SANSA
The summer snow fell in gentle whispers through the ancient trees of Winterfell's godswood, each flake catching the light of paper lanterns strung among the branches. Those lanterns—delicate constructions of rice paper and thin wooden frames—swayed slightly in the evening breeze, glowing like earthbound stars against the darkening sky. Sansa had never seen anything like them before. They transformed the sacred grove into something otherworldly, neither entirely Northern nor fully foreign, but something new and strangely beautiful.
She stood perfectly still beside her mother, her posture as carefully maintained as her expression. Her gown of pale blue silk whispered softly against her skin when she breathed—the fabric finer than most Northern garments, but cut in a traditional style that emphasized her Stark heritage. Silver embroidery traced subtle patterns along the bodice and sleeves, catching the lantern light when she moved. Her mother had chosen it deliberately, had supervised each fitting with meticulous attention, ensuring that Sansa looked every inch the daughter of Winterfell on this pivotal day.
"Stand tall," Catelyn had instructed while arranging Sansa's auburn hair that morning, weaving it into intricate Northern braids. "Remember who you are."
The simple pearl-and-silver ornament pinned at the crown of her head felt lighter than it should, given the weight of its significance. Not Yi Tish, not Eastern. Stark. Tully. Westeros.
Music drifted through the godswood—the familiar notes of Northern pipes interwoven with the delicate melodies of Yi Tish flutes. The combination should have clashed, yet somehow achieved a haunting harmony that sent shivers along Sansa's spine. The musicians had been rehearsing for days, blending their different traditions into something that honored both without diminishing either.
The assembled lords and ladies of the North stood in ordered ranks around the heart tree, its bone-white branches and blood-red leaves a stark contrast to the paper lanterns and falling snow. No one spoke above a whisper. Even the Greatjon, known for his boisterous laughter, maintained a solemn dignity that seemed at odds with his massive frame. This was not a moment for merriment—not yet. This was a moment for witnessing, for remembering.
History, Sansa realized, was unfolding before her eyes. The North, which had stood apart for thousands of years, was binding itself to something ancient and foreign. Whatever came after would be forever changed.
A subtle shift in the crowd's attention drew her gaze to the path leading through the trees where her brother now appeared, tall and straight-backed in dark gray wolfskin and leather. Sansa felt her breath catch slightly. When had Robb become so... lordly? The boy who had teased her and played with wooden swords had vanished entirely, replaced by a man who carried himself with the quiet confidence of command.
He looks like Father, she thought suddenly. Not in coloring—Robb had inherited their mother's Tully features—but in bearing, in the set of his shoulders, in the gravity of his expression.
And then, beside him, came Princess Ruyan.
The Yi Tish princess wore a gown of pure white silk that seemed to capture and hold the lantern light, giving her an almost luminous quality against the gray stone backdrop of Winterfell. The dress itself was simpler than Sansa had expected—elegant rather than ostentatious, its only adornment the intricate gray embroidery along the hem and sleeves. Subtle patterns that, Sansa realized with a start, incorporated both the direwolf of House Stark and the phoenix of the imperial line.
Ruyan wore no veil, no crown, no elaborate headdress. Her dark hair was arranged in a style that somehow managed to honor both Eastern and Northern traditions—complex without being overwrought, the only ornamentation being several pearl pins that caught the light when she moved. She carried no flowers, no tokens—only herself, composed and present.
She looks like a storybook queen, Sansa thought, but not from any story I know.
As the couple moved toward the heart tree where her father waited, Sansa studied Ruyan more carefully. The princess displayed none of the nervous excitement Sansa had imagined a bride should feel, nor the shy downcast eyes of maidens in the songs. She walked with measured grace, her expression neither joyful nor solemn, but attentive—fully present in the moment, aware of its significance without being overwhelmed by it.
Beside Sansa, Arya shifted impatiently, earning a quelling look from their mother. Her younger sister had surprised everyone by willingly wearing a dress for the occasion—though Sansa had noticed the riding boots partially hidden beneath the hem. More surprising still had been Arya's apparent fascination with Princess Ruyan ever since their hunt in the Wolfswood—a story Arya had relayed with uncharacteristic reverence, her eyes wide as she described a white hart and how the princess had refused to shoot it.
The ceremony itself was brief, yet weighted with significance. As she watched Robb and Ruyan kneel before the heart tree, their breath visible in the cool evening air, Sansa felt the ancient power of the godswood envelop them all. The Old Gods had witnessed thousands of years of Stark marriages, but never one like this.
Few words were spoken. In the North, actions carried more weight than elaborate vows. Robb draped his cloak—gray wool lined with white fur, the direwolf emblazoned across the back—around Ruyan's shoulders. The princess accepted it with a precise inclination of her head, neither submissive nor reluctant, but acknowledging the tradition with respect.
Sansa's gaze drifted beyond the couple to the assembled witnesses. Lords and ladies, knights and servants, all standing in silent witness to this unprecedented union. Behind the line of major bannermen, a tall figure caught her attention.
Domeric Bolton. "Why am I looking at him?"
He stood apart from the other young lords, dressed in impeccably cut black clothes with subtle crimson undertones that only revealed themselves when he shifted. His height made him easy to distinguish, as did the pale hair pulled neatly back from his face. Unlike the other young men, who fidgeted or whispered among themselves, Domeric remained perfectly still, his long, refined fingers resting loosely at his sides as he observed the ceremony.
There was something in his manner—a quiet attentiveness, an unobtrusive dignity—that drew Sansa's eye. He watched not with the bored tolerance of many young lords, nor with the suspicious scrutiny of the older bannermen, but with genuine interest, as if memorizing every detail.
Without meaning to, Sansa found herself staring. As if sensing her attention, Domeric's eyes shifted, meeting hers across the gathering.
He didn't smile. He didn't nod in greeting. He simply held her gaze for a moment—long enough that she felt heat rise to her cheeks—before returning his attention to the ceremony.
Sansa looked away quickly, inexplicably flustered. She forced her attention back to Robb and Ruyan, who now stood to receive their father's blessing. Lord Stark's face remained solemn, but there was warmth in his eyes as he placed his hands on both their shoulders, speaking words too low for Sansa to hear.
What struck her most about the entire ceremony was the silence. In her dreams of weddings, influenced by songs and stories, there had always been cheering crowds, laughing guests, maidens throwing flower petals. Instead, there was this: snow falling softly through ancient trees, lantern light casting gentle shadows, solemn vows exchanged before the Old Gods.
As the ceremony concluded and the gathering began to move toward the Great Hall for the feast, Sansa found her gaze drawn once more to Domeric Bolton's tall figure. He moved with grace unusual for a Northman, each step deliberate yet fluid.
"Who are you looking at?" Arya whispered beside her.
"No one," Sansa replied too quickly.
Arya followed her gaze, then smirked. "Bolton? Really?"
"I wasn't—"
"You were," Arya countered. Then, with surprising perception: "He is different from the others. Princess Ruyan says he's the only Northern lord besides Robb who asked her about Yi Tish poetry."
Sansa blinked in surprise, both at the information and at Arya's casual reference to conversations with the princess. Before she could respond, their mother approached, gently guiding them toward the procession heading to the Great Hall. "Come along, girls. The feast will begin soon."
As they walked the lantern-lit path back to the castle, Sansa glanced over her shoulder at the godswood. The paper lanterns glowed like fallen stars among the ancient trees, transforming the familiar sacred grove into something magical and strange.
Like the North itself, Sansa thought. Still the same, but somehow forever changed by what had transpired here tonight.
And somewhere in the procession ahead, Domeric Bolton walked, tall and silent, his presence lingering in her thoughts for reasons she couldn't quite explain.
DOMERIC
Domeric Bolton sat three places from his father, a goblet in hand, untouched for most of the feast. The Bolton name still carried weight in Winterfell, but tonight he wielded presence, not legacy.
He did not seek the center of attention—just proximity. Enough to observe. Enough to be observed.
From his vantage, he tracked the shifts in the hall: Robb and his imperial bride, the cautious maneuvering of bannermen, the quiet recalculations whispered between ambitious mothers. Roose had instructed him to wait. Let the others lunge. Let the Boltons see.
Lady Sansa had been watching him.
Not constantly. Not boldly. But often enough. Her interest—predicted, nurtured—was confirmed.
Last evening's harp-playing had not been coincidence. He'd made certain to be visible on the garden path she favored. His music had been genuine; its timing, not. Unlike the Cerwyn boy's noisy boasting or Harrion Karstark's ale-sodden arm-wrestling, Domeric understood: attention was earned in the margins, not the spotlight.
At the high table, Sansa performed her role flawlessly—graceful, demure, attentive. But Domeric noted what others missed: the glances she stole, the tension behind her practiced poise. She had been raised to be watched. She had not yet been taught to watch back.
She would learn.
When Roose gave the smallest nod, Domeric moved.
He rose with fluid confidence, his black attire tailored to emphasize composure over display. Crimson thread caught torchlight only when he shifted—subtle, deliberate. A reminder, not a declaration.
Lord Stark greeted him with courteous gravity; Lady Stark, with that smile which betrayed nothing.
"I wonder if I might request the privilege of a dance with Lady Sansa?" Domeric asked, voice pitched just above the music.
Permission granted, he turned to Sansa.
"My lady," he said simply.
She placed her hand in his. Her composure held—barely. A quickened breath, a flush of color. Tells. Useful ones.
The musicians began—Northern strings threading with Yi Tish intervals. Something new. Something balanced.
"You play beautifully," she said. "I heard you... yesterday. With the Yi Tish musicians."
"You're kind. Their melodies are layered—there's precision beneath their beauty. Like ice, holding depth beneath the surface."
She smiled, faint but real. He filed it away.
Their conversation unfolded in steps—commentary becoming inquiry, inquiry becoming philosophy. She asked about Yi Tish poetry. He answered plainly, without boast. When she mentioned learning their script from the princess, his reply was thoughtful, not flattering.
"Understanding how others frame their thoughts reveals how they see the world."
She considered that.
Unlike the others who vied for her attention with hunting stories or awkward compliments, Domeric offered a challenge: perspective. It worked.
With each turn, her posture eased. Her answers sharpened. She began to ask real questions.
He had confirmed what he needed: she was not merely beautiful. She listened. She adjusted.
As the dance neared its end, he caught a flicker of motion—Princess Ruyan, watching them openly. Not with judgment, but recognition.
Another strategist acknowledging the game.
"The princess watches us," Sansa murmured.
"As does my father. As do all who know the floor is often more revealing than the council chamber."
She tilted her head slightly. "My mother says the same—about feasts and tourneys."
"Then she is wise," he said. And meant it.
The music slowed. Domeric bowed over her hand, precise as ever.
"Thank you for the honor, Lady Sansa."
"The pleasure was mine, Lord Bolton."
Her fingers lingered just slightly longer than custom allowed.
As he returned her to her seat, he felt the stares: Roose. Stark. Karstark. Manderly. All recalculating.
Let them.
He had no need to vie for her attention again tonight. The opening move had been played.
And she was already looking.