DOMERIC BOLTON
Domeric arrived first at the Riverrun great hall for the war council. The Blackfish entered with Lady Stark, their voices low as they discussed supply lines. During the past weeks of raiding, Domeric had grown to respect Ser Brynden's tactical mind. His scouting reports were precise, his ambush strategies elegant in their simplicity. The kind of soldier who had earned his reputation through competence rather than birth—a rarity among Westerosi nobility.
The princess and the Blackwood commanders came in next. When everyone from the two raiding teams were present, the reports started. The princess listened attentively as the Blackfish reported their bits. Three Lannister outposts and two supply trains with no casualties.
Impressive numbers, though Domeric noted how Lucas Blackwood's lips twitched as he listened. When the Blackwood heir delivered his own report—three outposts, three supply trains—the satisfaction in his voice was barely concealed. The glance he cast toward the princess bordered on triumphant, as if seeking approval from a teacher who had watched him exceed expectations.
Though when the Blackfish mentioned that they captured one of Tywin Lannister's mad dog, Armory Lorch that pretty much was a win for their team, that if he would indulge the Blackwood heir. The Blackfish told her of the man's atrocities and cruelties and that he was in a separate holding cell awaiting for military punishment.
"Isn't he the one who killed the Princess Elia's daughter?" she asked.
"Him and the Mountain. Supposedly ordered by Tywin Lannister," Domeric confirmed. He had studied the histories, understood the political ramifications. Dorne's neutrality in this war stemmed directly from such injustices—grievances that festered like infected wounds across decades.
"Dorne hasn't made a move in this war," she mused, and Domeric could practically see the pieces aligning in her strategic mind.
"Doran Martell is a careful man," Lady Stark replied. "But they never forgot what Tywin has done."
Of course they hadn't. Prince Doran's restraint was legendary—but that wasn't forgiveness. It was patience.
"The Tyrells might ally with the Lannisters," Ruyan stated with clinical precision. "If Stannis wins, they'll pay for siding with Renly."
The logic was sound. The Reach had bet on the wrong horse and would now scramble to minimize their losses. Tywin Lannister would welcome their strength, their gold, their vast armies. Another piece on the board sliding into place behind enemy lines.
"We need Dorne at the Lannister's rear," the princess said finally. "We don't offer them allegiance. We offer them justice. Lorch and Gregor Clegane—alive."
Bold. Dangerous. But effective. Domeric saw the opening as clearly as she did. Dorne's hatred for the Lannisters ran deeper than any treaty. With the right bait, that hatred could be weaponized.
"The Martells might consider it," he said, keeping his voice low. "Clegane alive, not dead, would matter. Revenge isn't the same when it's already been taken for them."
She nodded once. She had known that, but she appreciated the confirmation.
"We capture him, then let the Martells come to us."
"The Mountain doesn't ride alone," Domeric said. "He keeps twenty at least. Men like him. Cutthroats. Butchers. He won't come lightly."
"He will if I'm the bait," Ruyan said. "If he learns I lead the raids, he'll hunt me as his personal prize."
That landed like a stone in water. Even the Blackfish faltered.
"You can't possibly be serious!" Lady Stark rose partway from her seat.
The Blackfish raised his concerns with more control, but Lucas Blackwood spoke quickly in support. He had raided beside the princess since her return from Renly's camp. He had seen what she could do.
Domeric looked to her, not for the first time, with a tactical eye. No bravado. No foolish pride. Just cold logic and a willingness to act.
He respected that. His father would too.
Her response was ice given voice. "They will be dealt with in the Yi Tish way. Certain methods that match his cruelty are not foreign to us."
Lady Stark shifted uncomfortably at the statement, and Domeric didn't blame her. There was something in the princess's tone that suggested the Mountain's men would receive exactly the mercy they had shown others—which was to say, none at all.
Then a YiTish soldier came in and handed him a missive. The princess's posture stiffened. Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time, Domeric saw something crack beneath that composed veneer—a flash of steel, a queen preparing to strike.
She looked at Lady Stark then to him.
"Joffrey Baratheon has dissolved your betrothal," she said in her usual calm tone. "He intends to wed Sansa. And put a child in her once she flowers."
Sansa—his betrothed, his future wife, the girl who had chosen him with clear eyes and rational mind—reduced to a political prize.
We have to get her out of there," Catelyn said, her voice shaking.
"I agree. We need to extract her," Ruyan replied, her tone brooking no argument.
"Stannis might attack the city soon," the Blackfish observed with tactical pragmatism. "He won't sack it. She might be safer in their hands."
"We don't know that. Either way, we are running out of time," Ruyan said.
Domeric thought of Sansa. He had wondered how she was holding on. He had wanted to go before. To act. But his father had forbidden it—not because he didn't care, but because he wouldn't risk his heir. Not even for a Stark girl.
She studied him for a long moment, weighing something he couldn't name. Then, quietly but clearly:
"This is a dangerous mission. Your father might not approve—he's not one to risk his only heir."
Domeric didn't flinch. "We're at war. And I won't refuse a direct order from my queen."
A beat passed. Ruyan's gaze held his, then she nodded.
"You will go rescue Sansa. This is a direct order from me."
She turned to the rest. "Arya Stark was not seen at Lord Stark's execution. According to Jeyne Poole, she escaped the day of their capture."
Catelyn's voice cracked softly. "She's out there somewhere…"
"She will survive," Ruyan said. "She'll find her way back to us."
Then she looked at Lady Stark. "By the way, Jeyne was rescued—from Baelish's brothels. She said she was presented directly to him."
The Blackfish's expression darkened. "And he did nothing."
His voice was quiet—but it vibrated with fury.
He understood. Jeyne Poole had been Sansa's friend, a steward's daughter whose only crime was loyalty to the Starks. That Baelish had delivered her to such a fate while maintaining his mask of helpfulness revealed the true depth of his corruption.
Domeric followed the princess after the council adjourned, the clack of her boots a steady rhythm beside him. She had finalized the raid plans without ceremony and now ordered him to walk with her toward the chamber where Baelish was confined.
He hadn't asked why she took the realm's master of coin, but it lingered in his mind. Taking Ser Loras had been a move of calculated aggression—but this? This felt more personal. Dangerous.
"You fostered in the Vale," she said without looking at him, her voice carrying the casual tone of someone already certain of his answer. "What do you know about Baelish?"
"Well regarded, especially among the younger lords." He paused, remembering darker whispers shared over wine and dice. "But Lord Yohn Royce strongly dislikes him. Something about his coin. His sources of... livelihood."
She gave a slight nod, filing the information. "A man who claimed to be Lady Stark's friend. Who named Tyrion Lannister as the owner of the Valyrian dagger used in the assassination attempt."
Domeric kept pace beside her, his mind working through implications. "Lady Stark's childhood friend—but also Stark men's defeated rival."
"He went to Renly on Queen Cersei's orders and offered queenship to Lady Margaery—made the proposal directly in front of Mace Tyrell himself. Tell me, Lord Domeric, does that sound like a mere pawn? Or a player moving pieces on his own board?"
The question hung between them as they descended a narrow staircase. Domeric considered it carefully—not just the words, but the calculation behind them. A pawn followed orders. A player created opportunities.
He paused, considering. "I reserve my judgment. For now."
"A man like that can do anything."
They reached the door. Lihua was already there. She opened it silently.
Baelish looked relaxed—but Domeric wasn't fooled. The smile on his face was too tight, his shoulders just a shade too stiff.
The princess tilted her head. Lihua moved like wind and struck him in the neck. Baelish's eyes went wide as his body sagged, unmoving.
"What did you do to me?" he gasped.
"You are paralyzed from the neck down," Lihua said calmly. "Your breathing will not be yours to control until I say so."
Then, without a word, she struck again—something in his neck. His eyes bulged, veins rising in his forehead as he began to suffocate. Lihua released the hold just before his face turned purple.
Domeric watched, equal parts disturbed and intrigued. It wasn't flaying, but the method was surgical—calculated. Psychological. She wasn't telling Baelish what he'd done. That was part of the torment.
She brought him to the edge of suffocation again and again, letting terror do the work.
When Baelish could finally speak coherently, the words came out as a wheeze. "You can't do this to me. I am master of coin to the Iron Throne. I did nothing to earn your enmity."
"You already did," Ruyan said quietly, her voice carrying the finality of a judge pronouncing sentence. "Jeyne Poole was Sansa's friend and a child at that."
"The queen commanded it," Baelish managed weakly.
"A flimsy defense," she replied, stepping closer until her shadow fell across his face. "The queen would not have cared what happened to one steward's daughter. The decision of her fate was yours alone."
"I'm not here to extract confessions or deliver justice," she said. "I'm here to offer you a choice. You may purchase the manner of your death."
Baelish blinked repeatedly, as if trying to clear his vision. "I... I don't understand."
"You're the master of coin. A brothel owner." Her voice remained level, conversational. "Pay everything you have, and you'll be granted a clean death."
She paused, letting the alternative hang unspoken in the air.
"If not..." She tilted her head slightly, the gesture somehow more threatening than any blade. "We can break his mind without leaving a single mark on his body."
She turned away then, the interview apparently concluded. Lihua resumed her work.
Domeric followed them from the chamber as guards arrived to transport Baelish to the dungeons.
She spoke low, her tone unreadable. "Do you think my methods are against Westerosi honor?"
He didn't hesitate. "I'm a Bolton."
That was answer enough.
"A man like that has many secrets," he added after a beat. "He won't crack easily."
She didn't stop walking. "He will. Soon enough."
Baelish was stripped of all but a thin shift and thrown into a stone cell lined with hay. There was a single slit of a window near the ceiling, high enough that even standing he'd never reach it. The light poured down only onto the door. Ruyan gave instructions to the guard—check on him every six hours, feed him at irregular times, and above all, keep him awake. For three days.
Domeric said nothing. The silence was part of the breaking.
Then she turned to Domeric. "My men will find you in a designated location in the city. They'll assist you in your mission."
Domeric nodded.
"Tywin may come to defend King's Landing. He won't let it fall to Stannis," she continued. "Avoid Lannister troops. Bring her to our nearest outpost."
There was no fanfare. No dramatics. Just instruction.
"There's something I haven't mentioned to Lady Stark," she said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The information is... sensitive. It would cause upheaval among Robb and the Northern lords if they learned of it."
She met his eyes, unflinching.
"Joffrey made Sansa his plaything. He tortures and abuses her in public. For every victory we claim—no matter how small—she pays the price."
Domeric stopped cold.
It wasn't shock—he had seen what cruelty looked like. It was something deeper. Sharper.
He had read her letters. Since their betrothal, they'd begun to know each other — carefully, cautiously. She was meant to be his. His father might see only a Stark in her—but Domeric had long decided otherwise.
No one did that to a Bolton bride.
He gave a slow nod, the rage moving through him like a steady current beneath ice.
"I'll get her out," he said again—this time, not as an oath.
As a promise.