The midday feast had already been going on for more than two hours.
Domeric looked around among the noble young ladies for quite a while but didn't see Sansa—the bride-to-be—anywhere. He grabbed Robb, who was swaying drunk, and asked.
Only then did he learn that Sansa—and Arya—were up in the tower's sewing room having their lesson.
So even a noble lady's daily life wasn't exactly easy.
…
The Sewing Room.
"What's that?" Arya pointed at what Sansa was holding: a wide, warm wool scarf embroidered with a flayed man on a pale pink field.
Because the proportions were… not quite right, the flayed man looked oddly chubby—and kind of cute.
"House Bolton's sigil," Sansa explained, blushing. "It's a gift for Ser Domeric."
"If it's your gift, then why don't you stitch our direwolf on it too?" Arya giggled.
Sansa gave a small laugh. "Little sister, then you'd better learn your needlework properly and stitch both House Tully and House Stark onto your own clothes."
"A wolf holding a fish in its mouth?" Arya thought about it and burst out laughing. "That'd look stupid!"
The moment Arya laughed, the sewing needle in her hand went crooked.
Unlike Sansa—who was good at embroidery—Arya was absolutely terrible with a needle, so Septa Mordane always "took special care" of her.
Sure enough, Septa Mordane lifted her head and looked over.
She had a thin, narrow face, sharp eyes, and lips so thin they were almost invisible—giving her a slightly severe air.
Mordane walked over, took the cloth from Arya, and examined it closely. "Arya, Arya—this won't do! This won't do at all."
With the septa's shouting, Arya realized all the girls around her were staring.
Ridiculous.
"Who wasn't a terrible student as a kid?" The steward's daughter—who always mocked her as "Horseface Arya"—was snickering at the side, and even Sansa looked at her with pity.
Arya decided this place wasn't fit for humans.
She jumped up from her chair and bolted for the door.
Behind her, Septa Mordane called, "Arya! Come back here! If you act like this, how will you ever marry?"
"Why do I have to marry? I can go my whole life without marrying!"
Arya laughed, turned back, and said carelessly, "I'm going to shoe the horses!"
And with that she fled the sewing room at full speed and ran down the stairs—only to slam straight into a tall, upright figure.
"Ser Domeric—you're here!" Arya said, startled.
Domeric caught the girl who had crashed into him and set her back on the steps.
"Where's your sister?"
"She's inside! She knitted you a present—go see!"
Arya grabbed Domeric's hand and dragged him back toward the sewing room, not caring whether Septa Mordane would scold her again.
On the way, Arya started complaining:
"Sansa's never been good at managing a household, and she's hopeless at sums. Once she marries you, be careful—don't ever let her manage your accounts, or it'll be a disaster."
Domeric listened quietly without commenting, inwardly amused by the sisters.
…
The Sewing Room.
When Domeric stepped in, Septa Mordane immediately led the girls in a curtsy.
Everyone knew who he was: Lord Eddard's future goodson, heir to the Dreadfort, House Bolton.
"Carry on. Don't mind me," Domeric said, walking toward Sansa.
Sansa suddenly felt all the blood rush to her head. Her chest thumped as if a small deer were trapped inside.
As Ser Domeric drew nearer and nearer, she felt dizzy—was this another kind of happiness?
She had imagined their reunion so many times, but when it truly happened, she still couldn't stop herself from trembling with nerves.
Domeric reached her, gently drew the daydreaming girl into his arms, breathed in the soft scent of her hair, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"Good day, beautiful Lady Sansa."
As he spoke, he took out a silver hairpin set with gemstones and pearls and, with practiced ease, clipped it into Sansa's auburn hair.
Instantly, it caught the light—brilliant and dazzling.
Septa Mordane and the other girls around them seemed to fade into the background, like mere props.
Beauty with jewels—was it the jewels that made the beauty more beautiful, or the beauty that finally gave the jewels meaning?
Sansa couldn't help closing her eyes, feeling the warmth of Domeric's embrace, wishing the moment would last forever.
"Seriously?" Arya, having been force-fed all this sweetness, finally snapped.
She rolled her eyes, puffed her cheeks, and stretched her "horseface" into an exaggerated scowl. "Everyone knows you're going to marry. Do you really have to be this mushy?"
"Arya," Sansa scolded, flustered—afraid Domeric might think her sister ill-mannered.
"Also—Ser Domeric. This is for you."
Sansa lifted a bundle of knitting, shy-faced. Even though they were about to be betrothed and everything was settled, Sansa still blushed for no reason at all.
It was a black-wool scarf, tightly and neatly stitched. And the pale pink flayed man embroidered on it somehow gave Domeric an oddly cute feeling—clearly she'd put real care into it.
Domeric couldn't help thinking of certain memories from another life—faces long sealed away.
No matter the world, a handmade gift always carried a special meaning.
"Thank you," Domeric said, and kissed the girl's hand.
"I want to make fun of you, but… I'm kind of jealous," Arya muttered, sounding even more sour.
"Don't worry," Sansa said, smiling to comfort her. "Maybe one day you'll marry a 'prince' like Ser Domeric."
The moment Sansa said "prince," Domeric immediately thought of that "great king," Joffrey.
In one month, the canon events would begin: King Robert would come north, invite Lord Eddard to serve as Hand, and to bind House Stark would surely offer a marriage alliance.
Now that Sansa had been taken by him, Robert would only have Arya left for Joffrey—unless Princess Myrcella married Robb.
But the latter obviously carried less weight. A princess wasn't as politically valuable as the future heir to the Iron Throne.
"Yes," Domeric agreed smoothly. "Maybe you will marry a prince."
"Yeah," Arya said, unimpressed. "I just hope he's as reasonable as you. If he's an annoying little shit, I don't mind beating him every day."
"Hah…"
Domeric—usually steady and composed—couldn't help laughing at the image.
Night fell. The lamps glowed dim. A slanted moon rose.
Tomorrow was the day the betrothal feast would formally begin. Lord Roose, Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor, Lord Helman Tallhart of Torrhen's Square, Lord Rodrik of the Rills… and the rest of the northern nobility would soon arrive.
A grand banquet mixed with power and struggle was about to begin.
And yet, at this moment, Lord Eddard brought Domeric to the entrance of Winterfell's crypts.
A few guards stood at the doorway, as if they meant to keep others out.
"Come in with me, Domeric," Eddard said softly, taking a lantern from a guard and walking a half circle at the entrance.
The wavering flame lit the stone beneath their feet. Shadows shifted and crept. Granite pillars appeared in paired rows, stretching into the darkness.
The dead of House Stark sat carved in stone upon their thrones between the pillars, backs to the walls, stone sarcophagi behind them holding their remains.
An ancestral rite?
Domeric's mind flashed the thought. This was good—meaning Eddard was beginning to treat him as one of his own.
"This is Stark tradition," Eddard explained, as if reading Domeric's question. "Every man who is to wed a Stark daughter must come here and pay respect to our ancestors… and earn their acknowledgment."
"I see," Domeric replied, offering no judgment.
Eddard led the way with the lantern, moving through the aisles between pillars.
The cold underground could make a man shiver to the bone, but Domeric followed in silence.
He regretted not bringing a wool cloak—then he could've worn the scarf Sansa had given him.
But in a place this solemn, he couldn't exactly tell the Warden of the North, wait here while I fetch my cloak.
The crypts were freezing. Domeric walked behind Eddard among the dead of House Stark, their footsteps echoing through the vast tomb.
The old Kings in the North stared from stone thrones with eyes that could no longer see. Their carved faces lay sealed above stone coffins, while great stone direwolves curled at their feet.
The movement of the living seemed to stir the dark; shadows crawled along the walls.
By tradition, every statue of a Lord of Winterfell had an iron longsword laid across its lap—meant to keep vengeful spirits bound below, unable to roam among the living.
Domeric noticed that in the oldest cases, the iron had long since rotted away. Only reddish-brown stains remained where a sword had once rested.
If that belief were true… did it mean those ancient Stark spirits now wandered the castle freely?
"Here. This is it."
Eddard's voice cut off Domeric's thoughts.
Eddard stopped and raised the lantern. The crypts still stretched onward into darkness, and beyond this point were empty spaces not yet filled—reserved for those yet to come.
Three statues sat side by side.
The first was Eddard's father, the previous Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—Lord Rickard Stark. He had a stern long face; the sculptor had captured his presence well. He sat upright, stone fingers clenched around the longsword laid across his lap.
On either side were his children.
Brandon Stark had died at only twenty. He had been Winterfell's true heir—firstborn, and a natural leader—only to be cruelly strangled by King Aerys II Targaryen, before his father's eyes.
Lyanna Stark had died at sixteen, still a girl with a child's heart. Eddard had loved her completely, and King Robert still could not let her go.
But in Domeric's view, Robert had not truly loved Lyanna—more likely it was the ache of wanting what he couldn't have.
In canon, Robert even admitted to Cersei that he no longer remembered Lyanna's face. Perhaps it was the bitterness of loss—and the rage of a stolen bride—that turned her into an eternal wound.
After all, in the minds of the living, the dead are always unbeatable.
"This is Sansa's grandfather—Lord Rickard," Eddard said, kneeling.
Domeric knelt after him.
"This is Sansa's uncle, Brandon—my brother. Winterfell's heir."
"And this is Sansa's aunt—Lyanna."
Domeric studied the three statues. He couldn't help being curious: what kind of beauty had the woman possessed who sparked Robert's Rebellion and brought down House Targaryen?
"She was far more beautiful than the statue."
After a long silence, Eddard seemed to notice Domeric's gaze and let out a deep sigh.
His thoughts returned to that room thick with blood and the scent of roses, to Lyanna's dying whisper: Ned… promise me.
Fever that would not break had drained her strength. Her voice had been little more than breath—until Eddard swore he would keep his word. Then the fear in her eyes finally vanished.
Eddard remembered her last smile—rose petals spilling from her hand, dark and lifeless.
His gaze lingered on Lyanna's stone face, unwilling to let go, as if staring long enough could call her back.
Domeric, too, looked quietly at the statue, thinking of Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar—of the "love" that ignited a rebellion and toppled a dynasty.
A love that shocked the world always demanded a terrible price.
The old masters hadn't lied.
"Domeric." Eddard's softness faded. His face hardened, and his voice turned heavy. "From this day onward, you are also part of House Stark."
"The peace and honor of the North will rest on your shoulders as well." Each word struck like stone.
"Yes, my lord," Domeric answered.
It seemed the ancestors of House Stark had accepted him.
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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.
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