A/N: Thanks for the support

Our Blades are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

17: Domeric

"You look pleased."

"You could say that."

"It must have to do with your father's visit."

"Nothing gets by you, Lord Tyrion," Domeric had finished supper and had retreated to the library, looking and hoping for the man, he now saw sitting before him. Lord Tyrion had sat at this and only this table every time he came to visit the library since the royal party arrived to Winterfell.

"May I sit?" Domeric pointed to an empty seat across from Lord Tyrion.

"I'd be honored," Tyrion acquiesced, moving a book so Domeric could rest his arms on the table if he so chose.

No one was more surprised by this unlikely friendship between himself and Tyrion then Domeric. At first, he hadn't known what to make of the Imp. The library here at Winterfell was one of his favorite places to visit during his time fostering with the Starks, and had become a refuge to him to avoid the onslaught of southerners who had come north with the royal party.

So when he arrived one night to see Lord Tywin Lannister's youngest son here in the library it had annoyed him greatly. Domeric was wary of his presence. His short time around the Lannister men had not endeared them to him, they were rude, arrogant, and dismissive of their new northern surroundings. So this had been the last person he had wanted to see here.

However, Domeric was very pleased to admit he had been proven wrong in his hasty judgment of this Lannister. It had happened when Domeric had noticed one of the books, Lord Tyrion had taken, a favorite of Domeric's and he couldn't help but make a passing mention of it.

Tyrion had been just as surprised by the remark as Domeric had been saying it. From there, the two discovered and then bonded their mutual interest in reading and history. Unlike, the other southerners who mocked the North, Tyrion had shown a great amount of respect and interest in the North and its traditions. With that in mind, Domeric recommended various tomes for him to read since the Stark library had an impressive collection.

"And did your father ride all this way from the Dreadfort just to say hello to you?" Tyrion asked wryly.

"No," Domeric answered, "He consented to let me go south to King's Landing."

"My sympathies," Tyrion bowed his head.

As grateful as he was with his father's decision, Domeric couldn't deny the apprehension that wormed its way in his gut. That was why he had come here. He sought out Lord Tyrion, someone who lived in the capital, surely he'd have advice on how to survive in such a city.

"Will you return to the capital after your visit to the Wall?"

"Let's see, the warm embrace of a whore within the capital or to Casterly Rock and the withering glare of my father?" Tyrion feigned the difficulty at the choices presented to him.

In his limited time with Tyrion, Domeric had picked up the tension between Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and that of his youngest son. He understood the looming shadow a father could cast on their son. Domeric could relate to a father's expectation and the effect it could have, but fortunately for Domeric he was in a position to be able to meet them. Tyrion had never gotten that luxury.

"It would be good to know a friendly face in the capital," Domeric admitted sincerely.

Tyrion looked taken aback by the words, but covered it up almost at once with an over the top smile. "Aye," he inclined his head in Domeric's direction. "Who would've thought: Bolton and Lannister, lion and flayed man, friends?"

"It's the sort of story that the Maesters in Oldtown would one day tell."

"Indeed," Tyrion quipped, "A real page turner."

The two shared a brief laugh at that ridiculous notion. The mirthful atmosphere helped give Domeric the time to formulate how and what he was going to ask his new friend in terms of what to do to survive the south.

"I need your advice," Domeric put in bluntly. "You've lived there. I need to know people I can trust."

"Ahh, well you see it's a short list," Tyrion said simply, "Trust no one."

"I was hoping for something else." Domeric frowned.

"I get that a lot," Tyrion replied dryly.

"Mayhaps I made a mistake," Domeric leaned back in his seat. "Is it folly to go south?"

"You go south to protect your betrothed," Tyrion observed. "There's no folly in that." His mismatch eyes stayed on Domeric. "You were right to want to go with her."

"What are you saying?"

"That my nephew will one day be king," Tyrion said with a sour look. "And he is not used to being told no. Thanks to my sweet sister."

Domeric didn't like what Tyrion was implying. "He wouldn't."

"He would not be the first Crown Prince to take someone else's betrothed."

"Never," His hands clenched on the table. He could feel the anger burning through his blood at the thought of Joffrey trying to break their betrothal. "I'd kill him first."

"Careful," Tyrion cautioned with a disappointed look. He then looked around the library to make sure they were alone. "You're walking into a viper's nest. Where everyone wears a mask and puts on a performance." He leaned forward. "Your words will always be heard. You must tread lightly on what you do and say."

Domeric sighed. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"The Game of Thrones," Tyrion answered lightly.

"I didn't want this," Domeric ran a hand through his hair. "I just want Sansa to be safe."

"You are a good man, Domeric," Tyrion observed, "Best be careful because they do not last in the capital."

"I feel better already."

Domeric let out a sigh. Blinking back to the present after recalling his conversation with Lord Tyrion from when they were both in Winterfell. There Domeric had sought his new friend out for advice, words he tried to remember while he tread lightly here in King's Landing. With the tournament of the Hand looming before them, Domeric tried his best to put his mind on that and not to think or dwell on the potential pitfalls that could endanger him and Sansa.

"Lord Domeric?" A wrapping at the door followed.

"Yes, Captain Rylen?"

"The Lady Sansa is here."

"Please, let her in," Domeric spared a passing glance at the nearby mirror to make sure he looked ready. Tonight, he, Sansa, and Lord Stark had been invited to dine with the royal family in their private dining chambers. An honor he was certain most in the Kingdoms would pay handsomely for and those who couldn't pay would find some unsavory way to get such an invitation, but to Domeric he faced this dinner with resigned acceptance.

The door opened, and his betrothed, and future Lady of the Dreadfort stepped in, looking beautiful in her pale blue gown. When their eyes met she smiled, and Domeric was quick to return it, moving to cut the distance between them, when they were close enough, he kissed her cheek.

"I'm escorting the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms to supper this evening."

"Dom," Sansa rolled her eyes at his declaration, but a red blush colored her cheeks all the same at his praise. "Are you ready to depart?"

"I am," Domeric tried not to fidget in his dark doublet, with red stitching, the heat of this city made him sweat more in an hour then he would all day in the training yards back at Winterfell after an exhausting work out. "What of Lord Stark?"

"He's waiting for us at the bottom of the Tower."

"Let's not keep him waiting," Domeric offered her his arm, "Shall we?"

She smiled, tucking her hand into the nook of his arm as they went of his chambers, two Bolton men-at-arms were quick to follow them, but kept a respectable distance to allow himself and Sansa to talk in private.

"How's Lady?"

"Frustrated, that she could not attend."

"Me too," Domeric admitted, "I'd rather dine with her then," he stopped himself from finishing the joke, remembering that the walls of the Red Keep had ears and any slight against the royal family was potentially dangerous.

Sansa seemed to think along similar lines, as she swatted his arm, "Dom," she chastised.

"I know," he admitted, but he was certain he spotted the corner of her lips pull upward at the joke all the same. "It is only for one night," he reminded her.

"I still didn't like leaving her," Sansa lamented, "I always feel safer with her with me."

"I can understand that," Domeric observed, "I mean she is a direwolf."

Sansa laughed, "You know what I mean."

Domeric smiled, "I do."

"I suppose you'll just have to do for this evening."

"I'll try not disappoint you," he replied dryly.

"Never," Sansa assured him, before kissing his cheek.

It was at that point, Lord Stark cleared his throat. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for them.

Domeric quickly wiped away the foolish smile he was sure to be wearing after receiving a kiss from his betrothed. Straightening up instinctively and turning to face the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand to the King, and future good father. For some reason, Domeric found that last title the most intimidating at this moment.

"Lord Stark," Domeric greeted, quickly and respectfully, "What you saw was-"

He held up his hand and Domeric stopped with whatever feeble excuse he would've come up with. "I know what I saw, Domeric." His grey eyes staring at him, his face impassive, and then in a blink, a smile came to his lips, and a chuckle followed. "My daughter being affectionate with her soon to be husband." Still smiling, he added, "Seeing my daughter so happy, makes me happy, Domeric."

"I'll keep that in mind, Lord Stark," Domeric felt a sense of relief settle in his stomach.

Sansa giggled, "Father," she playfully chided him, before slipping her grip from Domeric to greet her father with a hug. "You look very handsome, father." She inspected his choice of clothes.

"Your mother's work, I assure you," he deflected the praise.

"Well, you were wise enough to listen," She smiled, she then looked over her shoulder towards Domeric, "A good trait for husbands to have."

"Aye," Lord Stark agreed with another hearty chuckle. "Come let us not keep the King and the royal family waiting."

"Ned!" The King greeted them with unbridled enthusiasm, "Glad you could come."

"You did invite us, Your Grace," Ned replied dryly.

Robert laughed at the jape, "Come, sit down."

The dining chambers for the royal family were intimate and ornate, a dozen or so arched windows that allowed the cool breeze of the Blackwater to come in, billowing the black and yellow curtains as they breathed out cool winds from the bay. The room was empty of people save for King Robert who had already started drinking if the half empty pitcher of wine was any indication. There was also Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood just inside the room, he greeted them with an acknowledged nod, but did nothing else.

"Are we early?" Ned asked.

"No, you're not," the King's face turned as if he smelled something foul, "The Queen decided to have dinner already with the children."

"Ah," Ned replied. It was then that they took their seats. Lord Stark taking a seat to the king's left with Sansa taking the seat beside her father while Domeric hesitated with where to sit, indecision kept him rooted in his spot for a few seconds before deciding on taking the seat to the king's immediate right..

"That's my charming wife for you," the king muttered.

"What are we dining on tonight, your grace?"

"Ned," Robert warned him with an annoyed look, "None of this 'your grace,' nonsense, when it's just us."

"As you wish, Robert," Ned inclined his head.

"No bowing either, Ned," Robert mumbled, staring at Ned for a heartbeat or two before he started to laugh, "Ah, you had me there, Ned!"

Domeric spared a look across the table to where Sansa was sitting to see her look just as bemused as he felt. Before any more could be said, the servants came in with their first course, was of a thick soup made with pumpkins.

He tried not to show his hesitance when he tucked into his soup, his stomach was still trying to get use to southern food. He dipped his spoon in and sipped on it, pleased at the sweet taste, he took a second spoonful and continued to enjoy it.

"You look as lovely as your mother at that age, Sansa." Robert praised her.

"Thank you, your grace."

Robert smiled, "Did your father ever tell you the time that he started a food fight while we're fostering with Lord Arryn in the Vale?"

"Really?" Sansa couldn't help but giggle at that thought of her father doing such a thing. She turned to her father for confirmation.

"Robert," Ned sounded exasperated, but there was a smile on his lips.

"Oh, it's a great story, Ned!" Robert looked enthused at the chance of retelling it. "We're no older than nine or ten and Lord Arryn was hosting some important families from throughout the Vale." The smile beneath his beard continued to grow, "When Ned-"

"You," Ned cut in, still smiling. "It was you, not me."

"I'm telling the story, Ned," Robert's blue eyes were sparkling.

"When your father took issue with what of the boys from erh." Robert's face scrunched up as If trying to recall the house, "Waynwood," he snapped his fingers, before frowning, "Or was it, oh bother who cares," he shook his head. "Said about the north being full of savages." He took a small sip, licking his lip before continuing, "And your father, grabbed a fistful of fish and said is this savage enough for you? Before promptly hurling it at the boy." Robert roared with laughter.

Domeric and Sansa too were quick to join in on the laughter when the king concluded the story.

Surprised and entertained by the tale, it was a rare delight to hear Lord Stark participate in such an act of rebellion. It was difficult for Domeric to even imagine a young nine-year-old Lord Stark let alone think of him committing such a feat.

"That was you, Robert," Ned reminded his friend, "And the boys retaliated, the entire hall descended into madness, not to mention the mess," he chuckled, "And Lord Arryn made us clean it all up!"

Robert was still laughing. "It was worth it, Ned." He wiped away a mirthful tear, "Those were good days."

"Aye, they were." Ned agreed.

At that point, the servants returned and the soup was taken away, and their next course was presented to them, a salad with spinach, plums, and sprinkled with crushed nuts.

The King didn't seem to excited by his salad, and poured himself another glass of wine, face red, but Domeric thought it was from the laughing, not the drinking. "Lord Arryn was a good man." Robert bowed his head down as if giving a prayer to the deceased former Hand of the King. He then lifted his head and took a large sip from his glass, his eyes looked to be glistening in the candlelight for an instant. "I appreciate you coming down here, Ned."

"Robert-"

"No, Ned," he cut him off, "You left your home and your wife, and your family, especially your boy," he frowned, "I'm grateful, Ned. I truly am. You're the only one I can trust here."

He gave Robert a nod to acknowledge he heard him, "I was honored, Robert."

Robert snorted, "As honored as I was when I took this crown?"

"Not that honored," Ned observed wryly, and soon the two men were chuckling together once more.

It was strange, Domeric thought, seeing this side of the stoic Lord Stark. In his two years at Winterfell, he did see Lord Stark smile and laugh, especially when he was with the children, but Domeric never saw such ease in his joking like when he was with Robert.

"Ned, told me you stayed in the Vale when you were younger."

It took Domeric a second or so to realize that he was the one the king was addressing. He put his fork down and turned to face him, "Aye, I did, your grace."

"The Vale," Robert murmured, his eyes misted with wistfulness. "Who'd you foster with?"

"Lord Redfort, your grace."

"Horton?" the king asked for clarity.

"Yes, your grace."

"Good man," Robert nodded, "Great warrior, I recall he was at the Trident with us, Ned."

"He was, Robert," Lord Stark didn't seem to look at the battles during the Rebellion with the same fondness as his friend.

The King remained quiet for a few more seconds, as if recalling the brutal and bloody battle, before seemingly pulling himself out of the recollection, "I remember every face that day I killed."

"Robert," It was clear this wasn't a topic of conversation Lord Stark wanted to dwell on.

If the king heard Ned's warning he gave no indication, finishing his glass of wine in one long greedy gulp before setting it down so that he could pour himself another one. "Especially his," Robert's grip on his glass tightened, "I slew him, but I still lost her." He took a sip of his glass, "Bah!" he grunted, sitting and stewing in his dark thoughts and memories of what had happened.

"Robert?" Ned said to try to nudge his friend. "Do you remember that time we went out that night, using the basket to leave the Eyrie."

That reminder caused the king's lips to twitch. A certain luster returned to his eyes which seemed to shine whenever he thought back about their days in the Vale. "Aye, I remember," He chuckled, "Lord Arryn wasn't pleased."

"No, he was not," Ned agreed.

"How often was Lord Arryn not pleased, father?" Sansa asked with an innocent smile.

"A time or two," Ned admitted, a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes.

Lady greeted them later that night with a swishing tail, and excited yips. The direwolf went to her mistress first, licking Sansa's fingers and outstretched hand as Sansa laughed. "I'm sorry, Lady," she told her beloved direwolf. "I wanted to come back as quickly as I could." She kissed the top of Lady's head.

Satisfied at the affection, Lady then moved to Domeric, who smiled down at the direwolf, crouching down to pet her where he was immediately bombarded with Lady licking his face. He chuckled, moving out of reach, extending his hands to try to have her keep her distance. He then used one hand to pet her under the jaw, knowing that was one spot she particularly liked, and with his other hand, wiped away the side of his face which had received Lady's greeting.

Sansa had moved to sit on the sofa, letting out a sigh as she did. "He's miserable." She leaned back in her cushioned seat.

"Aye," Domeric moved to stand up after Lady retreated to take a spot beneath Sansa's feet.

"And all because of the woman he was betrothed to, my aunt," Sansa paused, "had died."

Domeric felt a cold coil wrap itself around his heart, squeezing tightly, upon the chilling thought of Sansa being the one to die, and him being left behind. To live without her for the remainder of his days…

"Dom," Sansa's warm voice pushed away his melancholy thoughts.

He looked to see she was watching him. He wondered if she knew what he had been thinking. "Good night, my lady," he moved towards her, before pressing a quick kiss to her lips while his hand lightly touched her cheek.

Her eyes were looking at him carefully, but she didn't press, "Good night, Dom."

He smiled down at her, kissing her forehead, before standing up and withdrawing from her chambers.

Reflecting once more on the king and his dark moods while he still mourned the betrothed he lost so many years ago. Would you be so different if it was Sansa?

He shuddered at the coldness that seemed to fill him with that dreadful thought. It was with that fear that he sent a silent prayer to the gods that night, asking them to protect her, to not go through the ordeal of losing his betrothed, of losing someone he loved.

I'll do anything to keep her safe, he prayed, anything.