A few days later, King Robert's court escort—nearly eight hundred strong—along with Lord Eddard's fifty guards, and Domeric's three-hundred-man personal guard…
Set out from Winterfell in a vast procession, marching south toward King's Landing.
"Domeric… isn't your escort too large?" Lord Eddard stared blankly at Domeric's guard—helms gleaming, armor polished, gear immaculate, each man leading three horses.
"So many men… I'm worried King Robert might become wary."
"You're overthinking it, Lord Eddard."
Is three hundred really "too many"?
He had another twenty-five hundred already moving, just on separate routes.
Domeric shook his head, helpless. His future father-in-law's political instincts were painfully sluggish.
Robert hadn't ridden all the way to Winterfell to ask Ned to uphold "fairness and justice."
He'd come to use him against House Lannister.
After Lord Arryn's death, Stannis had withdrawn to Dragonstone. Renly was weakened. The Lannisters were now the dominant power in King's Landing—stronger by the day.
Even Robert, thick-skulled as he was, had started losing sleep over it. That was why he'd gone north for his old friend.
And Ned was bringing fifty guards.
Fifty. What was that supposed to do—deliver himself as a gift?
Robert probably wished Ned would ride south with five thousand men so the king could finally eat, drink, and whore in peace.
"My lord, the Lannisters have seven or eight hundred men in King's Landing," Domeric said calmly. "And there are countless houses loyal to them. Even the City Watch seems… entangled with their interests."
"…So it's that bad." Ned fell silent for a long while, as if something finally clicked. "You're right. I didn't think far enough."
"Your sister has run off again, gods know where," Septa Mordane complained.
"I haven't seen her," Sansa said.
She slipped a strip of bacon under the table to Lady, and the direwolf took it from her fingers with queenly grace.
"A well-bred noble girl doesn't feed dogs at table," the septa admonished.
"She isn't a dog," Sansa corrected softly. "She's a direwolf."
Mordane sighed. "Direwolf or dog, dogs make puppies with dogs—I've seen it… Anyway. Remind Arya to dress properly. We represent House Stark when we travel."
"I know."
Sansa's mood was so bright it could have lit the tent by itself. She brushed her auburn hair until it shone and put on her best blue velvet gown.
Today was special.
The king and her father were out hunting. The queen and several lords were resting.
And she—she had a small date with Ser Domeric.
Whenever she thought of him, something strange fluttered in her chest.
If she counted truly, they hadn't spent that much time together—
and yet she was certain she loved him.
He had everything her songs promised: tall and handsome, that pale noble skin, eyes deep as the sea, swordsmanship beyond imagining…
She treasured every chance to be alone with him.
Outside, the camp was loud with cursing voices and the groan of wagon wheels.
Men were raising tents, loading supplies, preparing the next day's march.
Leaving Winterfell, the king's escort, Ned's guard, and Domeric's men had followed the winding causeway through what felt like endless black mud.
It had taken ten days to cross the Neck.
…
Sansa found Arya by the Trident.
Her sister was wrestling with Nymeria, trying to scrub the dried mud clumped in the direwolf's coat—and Nymeria was having none of it.
After Domeric had cut down the Kingslayer in front of king, queen, and half the realm, no one dared mention direwolves again.
So Arya had gone back and found Nymeria.
Sansa took one look at her sister's filthy leather riding kit and sniffed. "Septa Mordane says you need to dress properly or you'll shame House Stark."
"Let it shame us," Arya shot back. "Can 'honor' fill your stomach?"
Arya worked a knotted tuft free. Then she glanced up. "Are you going to meet Ser Domeric today?"
"Of course," Sansa said, eyeing her. "Why else would I dress like this?"
"Can I come with you?" Arya asked—actually pleading.
"No," Sansa said at once, suddenly wary.
She'd waited for this day. She wasn't letting her foolish sister ruin it.
"You're misunderstanding," Arya sighed. "I'm not trying to sabotage anything. I've… learned something these days. About swordplay. I want Ser Domeric to guide me again—about understanding the true nature of strength."
"Swordplay and fighting are men's glory," Sansa scolded. "We noble girls have our duties. Do you understand?"
"What duties?" Arya rolled her eyes. "You mean… having babies?"
"You—" Sansa's face went pale. "You're impossible."
She stormed away, refusing to speak to Arya any longer—her heart already racing toward her promised meeting.
…
She arrived in her blue velvet gown, gold thread tracing her waistline and setting off her figure perfectly.
Her auburn hair was held by a band and fell down in soft waves.
A noble girl's brightness, a tall girl's grace—both at once.
Beautiful girls, Sansa thought, were born with a gift for dressing themselves.
Now she watched the tall, straight figure before her with eyes as gentle as water.
Domeric stepped closer and kissed her forehead. "Good day, Lady Sansa."
"Good day, Ser Domeric."
He took her hand while holding his horse with the other.
In the sun, their shadows stretched long across the grass.
"What shall we do today?" Domeric asked. He had no real experience entertaining a young noble girl, and Westeros had no pleasure gardens or fairs worth the name.
"Whatever you wish," Sansa murmured. Even that brief touch of his palm made her heart stumble. "So long as I'm with you…"
"Then we'll ride. We'll see what's ahead."
Domeric swung up into the saddle in one smooth motion, leaned down, and lifted Sansa up—settling her in front of him.
"Am I hurting you? The saddle—did it press?"
"Yes—" Sansa answered automatically, then instantly realized what she'd said and panicked. If she sounded stupid, he wouldn't like her—he couldn't.
"No, no," she blurted. "I'm fine. It's comfortable."
"Then hold on."
He wrapped one arm around her waist to steady her and took the reins with the other, riding west along the north bank of the Trident.
For Sansa, it was impossibly romantic.
The woods were full of wildflowers. She'd never seen a scene so lovely.
Domeric's horse was a rare-blooded beast, so fast it seemed even its shadow couldn't keep up.
Sansa had no choice but to fold into his arms, her head resting near his shoulder.
Most people smelled of sweat, sour breath, unwashed cloth—
but Domeric smelled clean.
Fresh. Crisp.
A scent like a living forest.
She inhaled softly without thinking, just to feel it again.
…
They spent the day racing the riverbank, startling a shadowcat back into its den.
When hunger came, Domeric followed a column of smoke to a small manor and traded a few silver stags for food and wine—and a trout pulled straight from the river.
Sansa drank a little too much. Her cheeks warmed, then burned.
After they ate, they walked their horses with the sun at their backs.
Domeric hummed a melody under his breath; Sansa found herself singing—sweet, bright, and clear.
…
It never grew boring.
It only became more and more precious.
The sun hung low without fully sinking, washing Domeric in slanting gold, his shadow stretching long ahead.
And for the first time, Sansa felt something strange in that silhouette—
a kind of loneliness.
Like a calm sea hiding thunder under the surface.
And somehow it made her sad.
Domeric glanced back, smiling as always. "Is there something on me? Why are you staring?"
"Sorry," Sansa lowered her head. "It's just… your back looks strange. Lonely."
"Lonely?" Domeric chuckled. "How can you tell?"
"Maybe… instinct." Sansa lifted her face again, auburn hair spilling away from her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and clean. "What are you lonely for?"
Domeric exhaled, sat down slowly on the grass, and looked at her for a long moment before speaking.
"In distant Asshai, they say there was a man named Zhuangzi. One day he dreamed he was a butterfly. When he woke, he couldn't tell whether he was Zhuangzi who had dreamed of being a butterfly… or a butterfly dreaming it was Zhuangzi.
Truth is… sometimes I feel life itself is like a dream.
And only by swinging a blade, by forcing myself forward, can I be sure I truly exist."
"…Is that so?"
Sansa moved closer, bracing both hands on his thighs, letting herself melt into his chest.
Their eyes met. Their lips were only inches apart—close enough to feel each other's breath, each other's heartbeat.
Her gaze was pure as water.
"Then, Ser Domeric… can you be sure you exist right now?"
She closed her eyes, ready to pour every ounce of affection into a kiss—to make him not lonely.
Then the moment shattered.
"Ser Domeric—Sansa! Is that you?" a loud voice called from nearby, water splashing.
"Arya—what are you doing in the river?!"
Sansa snapped, furious. Her foolish sister had ruined everything again.
"This is where King Robert killed Prince Rhaegar!" Arya shouted back. "I'm looking for the rubies that fell from his armor! Can you come help me find—"
Sansa's face twisted in rage.
Domeric only smiled.
"Should we go help her?" he said.
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GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT
🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
Power, bloodlines, betrayal, northern cruelty, and buried secrets wait beneath one of the most feared castles in Westeros.
❄️ The North remembers.🏰 The Dreadfort hides.🩸 And some secrets should have stayed buried.
Uncover what lies beneath before anyone else does.
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