DOMERIC
Domeric Bolton watched from the shadowed edge of Winterfell's Great Hall, swirling Arbor gold in a goblet that had been in his hand, mostly untouched, for the better part of an hour. His position—neither central nor entirely peripheral—afforded him the perfect vantage to observe without drawing undue attention to himself.
His father stood nearby, seemingly absorbed in conversation with Lord Karstark, though Domeric knew better. Roose Bolton's pale eyes missed nothing, especially not on a night like this.
The musicians played a curious melody—Northern pipes and strings interwoven with something Eastern, delicate yet insistent. The tempo shifted between familiar rhythms and foreign cadences that should have clashed but instead created something unexpectedly harmonious. Domeric, who prided himself on his musical sensibilities, found himself appreciating the subtle complexity of the arrangement.
"Northmen with Yi Tish flutes," he murmured to no one in particular. "Who would have thought?"
His father's attention shifted imperceptibly toward him. "They adapt quickly when it serves them," Roose observed, his voice barely audible above the music. "Remember that."
The Great Hall had been transformed for the occasion, the opening banquet for the week long wedding celebration. Ancient Stark banners hung alongside unfamiliar Eastern standards—a pale phoenix surrounded by seven golden stars on deep green silk. Torches and candles blazed in greater numbers than Domeric had ever seen at Winterfell, casting the usually somber hall in a wash of golden light. Even the serving platters seemed different—traditional Northern roasts and game birds arranged alongside delicate portions of seasoned fish, fragrant steaming broths, and small, sweet rice buns that the Northern lords approached with equal parts suspicion and curiosity.
Lady Stark had outdone herself with the arrangements, though Domeric suspected the Yi Tish influence in the presentation. Whatever tensions existed beneath the surface—and there were many, evident in the careful distance Catelyn Stark maintained throughout the evening—none could deny the unprecedented elegance of the affair.
The assembled guests fell suddenly quiet, a wave of silence spreading from the great doors toward the high table. Domeric straightened, his attention sharpening as Robb Stark appeared in the entryway, his foreign bride on his arm.
Princess Ruyan of Yi Ti entered Winterfell's Great Hall like the first winter snow—silent, inevitable, transformative. She wore a gown of silver-gray silk that flowed like liquid metal with each measured step, cut in a style that honored Northern sensibilities while maintaining Eastern grace. A light open robe of a slightly deeper shade draped over her shoulders, embroidered with subtle patterns that Domeric couldn't quite discern from this distance. Her jewelry was restrained but unmistakably valuable—a silver pendant at her throat, pearls woven into her hair, and several ornate pins that seemed to serve both decorative and practical purposes in her elaborate hairstyle.
That hair was a statement in itself—primarily arranged in a complex Yi Tish updo that spoke of hours of careful attention, yet incorporated several Northern braids that any lady of Winterfell might wear. The symbolism wasn't lost on Domeric, nor on anyone else in the hall with eyes to see.
She's meeting them halfway, he thought. Or at least, appearing to.
She stood tall beside Robb—not much shorter than her husband, her posture immaculate without seeming rigid. There was something in her bearing that Domeric recognized from his time in the Vale—the unconscious grace of someone who had never questioned their place in the world, who had been raised to command rather than obey. It was not arrogance, but its more refined cousin: absolute certainty.
Beside her walked another woman in more traditional Yi Tish attire—elaborate robes of deep green with gold accents, her hair arranged in a style that made no concessions to Northern fashion. Her posture and the subtle deference others showed her marked her as neither servant nor equal to the princess, but something in between. An advisor, perhaps, Domeric thought. Or a highborn attendant.
Lord Stark rose from the high table, and the hall fell completely silent.
"My lords and ladies of the North," he said, his voice carrying the weight of Winterfell's ancient authority. "I present to you my son, Robb of House Stark, and his wife, Princess Ruyan of the Imperial House of Yi Ti."
A murmur rippled through the assembly—not quite approval, not quite dissent, but something wary and watchful. Domeric noticed how Ruyan received these whispers without reaction, her expression composed and attentive as she surveyed the hall.
She made her way beside Robb toward the high table, pausing briefly before Lady Stark. The two women regarded each other with a politeness so precise it could have cut glass. Ruyan performed a slight bow of her head—acknowledgment without submission, respect without warmth. Catelyn returned the gesture with equal measure, every inch the Lady of Winterfell despite the tension evident in the set of her shoulders.
When Ruyan turned to Lord Stark, her bow was similar—formal, exact, but not subservient. Ned Stark received it with the grave courtesy that was his hallmark, though Domeric caught the flicker of assessment in the Warden's eyes.
"She doesn't grovel," Roose observed quietly at his side. "Nor should she."
Domeric nodded slightly. "Imperial bearing. Even here at the edge of her known world."
His father's lips curved in what might have been a smile on another man's face. "The world has edges only for those who cannot see beyond them."
The feast proceeded with careful formality, each course bringing a blend of Northern tradition and Eastern novelty. Domeric found himself appreciating the contrast—the hearty game and mead of the North complemented rather than clashed with the delicate spices and subtle flavors of Yi Ti. He watched as Northern lords cautiously sampled unfamiliar dishes, their expressions shifting from suspicion to grudging appreciation in many cases.
"The food is... interesting," commented Harrion Karstark, who had taken the seat beside him. "Strange, but not unpleasant."
"Like much about this evening," Domeric replied evenly.
His attention drifted to Sansa Stark, seated near her mother at the high table. The girl couldn't seem to tear her eyes from Princess Ruyan, though she made valiant efforts to maintain the decorum expected of the eldest Stark daughter. There was naked fascination in her gaze—admiration for the princess's grace, her exotic beauty, her evident poise. Whenever Ruyan performed some small gesture—lifting her goblet, addressing a servant, exchanging quiet words with Robb—Sansa studied the movement as if committing it to memory.
She sees a future there, Domeric realized. Not her own, perhaps, but something to aspire to.
When the tables were cleared for dancing, the musicians shifted to more lively tunes, still blending Northern rhythms with Eastern melodies. Robb led Ruyan to the center of the hall for the first dance—a traditional Northern pattern that she performed with careful precision, if not natural fluidity. Her movements were studied rather than instinctive, yet she made no errors that Domeric could discern.
"She's been practicing," he noted to his father.
"Of course," Roose replied. "She would never allow herself to appear unprepared."
As the dance concluded, to polite applause from the assembly, it was the Greatjon who stepped forward next—a calculated move that surprised Domeric only in its timing, not its occurrence. House Umber's loyalty to Stark was unquestioned; Lord Umber's request for a dance was as much political statement as social courtesy.
"Princess," the Greatjon's voice boomed across the hall, audible even over the music. "Might this humble Northman have the honor?"
Ruyan turned toward him, her expression composed but not cold. "The honor would be mine, Lord Umber," she replied, her accent lending a musical quality to the words without obscuring their meaning.
The contrast between them was stark—the massive, ruddy-faced Northerner and the slender, elegant Eastern princess. Yet as they moved through the steps of the dance, there was something almost complementary in their differences. The Greatjon's natural exuberance seemed tempered in her presence, while her precise movements gained a hint of warmth from his genuine enthusiasm.
"She handles him well," Domeric observed.
"She was raised for diplomacy," Roose replied. "Dancing with barbarian lords is hardly her greatest challenge."
When the dance concluded, Lord Umber bowed with surprising grace for such a large man. Ruyan inclined her head in return, her expression suggesting neither relief nor displeasure at the experience—merely completion of a necessary social obligation.
Roose leaned slightly toward his son. "You should dance with her next. After the loyalists. Let her see the rest of the board."
Domeric understood immediately. This was not a flirtation or merely a social courtesy. It was reconnaissance—an opportunity to assess the future Lady of Winterfell at close quarters, to gauge her responses beyond the carefully managed public performance she had maintained throughout the evening.
He waited as several other Northern lords took their turns—Glover, then Cerwyn, each received with the same measured courtesy. When there was a suitable break in the proceedings, Domeric moved forward with the fluid grace he had perfected during his years in the Vale.
"Princess Ruyan," he said, bowing precisely—neither too deep nor too shallow. "Domeric Bolton. Might I have the honor?"
Her dark eyes assessed him with swift efficiency—taking in his appearance, his bearing, likely connecting his name to whatever information Robb had provided about the North's great houses. If the Bolton name carried any particular significance to her, she gave no sign.
"Lord Bolton," she acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. "The honor is mine."
Her hand was cool and light in his as they moved into position. The musicians began a melody that walked the line between cultures—structured enough for Northern steps but with rhythmic complexities that hinted at Eastern influences.
Domeric led with the confidence of long practice, and Ruyan followed with perfect precision—neither anticipating his movements nor hesitating to respond to them. It was, he realized, like dancing with a mirror that moved independently—reflecting his technical proficiency while maintaining its own distinct presence.
"You dance well, Princess," he observed, keeping his voice neutral.
"As do you, Lord Bolton," she replied evenly. "Your training shows."
"The Vale," he acknowledged. "And yours?"
A fleeting something—not quite a smile—crossed her features. "Imperial court. From the age of three."
They completed a turn in silence, each measuring the other.
"The North must seem very different from your home," Domeric ventured.
"Different, yes," she agreed. "But difference is not inherently negative."
The diplomatic response revealed nothing while sounding reasonably forthcoming—a skill Domeric recognized from his own political education.
"Some find our ways harsh," he commented.
"Some find Yi Ti's ways incomprehensible," she countered smoothly. "Understanding requires effort on both sides."
Another turn, another series of steps executed with flawless coordination.
"And are you making that effort, Princess?" The question was direct but delivered without particular emphasis.
Her eyes met his briefly. "I am here, Lord Bolton. Dancing Northern dances, speaking your language, wearing your colors. Judge as you will."
The response was neither defensive nor challenging—simply a statement of observable facts, offered without emotional inflection.
As the dance concluded, Domeric bowed again. "Thank you for the honor, Princess."
"And you, Lord Bolton."
He returned to his father's side, considering what he had learned. Not much, perhaps, in terms of specific information, but something about her character—the careful balance she maintained between diplomacy and dignity, the way she engaged without revealing, the precision with which she navigated unfamiliar terrain.
"Well?" Roose inquired softly.
"Controlled," Domeric replied. "Entirely. But not rigid."
"And?"
"She speaks to reveal nothing while appearing transparent. Classic court training."
Roose nodded slightly. "The Starks have acquired something unexpected. Not a demure bride, not a foreign ornament."
"No," Domeric agreed, watching as Ruyan rejoined Robb at the high table, her posture as perfect as when the evening began. "Whatever she becomes as Lady of Winterfell, it will not be what any of them anticipated."
His father's pale eyes scanned the hall, taking in the various reactions to the princess—the Northern lords' cautious assessment, Lady Stark's careful distance, the smallfolk's barely concealed curiosity.
"The board has changed," Roose murmured. "New pieces. New patterns."
"And our position?" Domeric asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Observe. Wait. The Starks have gained an imperial connection, but also imperial complications." Roose's gaze shifted to Sansa Stark, still watching the princess with unconcealed fascination. "There will be opportunities."
Domeric nodded, returning his attention to the princess. She sat beside Robb now, engaged in what appeared to be light conversation with Lord Manderly, her expression pleasantly attentive though her eyes remained alert, observing the hall much as Domeric himself was doing.
For a brief moment, their gazes met across the crowded space. Neither acknowledged the other with any change of expression, yet both recognized the parallel in their positions—the watchers, the assessors, the calculators of political terrain.
The evening continued around them—Northern lords growing louder with mead, Yi Tish attendants maintaining their composed presence at the edges of the hall, the curious blend of music weaving between familiar and foreign. Winterfell had never looked quite like this before, Domeric reflected. Not southern, not soft, but something new—winter meeting silk, and somehow neither bending. From the high table, Domeric could feel another set of eyes—soft, uncertain. Curious.
Sansa Stark