A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.
I also want to extend my appreciation to RENRY, X59, Lord Lelouch, matrim cuthon, baronnis, thepkrmgc, , WaterRK9, WeylandCorp 4, 'birdy,' OBSERVER01, senpen banka, Queen of Ice and Winter, El Chacal, purple sky always, KaiserKou, 'RC,' Jovianokami, jackli10345, MrSir17, Ari989, DaphneSlytherinWinchester, Doctor Khan(2), Axular, Anowe, and to all the 'Guests' for taking the time to review. It means a lot to me.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
25: Sansa
Jeyne was babbling again.
Sansa smiled at her friend's enthusiasm, but it was more forced then genuine. They had arrived at their seats for the Tournament of the Hand. It was being held beyond the city walls; more than a hundred pavilions had been raised and set up along the river. From her seat she could see the commoners numbering in the thousands had fanned out along their stands to take in the tournament.
Jeyne was gushing beside Septa Mordane. She was wide eyed as she took in the sights of the tournament that was being held to honor Sansa's father's appointment as Hand to the King. She whispered excitedly about that knight or that lord when they rode past. However, it was Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven that seemed to have captured her interest and fed her fantasies.
This was the old me, Sansa thought wryly. There was a time when Sansa would be just as thrilled to be here as her friend. She would be enthralled by the splendor, by the shimmering armor of knights, the crowds of people, the banners of more than a hundred knights and lords that snapped and waved in the breeze.
Not anymore.
Sansa was thankful that the veil had been lifted from her eyes. Looking back she felt more than a bit embarrassed at how she had been so enthralled by the songs and tales of knights and ladies. Sansa was not that silly girl anymore. She was a young woman who'd soon be married. To a man I love, to her amusement she had gotten the ending in the songs she had always wanted, but it didn't require southern courts or princes.
Now, she was here at this tournament because of him, a faint smile played at her lips at that realization. Despite, these changes she couldn't deny the small sense of excitement she felt at being here.
"It's better than the songs!" Jeyne declared.
Keep your songs, Sansa wanted no part in them. Unlike her friend, she didn't marvel at the spectacle of it all that unfolded before her. Her heart and attention were on Domeric. That was all she cared about in this tournament.
As Jeyne became captivated by that knight or that lord, Sansa did not. She wasn't going to get lost in seeing these men dressed in their finest because she knew who these men were. They were Domeric's opponents. These were some of the best fighters that the realms had to offer.
"He looks like a beggar," Septa sniffed disdainfully.
Following Septa Mordane's line of sight to see her critique was being leveled on Jory's armament. Sansa did not like how the Septa judged her father's captain of the guard so harshly. He was a loyal man, good with a sword who would fight and even die for her father and her family. He didn't deserve to be dismissed so readily because of how he presented himself.
Jory was not riding alone from her father's household guard. Alyn and Harwin too had entered the lists. She remembered hearing them talking about the honor in riding for the north, but also the winning purse of forty thousand gold dragons as the two young men dreamed and discussed what they'd use the winnings on.
Domeric had been the only northern noble to enter the lists. Not a surprise, considering the north didn't view these tournaments with the same awe that the south did. The North didn't have many knights. That was the way of the Seven. The North kept to the Old Gods. White Harbor was the exception, the only bastion of the Seven north of the Neck.
It was then that she spotted him. Jeyne could keep Lord Beric and Ser Loras as far as Sansa was concerned they paled in comparison to Domeric. She felt her heart fluttering at seeing him atop his horse, he and Shadow covered in steel and draped in his family's colors.
He looked gallant as he urged Shadow over to where Sansa and Jeyne were sitting in the stands. Sansa realized that she was not the only one staring at her betrothed, hearing and seeing the reaction his armor was getting from the nobility and commoners alike.
He wore plate armor blacker then night. It was the rubies that were embedded in his armor that were getting everyone's attention. They glistened in the sunlight across his chest plate, surrounding the red painted flayed man that hung upside down on a cross, the infamous blazon of House Bolton.
While the rubies sparkled, it was the flayed man emblazoned along the chest that was eliciting just as strong as a reaction from the crowd. Sansa had asked Domeric why the rubies were included in the armor and Domeric had told her, they were a tribute to his family's history. They represented blood drops. Leave it to Lord Bolton to display wealth in such a unique way.
Sansa remembered marveling at the armor when he had shown it to her the night before. He had been less than impressed with the rubies, complaining it made him look like a foolish southerner and a hypocrite to be encased with such fine jewels for a tournament. However, Domeric wore the armor without protest. He was the dutiful son who would not disobey his father's orders.
A pale red cloak billowed behind him. He wore a rounded helm that resembled a snarling horse, including a mane of black feathers. He had told her the horse's helm was in part a jest to acknowledge his Aunt and Lord Redfort who had both said he rode like he was part horse.
Seeing him riding in towards her, she couldn't help but admire how handsome he looked. The dark armor coloring, the horse helm, the glistening rubies, he looked both fierce and valiant.
Her mind could not help but compare the scene unfolding in front of her to some of her favorites that had happened in her songs and stories from her youth. Sansa was quick to admit that this experience surpassed them effortlessly. Her heart was brimming with happiness and love for the man who rode to her. He was not the knight or the prince from her songs. He meant so much more to her. He was her betrothed, and the man whom she loved with every fiber in her.
When Shadow neared, Domeric dropped his head towards her in respect, "My love."
Sansa knew that by now all of the common folk and the high lords and ladies were watching her.
He gave her a brilliant smile when he raised his head. His brown eyes looked to her with such warmth it brought a feeling of delight that shivered just beneath her skin. "Would you allow me the honor of giving me your favor for this tournament?"
"You may have it," Sansa declared, tying her green scarf which matched her dress to his outstretched arm. When she had finished, she squeezed his arm and offered him a smile. "Be safe."
"I will," he vowed, kissing her outstretched hand across her knuckles. When the kiss ended, he met her eyes and showed her one more smile that had a way of making her tummy doing a flip before he snapped his helm shut and rode off.
Sansa clapped loudly when Domeric unhorsed a Frey during his second bout. The Frey knight looked to have all but flown from his horse when Domeric's lance struck true.
"Sansa," Jeyne hissed beside her, "Lords and Ladies are staring."
"Let them," Sansa was unbothered by the attention. She knew they had been watching her since Domeric rode out to ask for her favor. Mayhaps, that's how the ladies of the south acted when their betrothed and husbands rode: sitting quietly and meekly, but not her.
Sansa was not of the south. She was of the north. She had no intentions of hiding her support or her feelings for Domeric. She wouldn't bend to decorum in this moment. Not for this.
Septa Mordane was frowning. "Now, now Lady Sansa, a noble lady is expected to retain their etiquette," the Septa shook her head, "You're acting as wild as Arya."
Sansa smiled at that. "I could think of no finer compliment, Septa."
She blinked owlishly at Sansa as comprehension slowly came to her bony face at what Sansa had said.
Jeyne looked scandalized.
Sansa didn't spare her friend or the Septa another look returning her attention to the field as the next participants were preparing for their bout. It was to be between a young knight from the Vale and the terrifyingly large Ser Gregor the Mountain. She prayed to the gods that Domeric wouldn't have to face such a ferocious fighter, but if he did to lend him their protection and have his lance be true.
Jeyne was all but cowering at the sight of the formidable Gregor Clegane. Not for the first time, Sansa wished she had someone else to watch the tournament with then Jeyne. The daughter of Steward Poole was once her closest friend, but not anymore. They had grown apart. Jeyne stuck to the songs and Sansa grew up.
Bran would love all this, she thought with more than a tinge of sadness. Sansa could still remember the dream she had after father had told her and Dom that Bran would wake. He had been smiling, she had said to them. She missed her brother's mischievous smiles. How many times when she had wanted to be mad at him but couldn't because of those sweet smiles?
Too many to count, she thought with her own smile. He was supposed to be here. She knew her parents' plans before Bran had fallen. He could be here sitting beside her in awe of the knights and the jousting. Or he could be Dom's squire for the tournament, remembering how often her younger brother would watch Domeric during his training.
A shriek from Jeyne brought Sansa's mind back to the tournament to see the young knight from the Vale, lying beneath their seats on the ground. Gregor's broken lance protruding from the man's neck. Sansa found she couldn't take her eyes away from the body. Eyes taking in the blood that had run rivulets down the knight's armor. Red streaked across his chest plate to make it look like a bolt of red lightning forking across a blue, cloudless sky.
She felt nothing at seeing this freshly made corpse in front of her. Sansa felt no sadness stir in her chest for this knight whose name she hadn't bothered to remember when he had been first announced at the lists.
Then suddenly, playing in her mind's eye it was not this stranger from the Vale lying below her, but her beloved Domeric. His dead face looking up at her, lips parted, eyes wide, unmoving, his neck speared by a lance.
A slow fear coiled itself like a threatened snake at that image. That was when she felt tears prickling. When she felt cold fingers squeeze around her heart. She pushed away those conjured fears, she would not face them.
No, she growled with the fury of the direwolf that was emblazoned on her family's sigil, Not Domeric.
"Lady Sansa."
"Yes?" Sansa turned to regard her Septa who had her arm wrapped around Jeyne who was weeping. Her friend's eyes were already reddening as streaks of tears ran down her cheeks.
"I'm going to return Jeyne to the Tower and to her father," Septa informed her.
"Very well," Sansa had no intentions on leaving the tournament. She wasn't going to miss any one of Dom's bouts. "I'll stay here until you get back." She looked over her shoulder where two Stark guards were standing at the exit of their pavilion. "I'm well looked after."
Septa Mordane didn't look too pleased to be leaving her, but Jeyne's growing sobs left the Septa with no choice. "Very well," Her thin lips pulled tight together. She turned and left doing her best to try to calm and comfort Jeyne as she led her away.
Sansa watched them depart the pavilion before turning back to the field. They had already carried off the nameless knight and a boy no older then Bran was shoveling dirt to cover up the blood so that the jousts could resume.
"May I join you, Lady Sansa?"
Sansa turned to see Princess Myrcella standing before her, looking pretty in her black and gold dress with the crowned stag of house Baratheon looking proud and untamed.
"Of course, Princess," Sansa quickly got to her feet to offer her a curtsey.
"Please, Sansa," Myrcella's green eyes were pleading, "We're to be good sisters some day," she reminded her. "And if I wanted to be looked after like a fragile doll I would've stayed with my mother."
Sansa smiled, "Very well, Myrcella." She returned to her seat, not missing the look of relief that came to the princess' face before she took Jeyne's vacated seat.
"How's your friend?"
"She just needs some rest."
Myrcella nodded in understanding, "I saw my first a year ago at a tournament thrown for Tommen's name day," the princess shuddered, "It was a terrible thing."
"It is," Sansa wasn't sure what else she could say.
"How do you think Robb would do in a tournament?"
The Princess' question caught Sansa off guard, turning to see her hopeful look.
"Robb?" She wasn't sure her brother had much interest in them not that she was surprised given her father's experience and feelings on them.
"He'd ride well," she answered after considering it for a few seconds, "He'd ride even better with your favor."
Myrcella blushed, eyes glossing over, no doubt thinking of Robb in this tournament and fighting with her favor.
Sansa said nothing, leaving the Princess to her thoughts. She wondered if it a kindness to give such false hope to the Princess. Myrcella shouldn't be thinking about Robb in future tournaments. There would be none of those in their shared future. That was not the Stark way. The sooner the princess could let go of the trappings of the south, the better she'll be to embrace her role in the north.
Myrcella will need to learn, Sansa could not think the Princess could have a better teacher then her own lady mother. Catelyn Stark, once Catelyn Tully had to leave the warmth of the south to settle in the unknown that was the north. She'd be able to help Myrcella with the transition of a southern princess to the role of Lady of Winterfell.
Until then, it fell on Sansa to help the princess. She had started, but there was still much that needed to be done.
The roar of the crowd brought Sansa back to the bouts, watching Thoros of Myr unhorse Lord Beric, Jeyne's favorite lord of the lists. The commoners voiced their approval of the victory when the red priest made his circuit around the field. Thoros of Myr and his sword was a favorite within the capital.
"Your betrothed rides well," Myrcella complimented.
"He does," Sansa couldn't keep the pride out of her voice.
"Much to the displeasure of my brother," Myrcella made a face, "our crown prince."
Sansa was pleased to note that the princess didn't seem to like her brother any more than she or Dom did.
"You know the common folk already have a name for your betrothed," Myrcella's voice dropped to a near whisper, her tone turned mischievous, "They're calling him the Dread Knight." Myrcella giggled into her hands at the name as if it was some clever jape.
Sansa kept her smile from falling. She made it her mask so that she could hide her dislike at the name given to Domeric. A jest, an insult, meant to take aim at his family. The south had no respect for where she and Dom came from. This name was just another reminder.
A mocking title, she knew. One used to get guffaws and chuckles from those who'd toast it, not respect.
"Don't you like it?" Myrcella seemed to sense Sansa's smile was strained.
"Very clever," Sansa forced her smile to widen to belay Myrcella's suspicions.
"Joffrey wanted it to be the flayed knight," Myrcella shook her head, "or something more foul." She looked over her shoulder towards the royal pavilion to see if the crown prince was looking their way. He wasn't. "My brother was ranting about Lord Domeric and this tournament."
"What do you mean?"
Myrcella pressed her lips together, green eyes dancing in conflict on trying to decide if she should continue or not.
"Myrcella, please," Sansa gently touched her elbow, "it's as you said, we're to be good sisters soon. Sisters tell each other everything."
Sansa pushed aside the smidge of guilt worming its way in her insides at manipulating Myrcella in such a way to learn the truth. Plying her with flowery words of being sisters, knowing how much that would mean to the Princess. In an effort for her to reveal what she knew or heard from Joffrey.
I'll do what is needed to protect the ones I love, Sansa was adamant in this.
"I heard him talking to the Hound earlier before the tournament," Myrcella revealed. "He wanted the Hound to let certain competitors know that he'd offer a fat purse to the knight who took down Domeric." Her face paled slightly, "and more if he was injured or-"
"Don't say it," Sansa didn't need to hear it. Heat swirled in her tummy at the Prince's sinister offer.
"I'm sorry," Myrcella took Sansa's silence to think she was mad at her. "I-I think he's trying to-"
"I know what he wants," Sansa said coldly.
She remembered the night at Winterfell where he had come across her in the corridor. He had made his intentions clear. He had thought it an honor for her that he showed an interest in her. That she'd want to be his Queen.
It seemed her dismissal of him hadn't turned him away. If today's behavior was any indication. Now, it looked as if he was trying to poorly orchestrate an accident to befall Domeric.
In that reminder, her mind's eye brought her memory back to that Vale knight who had just died, but just like before it wasn't him, but Domeric. His body was lying crumpled and still, from the Mountain, an ambitious knight or a Lannister toady seeking the Crown Prince's favor and reward.
The fear was overpowering. She could feel cold claws trying to strangle her.
"Thank you," Sansa had pushed down her fears and banished those thoughts. "I'm thankful that I'll have you as a good sister some day."
Relief came to her face, "Me too." Myrcella agreed happily. "I've always wanted a sister!"
"And soon you'll have two."
Sansa quietly wondered if she should tell her father of the Prince's plan. She knew Joffrey would be quick to deny it. Even with Myrcella's word against his. Sansa wasn't sure the princess would stand by it if she had to face the judgment of her parents and of her brother.
She'd tell Domeric, Sansa would make sure he'd know, mayhaps, Captain Rylen too.
The old, but skilled Captain was serving as Domeric's squire for the tournament since he had none. Domeric had told her he chose Rylen because of the man's knowledge of southern fighting having fought with them and against them in Robert's Rebellion and his skill at being able to exploit his opponent's weaknesses.
Sansa had been pleased that Captain Rylen accepted. The old, scarred Bolton man at arms hadn't seen the offer as an insult, like she knew other men would have. Instead, he saw it as another way he could serve his lord and help the Bolton family. She was thankful to have such a loyal man on Domeric's side.
Then it was Domeric's turn again.
He rode to his place; his black plate armor looked like the night sky with his rubies glistening like stars. Captain Rylen was standing at his side; Domeric had bent his head to listen to whatever advice his captain of the guard was giving him before he gave him a firm nod in understanding.
Sansa beamed when he turned in her direction. His hand went to where her green scarf had been tied to his arm. He inclined his head towards her and Sansa could picture his warm brown eyes and handsome smile behind his helm. It was enough to make her heart quiver.
"I hope he wins," Myrcella's whisper pulled Sansa's eyes away from Domeric.
That was when Sansa looked to the other side of the field to see who her betrothed would be facing. It was Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard; his scale armor was the color of milk, an equally colored cloak billowing behind him. He wore a golden helm crowned by a sunburst crest. He shouted instructions to his squires who were rushing around to adhere to them before one timidly stepped forward to give him the lance.
Sansa wasn't surprised by Myrcella's words. Even if he was a member of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the princess and her family, he appeared cruel and was always with either the Crown Prince or the Queen. She had no doubt of his loyalty to the Lannisters with the golden trimming on his white cloak and golden lion pin.
He had defeated Harwin in an earlier bout. Sansa thought it would be fitting for him to be beaten by a northerner. She liked the idea of an arrogant Kingsguard knight being humbled by Domeric. That seemed like a fitting song to be sung.
She then remembered Myrcella's warning of Joffrey's offer and knew someone like Trant would try to collect. He was a Lannister creature, she was sure of it.
Unaware to the crown prince's malicious offer, Domeric took his lance with a nod from one of his Bolton men at arms.
Domeric is the better rider, she reminded herself. She felt the cold creep of apprehension climb up her back. And then the signal was given and the men were riding and Sansa didn't have the time to worry or focus on Joffrey's bribes as her attention was solely on her betrothed and the tilt.
Shadow thundered across the field, the black destrier moving with such speed it looked as if its legs barely touched the ground. Domeric's lance struck true, hitting the knight square in the chest, but Trant remained in saddle while his lance split Domeric's black shield, severing the painted red flayed man in half.
Sansa's heart which had been beating thunderously against her bosom, returned to a calming pace. Her blue eyes watched Domeric closely, alert for any hint of discomfort or pain that may have befallen him when Trant's lance hit him.
Thankfully, he seemed fine as he handed his broken shield and was given a new one and lance. Captain Rylen was at his side in an instant, not parting until the second round was ready to begin.
Then they were galloping towards one another again. Sansa's eyes watching as Domeric leaned forward as he got closer, his lance still and poised. It aimed true, hitting Meryn's sun crested helm and sending the Kingsguard to fall hard onto the dirt with a dented helm.
He cursed and complained trying to remove it. Sending the commoners into a frenzy of noise. Laughter could be heard from the lords and ladies who did not try to hide their amusement behind polite facades. That was evidence enough to know that Ser Meryn Trant was not well liked within the royal court or capital.
Domeric completed his circuit around the field, receiving more applause and cheers from the commoners then he had in his first two matches. He seemed to have earned more of their support after having defeated the unpopular Trant. Some were even bold in their chants of Dread Knight, when he moved pass them but he ignored it.
Like before, Domeric stopped before Sansa's seat, lifting his visor to see him smiling at her. Sansa returned it, feeling heat come to her cheeks while her heart was a font that was overflowing with delight. He touched her scarf with his free hand. He was still smiling at her when he closed his visor before he galloped back to his waiting squire and men.
The tournament couldn't have gone better, Sansa realized that night. The jousting had lasted until dusk when the king had called an end to it with the final tilts being decided the next day. Only four remained, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Loras Tyrell, and her Domeric.
He had bested several more knights including two members of the kingsguard to secure his spot. He had ridden brilliantly and Sansa couldn't have been prouder of his performance. It had also been announced that he'd face Ser Jaime in his opening match while Ser Loras squared off against Ser Gregor.
While she thought about Domeric's opponents on the morrow, she was escorted by her father's guards to her table for the feast that was being prepared by the riverside. Pavilions and tables and tresses had been raised to accommodate the large crowd of nobility who had traveled to the capital to witness or partake in the Tournament of the Hand.
She was thankful that her table was far away from the royal pavilion. Sana was sure she'd lose her appetite if she was forced to sit near the presence of the Crown Prince. She could see the royal Baratheon banner of the crowned stag and the gold and crimson Lannister lion, but the faces below them were barely discernible. She was hopeful that her table would go unnoticed by the Queen and Joffrey.
Their table already had servings of fresh-baked bread, and strawberries. Sansa piled a few of the berries onto her plate just as a servant appeared with the first course which was a thick soup of barely and venison.
"I'll need another one brought out for my betrothed," she told the servant, who bowed and scurried off to get one for the empty seat beside her. The waft of steam from the soup tickled her nose, the scent making her tummy grumble. It was only in seeing and smelling all this food did she realize just how hungry she was.
However, she kept her hands folded on her lap. She would not begin until he joined her.
"My lady."
Sansa turned to see Domeric approaching her. He had gotten out of his armor and was dressed in a pale red doublet with black trimming to go with the dark buttons. He had a horse head pin resembling his mother's blazon, House Ryswell fastened to a black cloak.
"Domeric," she greeted him warmly. Quickly getting to her feet to cut the distance between them, she moved to embrace him. Happiness swept over her when his arms wrapped around her. "You were brilliant." She murmured into his chest.
"It was your favor, my lady." He kissed her hair. "Your support spurred me."
"Bolton," drawled an all too familiar, and annoying voice. The Crown Prince was watching them with a mocking smile; His faithful sworn shield, the Hound at his side.
"My prince," Sansa was quick to curtsey, but quicker to smother the simmering anger she felt boiling in her tummy, remembering Myrcella's warnings about her older brother's bribes in trying to get Domeric beat or worse.
Beside her, and oblivious to the Prince's scheming, Domeric offered him a stiff bow.
"It's a pity my dog was bested," Joffrey declared, "I would've enjoyed watching him beat you."
Domeric did not rise to the bait. He turned his attention to the Hound. "You fought well, Sandor. It is fortunate for me that our lances did not cross."
Sandor took Domeric's kind words with a snort. As if Domeric had just told him some sort of jape instead of paying him a compliment.
While the Prince looked annoyed that Domeric had chosen to ignore him, "No matter, my uncle will certainly handle an upstart like you come tomorrow."
Who is he to demean Domeric's accomplishments? Sansa thought angrily. What tournaments had he entered?
"Ser Jaime is an excellent warrior," Domeric remained unflinching, "There is no shame in losing to him."
"A coward's answer," Joffrey sneered, "Only a craven would welcome defeat with such flowery words."
Joffrey's dismissal of Domeric's polite deflection seemed to shatter whatever calmness he had left for the Crown Prince. He tensed beside her, and remembering his previous confrontation with Joffrey, Sansa knew she needed to intervene before he did something rashly.
"Why?" Sansa asked suddenly, turning the attention of both men towards her.
"What?" Joffrey looked at her in confusion.
"Why didn't you enter the tournament?" Sansa clarified. "You have boasted openly of your skills. It seems a shame that the people couldn't see their Prince in action."
She was certain she heard the Hound respond to her question with a raspy chuckle but that could've been a cough. She didn't dare risk meeting the Hound's eyes to confirm her suspicion that he was amused by her question.
"These are games!" Joffrey's fat wormlips formed a frown. "They're meant for children not princes. And I have better things to do then waste my time on them."
His excuse was laughable. It took all of her effort to stifle the giggles from bubbling up. "Of course, my prince," she replied smoothly.
"Oh don't listen to him," Princess Myrcella appeared, directing her older brother with an amused smile. "It's because Mother's afraid of seeing our Prince hitting the dirt."
"Sister," Joffrey greeted his sister tightly, but he said nothing else. As Myrcella had the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy standing beside her.
"Brother," Myrcella returned the greeting in a matching tone. She then turned to regard Sansa and Domeric with a friendly smile. "Congratulations, Lord Domeric, you rode well today."
"Thank you, Princess," Domeric bowed his head.
"Yes, lad," Ser Barristan agreed, "It was a surprise to learn that this was your first tournament with how skillfully you rode."
Sansa couldn't contain her proud smile at the sincere praise that the respected knight was giving to her betrothed. She looked over to see the Lord Commander's words seemed to have humbled Domeric. A rare feat seeing as she knew Domeric cared little of knights, but this was no ordinary knight. This was the fabled Ser Barristan the Bold, considered by many to be the greatest swordsman in Westeros.
"You honor me, Ser Barristan," Domeric straightened up at the praise.
Ser Barristan gave him a kind smile. "I look forward to seeing how you ride tomorrow."
"I only ride tomorrow, Lord Commander, because our paths didn't cross today."
Domeric had taken down three Kingsguard knights during the first day of the tournament, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Mandon Moore. It had been the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime who had bested the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard while the Knight of Flowers had defeated Ser Boros Blount and Ser Arys Oakheart.
"I'm not sure about that," Ser Barristan chuckled, "You ride well, Lord Domeric."
Joffrey scoffed, not bothering to hide his displeasure at the attention and praise that Domeric was getting.
"You're needed at your seat, brother," she said sweetly to him, "The responsibility of being the heir, I presume."
"Aye, my prince," The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard echoed the princess' message, "Your Grace asked for your presence."
A smug expression spread across Joffrey's face. "Come on dog," he turned to head back towards the royal pavilion, "I'm needed elsewhere."
"He shames us," Myrcella was frowning at her brother's retreating form.
"Thank you for saving us, princess," Sansa said lightly.
That got an amused chuckle out of Myrcella. "I had to," her eyes moved towards Domeric, "Otherwise you might think that all Baratheons are like my older brother."
He met her stare without yielding. "The Princess' consideration for my betrothed and myself is appreciated." He tilted his head to her, but his expression remained stony.
Myrcella looked away first. Turning to Ser Barristan, who stood to her left, "Come Lord Commander, I fear our presence will be requested soon enough by my Queen Mother."
"Aye, Princess," Ser Barristan's blue eyes flickered in amusement.
"Enjoy the rest of the feast, Lady Sansa," Myrcella smiled towards her, "and Lord Domeric best of luck tomorrow."
"I can only imagine what the celebration feast will be like," Domeric said dryly.
Sansa giggled at his observation. Her hand was resting in the crook of his arm as he escorted her back towards the Tower of the Hand after they had taken a cart that led them to the Red Keep.
The feast had been splendid, even though much of it had become a blur for her. She had lost count of the number of courses that came and left before her and Domeric. Despite her thoughts on tournaments, she would be lying to herself if she didn't say she had enjoyed her time attending this one.
She cherished her time with Domeric at the feast the most. They happily tried the new courses, trading smiles and japes as they observed the feast with the southern lords and knights. Many making fools of themselves as they had become emboldened by wine or ale, others didn't need the drink to look foolish.
It had been perfect, she realized with a contented sigh.
Not even Joffrey's presence or his scheming could dampen her mood. She had told Domeric what Myrcella had warned her, of Joffrey's manipulations and bribes, Domeric had taken the news without reaction. His face had been solemn when he thanked her for telling him, and his eyes betrayed nothing of how he was feeling knowing that the Prince was planning to try to harm him.
"What will you do?" she had asked.
"I'll win," Domeric had answered without hesitation. "No Knight of Flowers, or Kingslayer, or Mountain or even the Crown Prince's scheming will stop me." He looked at her so intently it made Sansa shiver in anticipation. "From declaring my love for you for the all the realm to see when I crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty."
A/N: The ideas of rubies resembling blood drops and being linked to the Bolton family and tradition was an idea that I got from reading "The Bolton Bride,"by the Queen of Ice and Winter, who was kind enough to let me borrow and tweak the idea for this story. Thank you! It's a wonderful story featuring Domeric Bolton and Sansa Stark, so check it out.