When the eighth morning on theMistmarcherdawned in the east, they had crossed the Bay of Crabs. The Tyroshi captain with the funny purple beard announced that they'd be docking at Gulltown by high noon.

Sansa changed into clean clothes and helped Domeric pack up their things and strap them to their dragon's saddle.

"If we disembark around noon, we should reach Runestone by nightfall, or shortly after."

"You don't want to stay in Gulltown for the night and reach Runestone in the day?"

"No. My face is known in Gulltown. If we stay at any of the inns that you would find to your liking, someone will recognize me. Someone will tell. Baelish owns this town. He has ears everywhere that highborns would go. Do you trust Baelish?" He was touching the tip of her nose with his first finger.

"No, ser." Sansa crossed her eyes and focused on Domeric's finger on her nose. She pursed her lips like she was sucking on a fresh lemon. He started to chuckle. "What if we stayed in lesser accommodations?"

"My lady," he said. "We have been staying in lesser accommodations. Now I don't know about you, but I am looking forward to an improvement. Better living. My own chambers and a featherbed."

"A featherbed," Sansa said. "Yes."

It was good that he started to lead her back above deck, then. He couldn't see her face standing in front of her. He couldn't see her pout. "Don't pout," he would say, if he saw one. "Smile, aye?" Then he would tip up her chin with one hand and tug up the corners of her mouth with the other. If that didn't work, he would kiss the corners of her mouth, and if that didn't work, he would kiss her full on the lips. That usually worked, but if it didn't, he'd start tickling her ribs, and that never failed.

Now she was pouting, and she had only until they got above deck to change her face, or else the tickles would come.

On the one hand, Sansa was looking forward to the safety of Runestone's walls, the protection of Lord Royce and his men, to wearing pretty dresses and jewels and eating fine food. On the other, being Sansa Stark again meant staying under a septa's watchful eye and walking with two guards behind her. It meant sewing with the ladies and only glimpsing the knights in passing, or in the hall. It meant that she'd have her own apartments, and Domeric would have his, and that meant she wouldn't get to fall asleep with him holding her anymore, or wake up with an ear on his heart.

Sansa was going to miss it. She was going to miss eating in the mess below deck and sitting on Domeric's knee while he spooned stew into her mouth, or fed her crusts of bread with his fingers. She was going to miss how he casually slung his arm around her shoulders, or her waist, or her hips, and drew her closer to him, while they walked, while they stood, or while they sat. She was going to miss threading their fingers together, and how he would tuck her hair behind her ear or run a knuckle down her cheekbone. She was going to miss stroking her finger along the cut of his jaw, the seven days' worth of beard roughing up her hand. But most of all she would miss the kisses. Kisses in the bright day, under the cloudless sky, the sailors shouting around them. Or kisses on the cheek in the mess while they were sitting down to eat. Kisses in the dark, on brow and eyes and ears and nose and mouth, along the jaw and on the pulsing veins of the neck.

The thought of no more kisses at Runestone made Sansa pout. She would be all right with keeping the pout on her mouth and suffering the inevitable tickles. They would be the last tickles for a long while.

Domeric led her to the rail of the deck on the port side. "You're pouting," he said, once he saw her face. "Smile, aye?"

Sansa wanted to take in all of it. His fingers on her face, the three kisses, and even the tickles. She laughed.

"There's my smile," he said. He was smiling with his mouth, but not with his eyes. He must have been somewhat sad, too. Domeric slung his arm around her waist and stared out onto the grey-green bay. Already she could hear the gulls, and she could see the coast if she squinted.

"Gulltown," she said. "What's it like?"

"You'll see it. It's better than King's Landing. Cobblestone streets. Cooler and cleaner, but not as cold or as clean as White Harbor. Bigger than Duskendale. Lots of rain." He paused. "Nice shops. Many places for ladies' things. Master smiths too. Lots of inns. Warehouses and customs offices. Fish markets and farmers' markets. You can find most anything in Gulltown. Anything from anywhere.

"Within the walls, there's the Gull Tower to the east, by the harbor. That's the seat of the Shetts of Gulltown. Then back away from water towards the north is House Grafton's seat. Their castle. There's a large lighthouse off to the west of the town that they have as well, it's where their sigil comes from. And the Arryns of Gulltown have a large manse in the city too. We won't pass by the manse, it's out of our way, but I'm sure Lord Royce has a sketch in his library."

Sansa clasped his hand on her waist. "We can't stay even half a day?"

"No. I am sorry, my lady."

She pursed her lips. "All right, then."

Then he smiled at her with all his teeth. "No pouting."

As theMistmarchersailed into the harbor, they passed an island on which stood a tall white building. Sansa could hear bells above the cawing of the gulls and the whipping of the wind. And was that singing?

"That's the Motherhouse of Maris," Domeric said, tightening his arm around her and pointing with his other hand. Salt spray landed on his face. "It must be noontime. Seven bells at noon, and then the novices sing the Seven hymns, and then they resume the office of the Seven."

TheMistmarcherdropped anchor for the customs inspection. A short and mustachioed Valeman came aboard and spoke to the purple-bearded captain, who led him below deck.

"That shouldn't take too long," Domeric said. "Customs inspections in Gulltown rarely take as long as the ones in White Harbor."

Domeric was right. In less than a quarter of an hour the inspector emerged above deck with the captain and shook his hand before disembarking. The ship started to move again towards the docks. "I want to put on my armor before we make port. We should also get my horse from below. They'll let the passengers off first before unloading the cargo."

Sansa nodded. When the ship dropped anchor again and was safely secured to the dock, the sailors lowered the gangplank. Then Domeric led her below deck, he strapped on his armor, retrieved his horse, and they emerged again.

Sansa could smell crabs and fish and brine as they came off the docks and passed a fish market. Domeric pulled her into the first clear alleyway and helped her onto his horse. Then he swung into the saddle behind her and pulled up the hood of his cloak so it hid the upper part of his face.

"Pull your hood up as well," he said. His voice was tight. "We should have covered your hair again."

Sansa nodded. At least she'd had the sense to braid it. She pulled down the hood of her cloak and smoothed the plait down her back so her hair couldn't be seen.

He turned his horse into the street again, and they began to make their way to the northern gate and the road to Runestone. They couldn't go fast, for the streets were full of carts and shouting smallfolk, and they were made of cobblestone. It was just like the ride through King's Landing. Silent, tense. An almost eerie nervousness between them. Sansa could feel it in the tightness of his forearm against her belly.

She tried to turn her head to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was following them, any red cloaks, but she couldn't see around him. She shifted her eyes to the left and to the right, all she could see were carts and shops and more and more people. The only guards she saw were standing at attention at their posts.

They were not being pursued.

Deep into Gulltown they passed a tall tavern with colorful, gauzy silks blowing in the wind, hanging out of the many open windows. Sansa could hear laughter and sweet music from within. A pretty maid was calling out the door and hawking a type of pie and all sorts of cakes, and above her head swung a sign hammered into the shape of a bird with an iron cage around it, glowing red in the light of a lantern.

Sansa drummed on Domeric's vambrace as he hustled them forward. "Are you sure we can't stay, not even for the evening? Or stop for the pies? That tavern – with the red light and the bird cage and the music – it looks like such a nice place to stay, or eat – "

"A nice place to stay," he said. It sounded like he was choking. "Aye."

"Have you been there?" She looked back at the swinging bird and the pretty red lamp. The sweet music was fading into the distance, drowning under the sounds of horses and merchants.

"Aye."

"So we can stop for pie?"

"No, my lady. Baelish owns the place." Domeric sounded very uncomfortable. He stiffened behind her and quickened the pace as much as he could in the crowded street.

"Oh." She was pouting, but he couldn't see. "I understand." They couldn't very stop where Lord Baelish's hired men would see them. They'd send a raven to Lord Baelish, and Lord Baelish would tell the Queen. Sansa didn't look back.

After they passed House Grafton's seat and through the north gate, the cobblestones ended and the street became a dirt road. All through the town they had been riding uphill, and now they were up high, in a pass through what seemed like a mountain.

"Are these the Mountains of the Moon?"

"The Mountains of the Moon? Sansa, this is just a hill."

"Oh."

"The Mountains of the Moon are further west. They're higher. The tallest mountains in Westeros. This hill here, it's not even of a height with the Lonely Hills back home. By the Dreadfort. It's more like the Sheepshead Hills by the Hornwood." Then he paused. "You've never been to the Sheepshead Hills?"

"No, ser. Only to Torrhen's Square, Castle Cerwyn, and White Harbor."

"Lord Stark never took you?"

"Never me. Only Robb."

Domeric tensed again. Sometime on theMistmarcherthe mention of her brother had started making him frown. It made Sansa nervous.I should not be nervous,she we see Robb again, Domeric will be courteous and charming, and Robb will see how good he is. I trust him.

They passed through the hills and came into a dense woodland. Domeric tightened his grip around her. Beneath the thick forest canopy, there was little light. As they proceeded forward on the trail Sansa could hear wild animal sounds, caws and screeches and rustling leaves. Her nose wrinkled, and she smelled dew-damp moss and rotting is not peaceful like a godswood,she 's a wild forest where men grown go to hunt game. Great stags and boars. And thieves might be hiding here. Outlaws.

Sansa looked around. It felt too dark for the should have stayed in Gulltown.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Domeric spoke. "My lady does not like the woods."

"No, ser."

"Your mother never took you hunting."

"No."

"Aye, southron ladies do not hunt. Not truly. They hawk and they prance about the woods while the men chase the boar, but they do not hunt. Northern ladies hunt, though. My Aunt Barbrey likes to hunt. And Beth and Branna. My Ryswell cousins. They'll don their leather gloves and their quivers and their bows, trap some squirrels or shoot a deer, and make their collars and cuffs and shawls out of vair from their own kills."

"That sounds wonderful, ser." Maybe in a better world it would have been would have liked that better than me. She would have the bow, and trap the squirrel, and have me dress her could have done that together. We might have come to like the hunting and the dressing both. We could have come to like each other.

"Aye. My mother… she loved hunting. My father too. It was one of the only things they did together." Then he paused. "I love the hunt. The woods, the chase. Even if I am hunting with my father and not with my friends. It is the best feeling. Thundering through the woods atop your horse and going for the kill. We love our hunts, we Boltons."

Sansa shivered. "Many men like hunting. My father… the late king…"

"That may be true, but none loves the hunt so much as we Boltons do." She could hear him smiling behind her. "I should like to take you on a hunt one day."

Sansa hummed in assent. In her mind she heard the is the sweetest thing there breath caught in her likes to kill,she men like to kill.

The Hound had not been wrong about everything.

Sansa had been wrong about the woods. Nothing had hurt them there. No beasts came out to pounce at them, no outlaw bands loosing arrows from their bows. She had been wrong, but she was still glad when they left.

It was dusk when the thinning trees stopped for good. The sun was low in the cloudy sky, a shiny patch in the dreary grey. But the Royce lands were nothing dreary – golden fields of autumn wheat stretched in majesty near as far as the eye could see, and farther still, purple waves of lavender rolled in the distance. And on the horizon –

"There it is, princess," Domeric said. "Runestone."

And there it was. Up on a hill to the north Runestone loomed in the distance, all tall stone towers and sharp sloping roofs, high curtain walls and bronze banners snapping in the wind, the sky-blue moon-and-falcon soaring above them all.

"It's beautiful," Sansa said.

"Aye," said Domeric. "We'll be there tonight." He gave a winsome sigh before starting them onward again, through the head-deep sea of gold.

As the day died the grey clouds cleared into mottled purple and pink and orange. The sun was sinking into the west when the wheat stopped abruptly and gave way to tall stalks of lavender. Runestone grew and grew before Sansa's eyes as they rode through the great daze of purple and green. Bunches of lavender swung in the twilight and swatted at Rhaegar's flank as he walked. When they were deep into the purple Domeric stopped abruptly, dismounted, and pulled Sansa off the horse too.

"Princess," he said, "my lady." He opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Sansa." Domeric was clenching his jaw. "When we get to Runestone – " he stopped. "You know – " his words had not been so clipped and curt, not even on the first day. The muscles in his lower face were twitching. He reached out for her and Sansa stepped forward. He gripped her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the face. "I have been – with you – much too familiar. Once we get to the castle – "

Sansa bit her lip. "I know," she said. "It has not been very proper, how we both have acted. And I know," she paused, "that it – it must stop. For propriety." She didn't want it to stop.

"Propriety," Domeric said. "Aye." He sighed and released her shoulders, and then he pulled off his gauntlets. "Propriety. And reputation. And honor. Yours, and mine." He balanced them on his horse's saddle and then put his arms out to her, palms open. Sansa stepped forward again, pressing herself against his breastplate and tipping up her face to look up at him. She raised a hand to his cheek and stroked the dark whiskers with her thumb.

"I do not like it," he said, as he pulled her into a tight hug. "I do not like it. Not at all."

Sansa did not like it either. She nodded, her nose brushing his face.

"I do not want to go," he said, face tilting to the castle. "I would like to wait a while."

"Yes," Sansa said.

He pulled her into the tall stalks of lavender and began to pluck. When he had a whole clutch of stems in his fist, he spun her around and begun to weave them into her hair, around the crown of her head and down through her plait. When he was done, he grabbed both of her wrists.

"So pretty," he said. "My Jenny." Then he twirled her in place, started singing, and led her in a dance, the lavender stalks bumping her head and brushing against her legs.

When the song was over Domeric chuckled. "That's not right," he said. "Jenny of Oldstones." He tipped up her chin. "You could never be Jenny. You're a princess." He brought their noses together. "I'm the Jenny here, princess. And you're Duncan the Small."

Then he pulled back. He was clenching his jaw again. "Don't give up your crown for me."

"I won't have to," Sansa said. "I won't have to give up anything. Robb – " but he frowned when she said Robb's name. "You're Lord Bolton's son. The heir to the Dreadfort. There's nothing wrong with you. It would be a good match. And – and if my family thinks elsewise – you – you can show them. You're good. Not like the rest of them."

Domeric adjusted a stem of lavender next to her ear. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. It looked like he was biting his cheek, too.

"I mean that," Sansa said. "Truly, I do."

Domeric was silent for a moment. "Would you say it again, my lady?"

"You're good. A true knight. Different from the rest of them." She wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Not like my family?"

"Not like them. But if you were, it wouldn't matter to me."

"You ought not say that, my lady."

"It's true." She nudged his nose with hers.

"All right," he said. Then he kissed her softly and she frowned.

"Not like that – the last – " she stuck out her lower lip, and he stroked it with one of his fingers. A crease appeared on his brow.

"No," he whispered. "Not like that." His lip was trembling and she tasted blood when he tried again. She was dizzy when they broke apart.

He looked at the castle again. "I don't want – " he began. "We could go to Lys – ", but they couldn't, they had talked about it, and he shook his head. Then, "I love you," he said. "Don't forget."

"I couldn't," she said. "I won't have to." She gave a tight smile. Her throat hurt. Her chest hurt. It all hurt. "And I love you."

The sun had set. "We ought be going," he said.I don't want to go, took his hand as he pulled her out of the purple, where his horse was steadfastly waiting.

He put on the gauntlets, gripped her waist, and helped her up. When she was safely astride he did not let go. Instead, he wrapped himself around her in another hug.

When he let go he didn't mount up behind her. Instead, he took the reins in hand and began to walk, leading the horse by a few paces.

They passed out of the field of lavender and through the dark village, Runestone and its walls growing ever larger. Sansa could hear Domeric whistling softly. She knew the words.

High in the halls of the kings who are gone…