He shouldn't have kissed her.
He shouldn't have kissed her that night on the beach, or when they got back to the inn, or the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after that. He'd kissed her half a hundred times, but they all felt like mistakes.
"And when the savage giant lay dead on the ground, Serwyn sheathed his sword, and rushed up the stairs to the highest room in the tallest tower of the giant's castle. There, chained against the wall, knelt Daeryssa, the princess of his dreams. He lay his Mirror Shield on the ground, looked into Daeryssa's face, and kissed her. And since his kiss was true love's kiss, the giant's curse was broken, and the magic chains that bound her shattered into a thousand shards, and the dark tower was filled with light, gleaming off the Mirror Shield. And then, hand in hand, they descended from the tower, and went off to hunt the dragon that held the Reach in torment. Only then, when the dragon was dead, would old King Gardener let Serwyn marry his lady love."
That was where Mother had stopped reading that night, the night he had asked her about kissing. "Kisses are only for your family, my Dommie lad, my love, unless they're kisses to a lady's hand. Kisses on the face are for the little brothers and sisters I will give you, and for me. For your children, and your lady love, your wife."
"But you are Father's lady wife, and Father never kisses you."
Mother had looked so sad then, sitting by his bed with their special book in her lap. "No," she had said, "but that is because I am only your father's lady wife, and not his lady love." Domeric had nodded his head. He didn't think that Father loved him either. "But sweetling, when you marry your lady wife, you should try to love her. Your wife should be your lady love. And I know you will succeed, because my darling Dommie lad succeeds at everything he tries. Good night, my little knight. I love you." Then Mother had kissed his forehead, pressed her nose to his, retired to her chambers, and left him in the dark.
Domeric's first kiss had been at the Eyrie, in a storeroom. Lord Horton had had some business with Lord Nestor in his capacity as High Steward of the Vale, and Domeric had been left with the other squires to do as he pleased. That was where he had met Waymar's cousin, Myranda. At nearly four-and-ten Domeric couldn't tear his eyes away from her breasts, and whenever she, smiling, met his gaze, he would flush pink as a Bolton banner. She had noticed him staring and had led him to the siloes, and pulled him into the grain.
Later that week Domeric had gone picking flowers for Randa in Lady Lysa's garden. He found the best flowers for her at the feet of Alyssa Arryn's statue. They were orchids, and they were the best because they were pink of petal and red at the center. The next time he saw her, he was going to give them to her, and if she said she loved him too he was going to write to his father and then Randa would be the next Lady of the Dreadfort. But the next time he'd seen her, she'd been pressing Lyle Lynderly against the wall, biting his neck and palming his breeches while Lyle fondled her ample chest. Domeric had crumpled the orchids in his hand and turned away.
Still later that week Randa had sought him out again, and tried for another kiss. He'd refused, and then she'd asked him why. After he'd explained, she'd giggled and tossed her curly brown hair.
"Silly Domeric. Whoever told you that was stupid. You don't have to save your kisses for your wife. You don't even have to save them for your lady love. Kissing can just be for fun. See?" Then Randa had grabbed his collar and stuck her tongue down his throat again, but he'd jerked away, wiped his sleeve over his mouth, and spat.
She looked shocked for a moment. And then she laughed.
Never before had Domeric heard a crueler sound than Myranda Royce's laughter, except for his father's silence.
There'd been other kisses with other girls, but Randa had been the first. And the worst.
Domeric had talked to Waymar about it when he and Lord Horton had returned from the Eyrie. How could his cousin be such a bitch? "Don't worry, Dom. You don't have to listen to a fat slattern like Randa. Girls like her, they look at you and they decide you're handsome, and because they're pretty they know you're looking too. A woman's looks, that's her weapon. Her kisses, her tears, her cunt. They look at you and think, aye, it would be fun to playhimfor a fool. It makes them feel powerful, to know they can disarm men who could cut them down in a moment. And if they don't want to make you into a fool, they want to marry you, and then they always want something. If you're an heir, they want to be lady of your castle. If you're not, either you're nothing, or they're some merchant's daughter who wants her children to be noble. They don't want you for you. You're just a tool to them. A stepping stone. If they praise anything thatyoudo that you weren't born with, it's so they can brag to the other ladies while they're sewing, and act all high and mighty while claiming your accomplishments, when they did nothing at all."
Then Waymar had held up his sword hand. "This right here, this is my lady love. I don't need to defend her. She's the one who defends me. She feeds me when I'm hungry and sates my need when my blood is up. If I must cry, she dries my tears. Me, when I'm knighted, I'm off to the Wall. I'll rise high on my own valor and no woman will ever be able to drape herself in my glory. No snake will ever tempt me to stain my honor, or steer me away from my goals. I'll miss Ysilla and Ryella, but I won't have to deal with those snakes with pretty faces ever again."
Domeric hadn't wanted Waymar to be right. He'd wanted a lady wife that he could kiss and hold and call his lady love. Who would love him in return and who wouldn't hate him for making her a Bolton. He wanted to be a kind lord husband almost as much as he wanted to be a true knight. He had objected, said that his mother and his Ryswell cousins and Ysilla and the Redfort girls weren't like that, but Waymar had just scoffed.
"It doesn't count if they're your mother or your kin. Jeyne's just a little girl, and Cassie and Jessie are like sisters. Don't mess around with that lady love nonsense, Dom. If you need to get your wick wet just pay a whore and be done with it. You're an heir, you'll need a wife, but you should just put a few sons in her and ignore her."
Domeric had talked to Mychel and then decided that he was going to ignore Waymar instead. Not about the whores, but about the rest. Perhaps he shouldn't have, even though Waymar had been wrong. Sansa wasn't a snake. Sansa was different. Sansa was special. Sansa was perfect. But she would never be his, would never be his lady wife, and that was why kissing her and loving her and letting her hope had been a mistake. Mychel's encouragement aside, messing around with all that lady love nonsense hurt. He was playing with fire, and instead of running he was basking in the warmth. He had been too cold to notice himself burning.
The morning after they got to Duskendale, the first thing they did was take a trip to the docks to inquire after passage to Gulltown. There was going to be a ship leaving in three days, a Tyroshi merchant's cog with room below for his horse. No amount of coin could buy them a cabin, for the trade envoys from Pentos and Myr had purchased all of them. Domeric didn't like it, but it would have to do. They needed to get out of the Crownlands and into the Vale as soon as possible.
After the docks, they'd gone back to the Seven Swords and fetched the jewelry she had brought to sell. They went back to that ladies' shop he had visited on the way south. The shopkeep's eyes had gone wide when they'd entered together, and she'd had to cover her mouth when Sansa had brought out the jewels. Domeric's chest had swelled with pride just standing next to her. The shopkeep had given Domeric ten dragons' worth of coin and offered Sansa the pick of the whole store, and she had been brimming with delight, so of course he had been delighted too. Domeric had had to whisper and remind her that she could only have dark colors, blacks and navies and greens and violets, and no jewels. While Sansa was fitting a gown with one of the shop assistants, the shopkeep had looked him in the eye.
"You are the luckiest young man in Westeros," she said. Domeric smiled and thanked her.
But I'm not lucky,he thought.I have the worst luck in the 's wonderful now, but it will end when we get to His Grace, or even when we get to Runestone, and then it will be worse than it ever was before.
It scared him sometimes. It scared him to look her in the eye. Sometimes he thought his heart would give out, or his lungs would explode, all under the power of her gaze.
He felt like such a simpering fool. She could never know the half of it.
He had not realized just how lonely a person he had been until he had come to spend so much time with her. He supposed he had not noticed. Loneliness was normal. He was used to it, to knowing that whatever time he would enjoy with the Redforts or with Aunt Barbrey in Barrowton or the rest of his family at the Rillseat, he'd have to go back to the Dreadfort eventually, and be alone again. He always had one foot out the door, as if letting himself get in too deep would just make his inevitable departure all the more painful. But he could afford that with the Redforts and his Ryswell family. He could always go back and see them again. The Redfort and the Rillseat and even Barrow Hall were not his home. It was at the Dreadfort where he belonged, at that dark and lonely castle at the base of the Lonely Hills, on the banks of the Weeping Water. Dread and loneliness, that was his lot. Never weeping. Boltons made other men weep.
Sansa though, his princess - every moment he spent with her was a moment closer to their parting, to when he would have to give her back to her kingly brother, likely never to see her again. He couldn't waste any of it. He had to relish all of it. He couldn't ruin it. He couldn't tell her about his father, not now. Then the spell would break. There was so much more to her than he'd seen during those few times he'd spoken to her at the Great Hall in Winterfell, or under the watchful eye of her septa. More than he could ever express in his poems. She was so much more than just the perfect lady with a perfect form and a perfect face. She was perfect forhim, and she loved him. She loved him for him, unlike what Waymar said, or at least she said so. She liked to listen to him talk, because she said she liked to listen to him talk, because she said he was intelligent. By the gods, he had not talked so much to anyone as he did to her, ever. Not even to Mychel or to Robbie. Certainly not to his father or anyone else. Conversation was easy. He did not need to think of what to say to make her smile, and she would never think him silly, or stupid.
The things he'd dreamt of, what he wanted for his future when his father was gone, a castle full of light and laughter, the singers in the hall, the tourneys on the Weeping Water, she wanted those as well. The things that hurt him in his youth – she understood them. She saw. It was as if she had been there the whole time, listening inside his head while she had been living in his heart. The loss and regret when his younger siblings left the world. The desperation to flee south to chase his dreams, and, once faced with the disappointing reality of how the south saw the North, the heartsick yearning to go home. The feeling of being trapped in a castle full of fear, surrounded with countless scared servants. Of needing to wear a mask, all the damn time. Her mask was different, hers had a smile, but still – sheknew. Sansa Stark had been lonely too.
Somehow she seemed to sense each and every one of his moods, to say exactly the right thing that would draw him back to earth whenever his thoughts would wander off and trap him where he didn't want to be. She would look up at him and smile sweetly, or touch his arm and start humming a tune, and he could just forget for a little while. He didn't have to think about how it was his fault that Ser Helman and so many good Northmen were gone and Harry and Robett were captives, how his father had betrayed their king and how all of his options looked to end with his head on a spike, or a noose around his neck. He could just let Sansa and her starry blue stare soothe him like a cold compress, the feeling of her arm in his anchoring him to the ground. He knew that when she was gone he would always feel alone, like something important had been lost, no matter how many of his friends or family surrounded him.
He could not imagine ever pledging himself to another woman. Not anymore. He hadn't lied to her. He'd rip up the offers he'd been working on for Ysilla and Gillyanne Hunter and quietly let down Jeyne Redfort and her little girl's dreams. When his father was finally gone, he'd take Walda's eldest as his heir and never marry. His father's children by Walda would be young enough to be Domeric's own. The Dreadfort wouldn't be as lonely as it had been before. Walda would make a fine companion in his dotage, and he'd be the best elder brother there ever was. He wouldn't care if the rest of the North thought him a sword swallower like Lord Galbart. Better that than having to take a wife who wasn't Sansa Stark.
Aunt Barbrey can help me, he will show me how to , Aunt Barbrey could. When she first out that he loved Catelyn Tully's daughter she would be wroth, but Domeric was sure she cared for him enough to put that aside will understand once I talk to her. She loved Brandon and Brandon loved her but Lord Stark kept them apart. They couldn't be together. Then Brandon died, and she was coming to love Willam, and Willam loved her, but then Willam died Barbrey hadn't taken on another husband, after Willam. She'd been alone for eighteen years. Aye, when the pain and loneliness became too much, he could go to Aunt Barbrey. She would Barbrey will always love me. And then after Aunt Barbrey was gone, there was always Walda. Or the Wall.
They boarded theMistmarcherthree days after arriving in Duskendale, seven days after he had taken her from King's Landing. By the gods, had it truly only been seven days? He felt like he'd never spent a day without her by his side. Harrenhal and the Twins and Moat Cailin, they were all a thousand years ago, and the rest of his life from before the war was the distant past, shrouded in murky gloom. She was enchanting him, as if magic had truly returned to the world, the sweet singing of the Children of the Forest buzzing in his ears. He half expected to look down into the water and see mermaids lounging on the beach beneath the limestone cliffs, squishers clawing at the hull, and leviathans spouting water from their snouts off on the horizon. Or, he might look into the sky, shielding his eyes, only for the sun to be blocked out by Daenerys Targaryen flying out of the east on the back of her dragon, come to bring the realm to its knees and forge a peace once more.
There wasn't room enough for the horse he'd bought at Rosby, so they sold it in town, but it couldn't buy them better accommodations, for the ship was near full to bursting. Domeric had tried to haggle with the captain for a cabin or at least one proper bed, but Domeric had been too distracted by the captain's three-pointed hat and ludicrous purple beard to properly articulate the limited Tyroshi he had. He turned to Sansa for help, but apparently, she only had High Valyrian. He wished Robbie were with them. Robbie was the one who was good with languages, with sailors and their ships. Aye, Robbie could have gotten her a bed. Domeric had chosen to study music and history instead. It was hard to try to talk about coin when all the foreign words you knew were for musical notation or snippets of love poems.
"Fret not, Ser Knight, I speak the Common Tongue." So they spoke the Common Tongue. And then the captain showed him and Sansa and his horse to the quartermaster who brought them down below.
They weren't given a bunk, or a pallet, or a cot, or a separate room. They weren't even given a curtain or a screen. No, it was one hammock, tied to the ceiling by two hooks, with rings in the floor and rings in the wall to tie their things, among many hammocks and rings in the common hold for common travelers. His horse would have a better place.
It would not serve. Sansa deserved better. She was a princess, though he could not say as much. She deserved whatever she wanted. Already he'd let her free her hair and dress in the new gowns he'd bought her. All the Tyroshi had colorful hair, and most of the passengers were wearing fine clothes. She would fit right in.
He tried to protest to the Tyroshi quartermaster, but the green-whiskered man just shook his head and laughed. "This is your place." He was angry. He felt helpless. He was supposed to protect her and see to her needs.
Domeric gulped. It was going to be a long journey to Gulltown.
