat and quell the quaking in her voice.

There was more silence after that.

"Ser," she said, "you did not finish your pie."

"I have not," he said, picking up the last bite. "Would you like it? Better for you than for the birds." Sansa nodded. "Here, then."

Domeric picked up the last piece of berry pie and Sansa put out the palm of her hand. But his hand bypassed hers, and paused about the height of her shoulder. Their eyes locked, then, and he pressed his mouth into a line, and his gaze darted to her mouth for a moment. A crease appeared between his brows as if in question.

Sansa's eyes widened. She smiled at him and then opened her mouth, sticking her tongue out just a little.

His lips quirked upward and his hand began to move again. Too slow, Sansa thought, he's moving too slow. Her heart began to beat like the wings of a bat. Eventually his fingers met her mouth. They brushed her bottom lip and against her tongue before releasing the piece of pie and pulling away. As she swallowed the flaky crust she watched him suck the berry juices off his fingers.

His mouth is very pretty, she thought, and when he opens it, his pretty voice sings pretty songs.

Domeric tilted his head and stretched his neck. The joints between his bones cracked and he sighed. Then he extended his legs forward, one after the other, pointed and rolled both ankles, one after the other. Then he turned his face towards her once more.

"Did you enjoy your supper, my lady?" Sansa nodded wordlessly.

"Shall we be leaving, then?" She shook her head. Not yet…

"There is business you have here?" She only stared at him, pursing her lips. "My lady awaits some sign from the Moonmaid or the Stallion?" The stars were very pretty, but Sansa did not search for their signs tonight. She shook her head once more.

"My lady would like a kiss." He had been teasing her again. Her face must have been so red…

"Am I right?" Sansa nodded like a little lamb.

Domeric took her hand and then brought it to his lips, kissing her just below the knuckle of her middle finger. Then he met her eyes.

"My lady was expecting something else." Another nod. Her voice had left her. Maybe it had flown away with the seabirds, or she had swallowed it with the pie…

He shifted closer to her on the blanket and braced his hand on the ground. Then his other hand tipped up her chin and his face came very close, so close she could feel his warm breath on her skin. The bat in her heart was very loud in flight. Domeric held her gaze for another moment and then closed his eyes, brow furrowing. When they opened, he exhaled in a cool puff, released her chin, and leaned upward to kiss her forehead. Then he touched the tips of their noses together and pulled back.

"That was not what my lady wanted either."

No, it wasn't. Sansa bit her lip in disappointment. Again, she thought, staring at the sand. Did I do something wrong again?

Domeric sighed again, but then he slung his arm around her shoulder and drew her next to him. Sansa was very confused. With his other hand he tipped up her chin once more. "I could not kiss my lady love," he said, "elsewise I would not bring her back. I would take her away with me, but my lady love wants to see her mother." He closed his eyes again. "And 'twould be dishonorable to kiss the bride of another man."

Sansa blinked. What? She found her voice again. "Robb has… promised me?" She was so confused. "To whom?"

"None yet. But he will. And not to me."

Sansa felt a snake of dread slither around her throat. It started to squeeze. "You are promised then." No. No. No. It is not supposed to be this way.

"No."

"Then… why… Robb…" I am a Stark and I am brave. "You saved me. Robb must give me to you. It's… how it works… You're a hero… who saved a princess…"

"Not a hero," he said. "And I haven't saved you yet. We're not at Runestone yet."

"But once we get there – Robb must – "

"Kings do what they will," he said, gently again. "And he will not give you to me."

Oh, how she felt so naked. Worse than naked! She felt like she didn't have any skin at all, like he had peeled it all away to reveal the workings of her flesh, her wildly beating heart. There was no point in keeping any secrets from him now.

"But – but – " Sansa bit her tongue and steeled herself. "You're a hero. My hero. It's what I want. I want to be your reward. Because you were the one who took me away when no one else did." She inhaled sharply. "You called me your lady love. Do you not love me? I thought – I thought – you came – for my hand…"

Domeric clenched his jaw, and opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then he spoke and tightened his arm around her shoulders. "I would like that, my lady, my love, I swear it," he said. "but it cannot be. I dare not ask."

"You dare not even ask? Not even just to try?"

"I dare not, for I would be wroth enough to draw blood when His Grace denies me, and he would. And it would not end well." He rubbed his temple. "What is my name, Sansa Stark?"

"Domeric Bolton."

"And you know your histories? Of my family and yours?"

Of course she did. She wasn't stupid.

"The Boltons bent the knee to the Starks during the Andal invasion. The last Red King was Rogar the Huntsman, who swore himself to Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. The King of Winter. Ever since Karlon Stark defeated Donner Bolton a thousand years ago, the Dreadfort has been steadfastly loyal to Winterfell and never rebelled again." I am not stupid. I am not stupid. I am not stupid, she reminded herself, over and over and over, but she wasn't sure she believed it.

Domeric gave her a wan smile and touched her hand. "Aye, my lady. Your maester taught you well. But that is not what I meant. The Boltons have never been steadfastly loyal. Less than a hundred years ago, during Dagon Greyjoy's Rebellion, my thrice-great grandfather Bartimus was planning to take Winterfell. I know, I read his journal, my father showed it to me one day. Bartimus Bolton would have succeeded if Lonnel Snow and his crannogmen had not swept in to defeat the Ironmen and the ruling Lady Lorra Stark from the succession crisis threatening her son, Lord Donnor Stark. Lady Lorra was the mother to Lord William, Lord Rickard's grandfather. But you know that."

Sansa did know. She'd seen William and Donnor and his father Beron and even Jonnel in the crypts, and Maester Luwin had gone over this story. "Because of Lonnel Snow, the Ryswells no longer needed the Boltons, and Bartimus never got the chance to act on his plans." Domeric laced his fingers through hers, and they were very warm.

Oh, he was being so confusing! He was holding her so gently, but his words were ruining everything. She could have dissolved into his touch like sugar in tea if not for the cold shock of the tales he told. He was pulling her closer and pushing her away, all at the same time, and she did not like it.

"So you see, my lady, we Boltons have bent the knee, but we have never been loyal. And for that reason we are not trusted. You might have thought that when the Boltons were finally subdued that the King in the North would have taken a bride, to bind the two together, like they did with the daughters of the Barrow Kings, the Warg Kings, the Marsh Kings? But it did not happen, and we are not trusted like the Reeds and the Dustins. Why? I do not know. Perhaps my blood is tainted, or cursed." His hands were so gentle, but his words were so harsh. Not just harsh, stupid! What did that matter? That was all hundreds, thousands of years ago. She didn't care about a thousand years ago, of the Red Kings of old. She cared about now. She cared about him.

"My father… Nobody trusts my father. Not truly. They need him for his cunning and his skills, but nobody wants him around. He unsettles people, and I unsettle people because I am his son. They believe he keeps the old ways, the Bolton ways, and they think it of me too, unless they come to know me better."

"I do not care," Sansa protested. "You are not your father. There's nothing wrong with you, or your blood. I know you have no part in whatever they did… They can't hold that against you. I trust you. You saved me. You are good… You are different. Kind and brave. A true knight. And you sing, and you play music, and you care about everyone, and you are… you…"

Even if you were like the rest of them, I would not care.

"Even if your brother saw all that, or your mother did, my lady, it would make no difference. They could not give your hand to me. Not when they need it to make a peace." He inhaled shakily. "Your brother cannot win this war. He must bend the knee, for the good of the North. The Riverlands. His kingdom. There must be a peace with the Lannisters and the Crown if any of us are to survive the winter."

Domeric tightened his hug around her, and squeezed the fingers twined through hers. "I do not like it either. They will send you to Highgarden and Willas Tyrell, or perhaps to Lancel Lannister at the Rock. I do not want that."

"Ser Lancel is injured," Sansa said. "He may not yet live." She hadn't wanted him to die, but she didn't want to marry him…

"Highgarden then." Domeric inhaled again. "Think of it this way, princess. We could be like… like Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight. I wouldn't have to marry, I could be your shield instead, or go to the Wall, Walda's son could have the Dreadfort – "

No, Sansa thought. No, no, no. He cannot say this. I will not believe it. I will not give up.

"But we're going to the Vale… They will help. Aunt Lysa will help. All of her lords will help. I'll make them see. We will. We'll help Robb win. He wouldn't need to surrender, and then he… he couldn't deny you… us."

"Sansa," he started gently. "My love. How do you think the Vale would be raised? They would expect a marriage alliance. His Grace is already married, your brothers are dead, and your sister is missing. The only one left would be you. You couldn't marry your cousin Robert, he is too young, but you could marry his heir. Harrold Hardyng. Harry. He is only a squire yet, but comelier than me. Or Lady Waynwood's grandson Roland. A gallant knight, and a good and friendly man. He would take good care of you." Then he paused. "Harry and Roland are both near mine own age, but it could also be Lord Corbray. Lord Lyonel. He is of high standing in the Vale and is in need of a wife."

Domeric sounded somewhat upset, but only somewhat. His jaw was clenching. That is his tell, Sansa thought. He clenches his jaw when he is unhappy. He sighed and tried to hug her closer. She could feel the heat coming off of him. I am unhappy too. How can he tell me he loves me and say such awful things too? Why couldn't we just enjoy being together? Why did he have to ruin it?

"Your brother could not give you to me, Sansa. He needs you to do your duty, and your duty lies elsewhere." He breathed in deep and hugged her closer. "What if we didn't go back, aye? We could go across the Narrow Sea. To Lys, or, or to Lorath, or to Tyrosh, and your brother and alliances wouldn't matter, it could just be you and me – "

Sansa jerked back. She didn't want to go to Lys, or to Lorath, or to Tyrosh. She didn't want to do her duty, or at least what he said her duty was. Everything he said made sense. Too much sense. She didn't want him to be right, but how could he not be right? She could find no flaw in anything he said. She turned her face away. The tears were coming now in ugly, sniffly sobs that she could not swallow.

I don't want that, Sansa thought. I don't want to go to Lys or to Lorath or to Tyrosh. I don't want Willas Tyrell or Lancel Lannister. I don't want Harry Hardyng or Roland Waynwood or Lyonel Corbray. I want Domeric Bolton. I want his kisses and his singing I want to be his lady wife and have his babies. We will call them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon and they will have dark hair and pretty eyes like moons and we will wrap them in pink blankets. We will have tourneys on the Weeping Water and have feasts and music and dancing in the hall. I don't want to go to the Rock or Highgarden or the Vale. I want to stay in the North and live at the Dreadfort and be its lady. I want to be Lady Bolton and wear the flayed man on my back. I love Domeric and I do not care if he flays his foes and hangs their skins on his walls. I want to be Domeric's wife. I want him to be my lord husband, and no one else.

"Do you mean that, Sansa?"

Sansa had thought aloud. She brought her hands over her face in shame. Domeric unwrapped himself from around her and slid his long fingers underneath her palms. He gently pried them forward until she could no longer hide. He did let go of one of her hands, and brought his face close enough so that their noses were mere inches apart.

"Do you mean that?" Sansa nodded.

"You love me and you want to be my lady wife?" Sansa nodded again.

"And you do not care about the flayed man banner. About the flaying." She shook her head.

"You want me and no one else." Another nod.

Her eyes were wet and wide, but his were kind. He released her other hand and began to trace the tear tracks on her face with the pads of his thumbs. When he opened his mouth, she could barely hear him. His voice was like the breath of a ghost, his breath, the ghost's touch.

"Aye, then. It cannot be helped." Another breath, another ghost. His voice came louder now. "Please do not cry."

It started so suddenly that she did not feel it at first. His face was already so close. The brush and slide of his mouth was so soft, so light at first that she thought it was the ghostly breath again. But it was his hands that let her know that it was real, that it was him, and then the press of his lips grew harder. One hand found the base of her neck, the other, her waist, and they were warm, and they were pulling her into him. Her mouth was already open, so his tongue did not beg entrance, he just touched it to hers, just the tip, and then he slid it back along the inside of her teeth, across her lower lip, and then down along her tongue again, and then she wanted to touch him, but his grip was too tight, and all she could do with her hands was limply brace herself against the ground, and then… and then… and then…

Could ice melt upward? Could sparks fly down? They must have been able to, though all wisdom said elsewise. She was melting, but she was melting up, up from the source, to the source, through the source, the source of the heat, the touch of his tongue against hers. She was melting up, and she was flowing up. Flowing into him. And the sparks were flying down too. Sparks were flying down, down to somewhere in her tummy, down from the source of the heat. His mouth. She was melting upward, and sparks were flying down. But ice melted down, and sparks flew up. The world must have been upside down. She was disoriented, dizzy, and the only things telling her which way was up and which way was down were his mouth and his hands, but his hands kept moving…

When they broke apart Domeric let out a shaky breath.

"No Brandons."

"Ser?" Sansa could hardly believe she could speak at all. There was a whole colony of bats in her heart now, each one beating their wings as fast as they could go.

"There has never been a Brandon Bolton. Or an Eddard. Those are not Bolton names." He paused. "Royce and Roose and Donner and Donnel. Bertram and Belthasar. Those are Bolton names. Rickon is fine. Or Rodrik. Never Brandon. Never Eddard, either."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "Then – you mean – Robb and Mother – we can try – "

"Aye," he said, "we can try."

Sansa could have squealed, but squeals were ugly sounds. Instead she wiggled out of his grasp and wound her arms around his neck for another kiss. We can try, Sansa thought as she smiled into his mouth. And we'll succeed.