The first three nights on theMistmarcher, Sansa was greensick.

Her face was pale and sweating, her eyes bloodshot and red. After he held her steady over the bucket as she heaved, she tried to cover her face. "I'm sorry, ser," she said. "I couldn't help – I never – "

"Don't be sorry, my lady," he said. "Not your fault. I was greensick my first time on a ship. You'll get your sea legs soon enough." He pried her hands from her face and wiped her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. He pressed the tip of his nose to hers and moved to kiss her, but she pulled away.

"You can't!" She protested. "I look ugly now, and the taste – "

"I don't care," he countered. "You could never be ugly." Then he pulled her back and buried his nose in his hair, and slanted her face up to his mouth.

The loss of fluid and food tired her out quickly. She curled up in the hammock, all balled up like a newborn babe. Then he began to push the hammock back and forth like a pendulum, and then she fell asleep. He crawled in beside her and faced away.

The fourth night, there was a storm. A true autumn maelstrom. Nasty and wild, as they approached Claw Isle. When the rain and the rocking started, she was balled up in the hammock.

"Ser?" She was afraid.

"Aye?"

"Would you hold me?"

He took a breath and pitied her quivering form.I cannot deny those eyes."Aye. If you'd like."

TheMistmarcherpitched and rolled, and he could have sworn that the waves had held them upside down for one terrifying moment. The hammocks in the hold swung back and forth, hither and yon, and it was a very good thing that everybody's belongings were tied down fast. Gods, he hoped Rhaegar was all right. His big red beast of a friend hated closedness, hated the damp and the about us?Domeric thought, heart in his 're not all right. The ship could wreck, and no one would ever know we were here. No one would ever find our pictured himself sinking in the green sea, the black abyss dragging him downward. Above him was Sansa, her red hair swaying like seaweed, glowing in the surface light. She was floating near the surface, arms flailing, reaching, but then she stopped, and she was sinking towards him too.

Would the Drowned God take us?He would the old gods of the forest find us in the water?He didn't want to find out. He didn't want to die here, on theMistmarchersurrounded by loud Tyroshi sailors and fat merchants from Pentos and Myr. He wanted to be buried under the earth, where the weirwood roots could reach his bones. In the crypts under the Dreadfort, next to Roger and his other siblings and his father too in least if I die, I will die holding her.

"It will be all right," he murmured, after the thunder cracked and her eyes went wide, the rain pelting the hull like a volley of arrows on a shield wall. He kissed her brow and nuzzled her nose, but he did not know if he was telling the truth. So he held her, and felt her heart flutter against his, and then he fell asleep.

On the fifth day, the storm died down, and on the fifth night, the sea was calm and the southern winds were fair. He held her again, and he did not want to stop. Was there ever a feeling more wonderful? More sublime?

There was the slide of her stockinged calves against the hose of his shins. The dip of her waist and the flare of her hips under the wool of her shift, in then out then in again. Her face against his neck, her breasts against his chest, the ridges of her spine. The way she would squeeze his hand and stroke his cheek and smile with the most honest affection. The warmth, radiating outward from her touch to him, only to reflect back to her and grow in the infinitesimal space between them both. The warmth, the love, its own independent light.

He had never felt so close to another person, so cared for, since the death of his mother.

"I love you," he said. He touched the tip of his nose to hers, and kissed her on the forehead.

"And I love you," she said back. She bunched her fingers in his shirt, and her hands told him,I am yours and you are mine.

He never wanted it to end.

On the sixth night, he started to hurt. By the gods, he wished it would stop. The tightness in his throat, the throbbing in his chest, the stabs of knowledge that the wonderful feeling was going to go away. The wholeness, the going to go away. He would have to give her back. He felt like he was Royce Redarm, only instead of ripping out the guts of his enemies, he'd plunged his hand into the open wound in his own breast and then pulled out his beating, bleeding heart.

He loved the sweet pink that would bloom on her cheeks whenever she would bat her eyes in expectation of a kiss; he loved the raw, chapped red of her lips when his kiss was done. He loved her gentle sighs, the way the pink would spread across her face, her ears, down her neck and her collarbone past the collar of her gown, the bloody red of her hair flowing out from her head. Pink and red – that is what she looked like when he kissed her. Pink and red, like the flayed man banner. She would be draped in his colors even when she was wearing nothing at all…

The gods hadmadeher for him, but they were cruel. He must needs return her to His Grace, but His Grace would give her away to another man, another man whose colors and cloak were not pink and red.

That was when the other pain started.

He thought of the flowers at Alyssa Arryn's feet, the best flowers in the world. Orchids, pink of petal and red at the center. By now the Eyrie was cold; by now the flowers would be is coming. He imagined bending down and plucking one of the frozen orchids, bringing it to his nose and watching the thin sheen of ice melt away under his hot breath. The pink petals glistened with drops of dew. He lowered the flower to his lips and licked at the red center, searching for its sweet nectar with his tongue.

But he would never taste it. Aye, that was why it hurt. He would never taste it, and so there was soreness, aching, straining. Pain with no chance of relief. Torture.

He bit the inside of his cheek and clenched his jaw.

It was the second worst pain he'd ever experienced in his life. Before, that title had gone to the blow he'd taken to the head when he and Mychel had been practicing the art of wrestling in full plate in the Redfort yard. His ears had rung like the bells in the Motherhouse of Maris and he couldn't read or step into the sun for the entire week. Mychel had retreated to the sept and had only stopped praying and fasting when Maester Jeron had confirmed beyond doubt that he would make a full recovery.

It wasn't the worst pain in his life though. That was when he had returned to the Dreadfort, and his father had led him down below.

"You are a man now," his father had said, Maester Uthor in tow. "A man of House Bolton. And a knight as well, it seems." They stopped at a room with nothing but a single torch, a table, and a chair with leather straps. After the door had been barred behind them, his father had bid him remove his shirt and sit, and Maester Uthor strapped him to the chair.

"I will show you today what it means to be a man of House Bolton." His father had drawn his flaying knife then. It was shiny and sharp and very clean. "This is what we do." His father had made a small incision, not more than three inches long, on his upper arm. "Keep still," he'd said. "I expect you not to cry out."

Then his father had pulled the skin up and peeled, just an inch or two. "You must remember who you are." He had to clench his jaw and bite the inside of his cheek till it bled, and his arms had chafed against the leather straps, but he had not screamed, and he had not cried. He had hardly moved his face. Then his father had watched Maester Uthor stitch him up and apply that special secret cream which would spare his skin from any scars.

"I am pleased with you, my son."

That pain was worse. But this was still very bad. Sublime torture. It was everything he could not to reposition her with his hands and begin to rut against her with his cock, to start grinding bone on bone. He'd never wished for a septa to come and scold him so much in his life.

Septa Frenelica at the Redfort is the least comely woman I've ever seen. She is tall and thin but her back is stooped with a hump. Her warty nose is wide and hooked like a vulture's beak, and her veiny fingers are bony and clawed like a vulture's talons. Her wrinkled face looks as if she is always smelling carrion and rotting meat. There is nothing to hide beneath her septa's robes.

He is dressed in shining silver plate, the rainbow sword etched proudly on his breast. He is a Warrior's Son. Following the scent of incense smoke and the trancelike tinkle of bells, he makes his way to the sept to pray, to kneel before the Warrior. He pushes open the door and sees her kneeling before the Maiden's altar, lighting the Maiden's candle and chanting the Maiden's hymn. Her septa's veil is just a bit too far back on her head, her red hairline just peeking out, and her septa's robes are not shapeless enough. He tugs on her sleeve.

"Septa," he whispers, his voice bouncing between the seven walls. "I must make my confession. Would you know my sins?"

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!He was a knight. He could not indulge in such ignoble thoughts. Not about his Princess, the sister of his king, the future bride of some other man. To do so was shameful. The risk was too great. Especially with her right there.

This is why they don't send knights to rescue maidens,he once they're rescued, they're never maidens , they shouldn't send knights. They should send warrior women, like Jonquil Darke, the Serpent in Scarlet, Good Queen Alysanne's sworn shield. Or the Mormonts. The Princess' maidenhead would not be in danger if His Grace had sent one of the Mormont sisters to rescue her instead.

Maege Mormont is short and stocky, with a thick waist and calloused hands. Her hair is stringy and gray, and her tongue is as rough as her face. Maege Mormont might have a title, but she is no proper lady. Beneath her leathers and mail are sagging teats and the muscles of a man.

He is standing on the deck of a longship, one knee hiked up, foot pressed against the rail. The white skeleton hand gleams in the sunlight, on a great billowing sail of red. He is a Drumm of Old Wyk. His dark hair is streaming behind him in the sea wind, and his white linen shirt is sticking to his sweaty chest. The Drowned God roars in his ears, and the salt spray tickles his tongue. There it is, a white-on-green gem in the brilliant blue – his prize. Bear Island.

She is waiting for him on the beach, in a short tunic and leathers and mail. She raises her mace, he draws his axe, and they begin to dance. It is not long before they are both breathing hard, faces flushed and sweating. He knocks the mace away and pins her to the cannot defeat me, woman. Submit.

"Yield!" she says, "I yield. Come into my castle, captain."

had to stop. It wasn't right. She didn't belong to him. So he continued to hurt. He could bear it. He had borne worse.

By the seventh night, he couldn't bear it. Not anymore. It was too much. The love. The need. The pain. She couldn't go away. She had to be his. How could he ever give her back? Law and honor required that he return her to the man who owned her, his liege lord, their king. She belonged to her brother, but Robb Stark didn't value her, didn't treasure her, didn'tloveher like Domeric did. Robb Stark saw her as a thing. By the gods, Robb Stark let the Kingsguard knightsbeat her with their gauntlets on and strike her with the flats of their Stark let King Joffrey stick a crossbow in her face. It took no stretch of the imagination that Robb Stark would sell her like a horse for some alliance, and she would be lost to him forever.

He was angry.

By all the ancient laws of the First Men, she is yours,a voice in his head stole her. She struggled. She submitted. She went with you. She is yours and no one can take her was a pleasing thought, but it wasn't true, and he tried to banish it from his mind. He wasn't some wildling from beyond the Wall, or a Moon Brother or Painted Dog from the mountain peaks. He was a knight. A nobleman. Civilized, restrained. A man of 're more like them than you think,the voice 's not a drop of Andal blood in your veins. You are a son of the First Men, thorough and pure. Your gods are not the gods of knighthood and chivalry, of crystal lights and incense smoke and oils. Your gods are the gods of the blood and the wild. Of the forest. Of the trees. She's yours. Come before the trees and your union will be blessed.

He hummed low in his chest, and then hot blood rushed into his loins. He could see it. Himself, a wildling, night-dark hair tangled and tumbling down his back, bloody acorn paste smeared like paint under his eyes and on his lips. Around his neck are tied the finger bones of his enemies. He collects them. They're his trophies. There is a string of red fox pelts around his shoulders over a cloak of faded red wool, bound together by a braid of human skin. His armor is not plate and mail, and it does not shine; it is boiled leather and bronze scales, and it is carved with ancient runes. He's sitting atop his horse – his tall red courser – and he's riding bareback. On his back are a quiver and a bow, and on his hip are a knife and a hunting horn.

He sees her there, by the running water, near the forest's edge. He stops his horse and stares. Her hair is red – she's kissed by fire – and it's his lucky day. She's a peasant girl, dressed in a brown roughspun gown that's too tight, too short, and an apron as white as snow. She's washing linens in the stream, and she is singing a song. She hears the horse whinny and looks up. He meets her gaze, and her blue eyes shine like the stars above. She smiles. He smiles too, and his white teeth are stained red from the bloody paste. She drops the white linen in the red clay dirt and then she stands and flees. She runs, runs,runsfor the forest. For the trees. And she begins to laugh.

He watches her run. He gives her a head start. The chase isn't fun if it's too easy. He blows the horn.I'm coming.

It's not long before he reaches her. He's on a horse, after all. They're in a clearing, in a weirwood grove, and all the gods are watching. All the trees have wicked smiles. He leaps off his horse and grabs her by the arm. He yanks her to his chest, and she yanks back, but then she leans in, and she keeps laughing. He whips off his cloak and drapes it around her, and then he claims her mouth. He lays her down on her back and kneels, one hand twined with hers, the other reaching for his knife. With one swift stroke her dress and her apron are torn in twain. Her red hair is fanned out above her head, like weirwood leaves, and her lips are red, like a weirwood's mouth. Her face is white, and her skin is white, like weirwood bark. Her breasts are white, and their tips are red, and down below is more red hair, a second set of wet red lips. Another weirwood face. She belongs to his gods. She belongs to are mine.

His breeches are tight so he breaks their chains of string. He is free. Farewell bronze scales. Goodbye boiled leather. He has to feel her everywhere. He kisses her lips and then she sighs his name. His gods are speaking to him. He offers himself up to them. He gives his gift to the weirwood's mouth, and his gods kiss him with their blessing. When the sacrifice is over, he withdraws. He can smell it. The salt and the iron, the seed and the blood. The sweat. He wipes it on his hand, and he gives it to the tree.

Domeric opened his eyes and , he thought, hands of shame choking him.I couldn't, I didn't mean to, I'm turned in the hammock and brought his hand to the damp front of his breeches, and the tips of his fingers came away shining in the dark. He sniffed them. . So it hadn't been him. Or it might have, he'd felt it. It didn't matter. He would need to change anyway, and he was still sorry.

His eyes adjusted. Gently he shook Sansa awake. She would want to wake up, to change as well. When she rose and felt and saw she flushed purple. She brought her hands over her face and started to whimper.

"I'm so sorry, ser," she said. "I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, it'svile – "

"Don't be sorry," he replied, whispering. He lifted her chin and the tips of his fingers left four red prints under her ."Not your fault. Not vile. It's all right. Just. Go and clean yourself up – "

But she only shook her head wildly and covered her face again. He tied the corners of his blanket on the hammock hooks to allow her some privacy from the rest of the passengers. She fumbled around for a clean shift and rags and disappeared behind the blanket. After he was clean as well, he told her he was going above deck.

"I cannot sleep," he said. She merely nodded, and he fled up the stairs.

The night was cold, and the wind was .He could think.

He needed her. She had to stay with don't go. I don't want to be alone she had to go, didn't she? She was more than just the best girl in the world, with the sweetest smiles and the loveliest laughter. She was a princess. She was a pawn, a piece in the game of thrones. She would be sold like a horse, just like Mother. It had always been her fate.

I hold the piece,he thought. When he'd ridden out to find her, he'd never sought such power in his hands. He'd only wanted her free…

He clutched at the windworn rail of the deck so hard that the splinters nearly pierced his palms.I can't just give her away. She said she wants to be my lady wife and bear my children and live in my castle. She said she loves me. I have to try. I can't give up. I have to think of a way…

He considered for a moment the path she wanted them to pursue. Raise the Vale for the King in the North and crush the Lannisters. He'd told her that in order for that to happen, she'd likely need to be married to seal the pact. That was true. There could be no other way to raise the Hardyng or Roland Waynwood or Lyonel was an arse, but Domeric had tolerated him before. Now he wanted nothing more to take his fist and punch in Harry's smirking face, break his perfect nose and smash his pearly white teeth. Roland Waynwood was gallant and affable, but he looked like the sketch of Brandon Stark Aunt Barbrey kept in her jewel Stark would ever give her to imagined stringing Roland up on one of those Tyroshi contraptions so oft described in the history books, turning the gear that pulled the chain as Roland choked, choked, choked. Lord Lyonel?He would be easy. I have coin and Ser Lyn wants coin. Mychel could arrange a meeting. We could help each other. No one would need to know.

Stop. Stop. He needed to and Roland and Lord Lyonel have done me no rose in his throat.I am disgusting.A beast in human , even if they raised the Vale, there was still no way they could prevail. All the swords in the Vale numbered less than fifty thousand. The Reach had seventy thousand, the West had at least twenty thousand, and the Crownlands still is no way we can win. Stannis is our enemy and Dorne has shut its would not matter if the Vale marched and His Grace sold her to Harry or Roland or Lord Lyonel. The Crown would crush them, her husband would hang, theyallwould hang, and she'd be given to someone else.

And if the Crown did not crush them, and if Lady Lysa finally defended her blood, the Kingdom of the North prevailed and Sansa did not need to be sold, His Grace would never choose to reward her to the likes of Domeric Bolton. No, it would be to Smalljon Umber or to Harry Karstark. Good and leal is my friend, but he would not be was tall and strong, but not as tall or strong as those two. He could never win.

But perhaps Sansa was right. Perhaps her brother would be so grateful to him for bringing her back that his Princess would be his ,he is a Stark and I am a Bolton. His Grace would never do so. And if he did, he would be a needed to be available for the Vale alliance. She would have to be sold to someone, elsewise the North would lose, and they would all hang.

I don't have to hang,he thought.I can die in battle, with her favor on my breast and her name on my lips, and the rubies of my armor flying before the sun. I'll take a wound to the chest and die of a bleeding heart, just like Rhaegar then if she still lived, she would have to marry someone else… Someone like Willas Tyrell, or Lancel Lannister. He might as well have just left her in King's Landing and never gone to Duskendale.

No. No. No. He could not let that happen. They had to be the winning side, and he had to keep her. It had to be forever.

Domeric looked into the sea. The water was a twisted black mirror, his reflection shifting with the waves. When he looked down he saw his father, and he heard his father's voice.I am pleased with you, my son. You must remember who you have to remember your name.

What's my name?he asked Bolton,Father said. A fine Bolton name, as old as the Red Kings and all our traditions. I named you. I am pleased with you, my son. You have done me proud.

And he had, hadn't he? He would never be called 'more Redfort than Dreadfort' if he made the choice his Father would choose.

Winterfell, Winterfell, he had a claim on Winterfell! He held the key to the North in his hands. He could achieve the dreams of his fathers, rise higher than any Bolton had since the Age of told me I'm her hero. She wants me to take her home.

It would not only be for our House. I would see you happy, my boy.

The Dreadfort, the Dreadfort, he'd have to take her to the Dreadfort. They couldn't stop in Gulltown. Not if he was going to take her home. Lord Royce and Lord Horton could never know what he had done. TheMistmarcherwould stop in White Harbor. Aye, it would only be another week. They could sail over the Bite and dock in White Harbor and ride hard for Bolton lands.

That won't work,he thought.I'd never make it past White Harbor. She would want to stay the night at New Castle and call on the Manderlys, but Lord Wyman is not Ser Wylis. He'd have me knifed in my sleep. And if we didn't stay in the city, we'd have to pass through the Hornwood, and the Manderlys hold the Hornwood.

Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay,why? Why couldn't Ramsay have been born noble and true, sound of mind and sharp of wit? How could anyone be sostupidas to rape a lady of a noble house? Damn that business with Lady Donella and her Manderlys would kill us if somehow Domeric evaded them, when he finally carried Sansa through the Dreadfort's gates, it would be Ramsay there to welcome them both, acting as lord in Father's stead.

He will not come within ten leagues of her. He will not come within ten leagues of me.

There had been a babe, pushed into the world hardly a year after Domeric's own birth. Bertram, the crypt said. Around Ramsay's age. Domeric didn't remember him. He died in the cradle while Aunt Barbrey came to couldn't Bertram have lived instead of Ramsay? Or Roger? Roger would be near Sansa's age now, or thereabouts. Or any of the others. A true brother of mine would never have been as stupid as Ramsay. He would have never risked the wrath of the Hornwood, or the merman's vengeance. He would have saved Winterfell from burning and nobody would hate us. We would have safe passage through the North and then when we rode through the gates, my brother would call for a feast, take us to the godswood and see us wed before the tree, and I could love her in my own bed.

But it was no use wishing for Roger or any long dead brother of his blood. There was only Ramsay. He couldn't take her home.

I could take her to Barrowton. Aunt Barbrey would shelter me. Or to Grandfather's hall. Grandfather always wanted a Stark marriage for his that wouldn't work either. The Ironmen controlled the Moat and Torrhen's Square. He wouldn't risk traveling through territory crawling with squids.

I could stop at Gulltown and find a raven and write Aunt Barbrey for help and then make for White Harbor. She could send me swords to escort us Aunt Barbrey needed those swords, because the North was crawling with squids. He couldn't ask her to let them go. It was the same with Grandfather.

I could go back below deck and have her right now, and then when we get to Runestone, I could tell Lord Royce what I had done. He would think poorly of it but he would march us before the tree himself to make things right. Then I could write to Father and to His Grace and tell the whole truth. His Grace could not blame me for a mistake he made himself. Father would take care of the rest, and I wouldn't care. I hate Robb Stark. I would dance on his corpse.

But he had to care. After the rest was taken care of, she would hate him forever, if she found out. And if she never found out, she might always suspect. And if she did not suspect, he would have to live with the knowledge that it was because of him that her last brother was dead. He would have to live with a secret, a lie. Sansa loved Robb Stark. Domeric would not be the one who took him away from her. Not when he himself knew the raging emptiness that always followed whenever he descended to the crypts and ran his fingers over Roger's name. No. He would not be the cause of her pain. He could not risk having her find out from someone else, but if he told her, she would hate him then too. The spell would break, and in its place a curse would fall. It all would end.

Lord Horton would know. He wouldn't suspect. He'd know. He knows me and he knows Father. He would tell Lord knew exactly what Lord Horton would say.

I thought you had honor, boy. It was on my honor that I knighted you. It seems that I was wrong. You are no true knight.

Everything I have ever worked towards and tried to make of myself would be gone…

He never wanted to be like the rest of them, anyway. Father and all the Boltons before. Cold-blooded torturers and men without honor. Indifferent to the wails of women and the bleating of the weak.I am better,he'd told himself.I will be he had made himself better. At least, the world had thought him so.

She named me a true knight, but I am no better after clenched his jaw and gripped the rail. A bite pierced the soft inside of his cheek, and a sharp thing pierced his palm and stuck. It was a splinter of wood. With his other hand he pulled the splinter out. There was blood in his is blood on my hands…

No. No. No. He could not let that named me a true knight. She called me her hero. She would not love me if I were not those she be given to someone else than start hating him.I have to be better than them. Not just for my honor, but also for her.

What could he do?I could tell His Grace of Father's treason when I return her to him. I would keep my head and my seat and perhaps even then what? Robbie and Uncle Roose and Ronnel Stout and the rest were all at Harrenhal. They would stand with the Dreadfort men unless they got further direction from Barrowton or the Rillseat.

Could I truly stand across the lines from them? What if something happened? How could I return to Aunt Barbrey, or to Grandfather's hall? Kinslayer, they would call him. They would be right. He could never go back. He would be never be welcome in the homes that he wished he could call home would hate me. And I would hate me too.

Domeric pictured all those times he and Robbie and Uncle Roose and Ronnel Stout had practiced the tilts with tourney lances, smashing shield after shield after shield. In his mind the lances' blunted tips sharpened in the gleaming sun, and then Domeric was piercing Ronnel Stout's gorget, and Ronnel fell, the chevrony russet and gold of his surcoat staining red. Then Uncle Roose was riding up to him, and then Domeric lanced him through a chink in his armor at the armpit, blood spurting out of the wound. Finally came Robbie, charging at him with thundering speed, and then the point of Domeric's lance went through his heart, his cousin's red courser dragging the corpse on the ground by a foot stuck in the stirrup.

"My champion!" Sansa called, and when she kissed him, there was blood on his tongue.

No. No. No. He could not let that happen.

I could write to Grandfather and Aunt Barbrey, and then the barrowknights and Rillmen could leave Harrenhal. They could take the Manderly men with them. It would be the whole North against my father.

And then what? He would return the Lord of the Dreadfort and have to explain to Steelshanks Walton's daughters why their father was dead. He would have to tell Ben Bones that his boys Barn and Byrd had been killed in fighting he'd caused.

Old Lord Overton's son is with Father too. He saved me from my folly. He told me about Ramsay. I owe him my life. How could I repay him like this? And my smallfolk, my smallfolk, I have to think of my smallfolk. I would hardly have any left if it came to that. A true knight's duty is not just to his liege lord and to his king. He has to protect his smallfolk too…

Domeric was back a thousand years ago at Moat Cailin, after the Battle of the Green Fork, before they learned His Grace had been crowned. He had asked Father about why there hadn't been any opportunity for him to prove his valor in the charge.

"You complain for yourself," Father had said. "You think not of our men. You think only of glory. Do you think our men want glory?"

"Some do," Domeric had said. "Most only want to go home."

"Home to what?"

"Their farms. Their wives and children."

"Their wives and children." Father had stopped peeling his grapes then. "I will tell you of something that you did not see. It happened at the Dreadfort the last day the banners were to leave. You were in the Vale. That day, a young tanner and a farmer's daughter came to me for permission to be wed. There were many such couples those weeks. The men wanted someone to fight for, to return to. I granted them all permission, of course. I care not for the marriages of the smallfolk so long as they come to seek my consent and pay the fee in accordance with our laws and go before the gods in accordance with theirs, and the groom can support any children. No power blocs can form between a tanner and a farmer's daughter. They are no threat to me.

"The farmer's wife was there. When the petitions were nearly done she begged me leave to speak. She said,My lord, I am the mother of this bride, but I have been a war wife too. When last you marched my husband and I stood here in your hall seeking your consent to wed. After you granted your leave, my husband followed you, and when the war was done, you returned him to me. I am a merchant's daughter. My father left his daughters in Karstark lands, Umber and Manderly too. My sisters were all widowed then, but you brought my husband home. Lord Bolton, I beg, do the same for my daughter. Bring my goodson home to her."

Then Father looked Domeric straight in the eye. "You would have made not only that girl, but countless other girls I saw wed less than two moons' past, widows for your glory. You have no duty to glory. You have a duty to them. I have a duty to them. My smallfolk. They feed us, we protect them. It is our smallfolk who keep House Bolton at the Dreadfort, not the Starks of Winterfell. I have no duty to the smallfolk of Karstark, or Umber, or Manderly, or of Cerwyn, or Hornwood, or of the mountain clans. I have a duty to mine." Father had paused and showed his teeth. "A peaceful land,"

"A quiet people."

"Do you see now, my son?"

"Yes, Father." There was no arguing there.

How could he tell that woman that her young daughter was a widow? How could he face that girl? How could he tell them why?

Because I wanted to marry my lady love, that was why. Because I am a highborn and I thought my love meant more to me than yours did to you, was worth more than the lives of thousands of others.

How could he say that?

He couldn't, that's how. Even if the North turned on the Dreadfort, the Dreadfort stood with the Crown, and there would be more war. He could not see good Northmen killing other Northmen, or dying in the south. He could not see more farms burn or more crops rotting in the fields. He could not see thousands bleed and starve to death to soothe the yearnings of his heart. Or the aching in his loins. He could not be Rhaegar Targaryen. But he wouldn't have to.

We would all hang anyway, even if the Vale were raised. There has to be a peace. There can be no more fighting. We cannot let more smallfolk die. And when we have a peace, she will be sold away. And I cannot offer my hand for peace because I know what Father would do. When His Grace died, everyone would know. And she would blame me.

A light on the coast flashed in the distance. Hope. Yes. There could be another answer.

I could be a hostage. When I return her, I could tell him of Father's treason and beg His Grace to bend the knee in exchange for peace in the North. I would not have her but I could see her. She could visit me in my cell. It would not be the worst. There would be no more fighting. I could save my honor. She could still see me as good.

It was a good plan. House Bolton wouldn't move against the Starks so long as His Grace held the heir to the Dreadfort. Neither would House Dustin or House Ryswell. His father wouldn't do that.

Yes he would.

He has Walda. He has Ramsay. I'm expendable.

Yes he would.

Domeric touched that spot on his arm and looked into the black mirror again. The rippling water had shattered his reflection into a thousand shards, and then a patch of seafoam floated over it, as if he had been trapped under a has ripped me apart,he sank her fangs into me and ripped me apart.

He ran a hand over his face to make sure it was still in one piece. When he got to his jaw, seven days' worth of scratchy whiskers greeted him.

How ugly I am,he is inside shows plain on my face.

He heaved over the side of the deck. A small hand grasped his arm by his elbow. He flinched and whirled around.

"Domeric?" It was Sansa. He only stared. It hurt to look at her. "You have been up here a long while."

"My lady." His mouth tasted of bile. "I have been thinking."

Her eyes were searching him. She wanted to know what he was thinking. "About the war."

She nodded and pressed herself against him, winding her arms around his neck. He felt the tension leave his shoulders and sighed. Then she started kissing his jaw, up to the corners of his mouth. He stiffened and pulled back. "My lady, there is bile – "

She just pressed closer again. "I don't care." Then she kissed him, and when it was done, she took him by the hand, and started to sing softly. It was the Mother's hymn.

Sansa led him down to the common hold. She got into their hammock and pulled him down beside her. She wound her arms around his neck again and he buried his nose in her hair.

"Gentle Mother, font of mercy…"

Mercy,he have mercy on me.