A/N: Thanks for the support

Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

18: Sansa

Sansa found herself in the Queen's Solar with the Queen as well as the Princess. She had been invited to join them for a luncheon. Her first of many invitations she was expecting on receiving during her stay in the King's Landing.

She was resigned to this routine. She knew her time would often be spent with the Princess, and how it was expected of her to attend sessions with Myrcella. Sansa was thankful for the small blessing that her duties and lessons would mostly shield her from having to spend time with the Crown Prince.

Avoiding the Queen was another matter.

The Queen looked splendid in her dress. In days like this, Sansa could understand why the Queen was considered the most beautiful woman in Westeros. Dressed in beautiful silk and lace the colors of her family's house. Glints of metal could be seen that had been sewed in alongside the fabric. A golden pendant of a lion hung from her neck. Her golden hair done up in intricate braids and held by glimmering hairpins that looked encrusted in jewels.

Sansa then turned to the Princess. Myrcella looked a miniature version of her mother. Her dress though done in the colors of the Lannisters did not contain the billowing sleeves or the layered look her mother chose. Nor did it contain the metal pieces. No, her dress was cut a bit lower, even in her youth it made the princess look older and amplified her curves.

She was sure it would've made quite the impact on her brother, Robb had he seen his future wife in such a dress. Yet, it was a look that would be chastised just as quickly. One would not wear such clothing in the north. It just wasn't practical. It was a fitting style in the south and in the capital's court, but in Winterfell, it would not endure.

Another lesson, Sansa thought, she may need to instruct the Princess on. Glancing briefly at her choice of attire, she had made some concessions and had been wearing more dresses in the southern style to help combat the stifling heat of the capital. Sansa also knew it wouldn't do good to displease the Queen who put quite the emphasis on fashion and style. It was easier to win her favor by agreeing with her and choosing to dress in a similar manner.

Sansa had chosen a light blue dress, one of the more recently made ones. She had instructed the seamstress to inject some soft red and pink laces and silk into it to signal her coming nuptials to Domeric. She thought a blend of the Bolton colors into her clothes was a subtle, but effective reminder of her loyalties and her anticipated fate as Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort. Sansa had been delighted with how it turned out and had quickly been one of her favorites.

A spread of food was out on the table that included fresh fruits from the Reach, apples, strawberries, and blood oranges. There was also some roasted duck, but the main course was a creamy chestnut soup with fresh baked bread that brought a rich aroma to settle in within the solar.

"This must be so overwhelming for you, my dear."

Sansa looked up to see she was the center of the Queen's attention.

"Your time in the north could not prepare you for the glory of the south," The Queen sent her a sympathetic look.

"The Princess," Sansa turned to Myrcella to give her future good sister a warm smile, "Has been so very helpful."

Myrcella beamed at her from where she sat. She didn't speak as she had just taken a bite of bread, but she looked very pleased.

The Queen too smiled, though hers was more forced then her daughter's.

"It seems unfair that you only get a glimpse of this life." The Queen paused to take a sip of wine, looking Sansa over from the brim of her glass, "Before you must return to the dreary north."

It's more fortunate then unfair, Sansa thought. She no longer had dreams for this life. The stories and songs no longer held sway over her. It was not the south she longed for, but the return north.

"I'm just thankful that I'll be able to attend a tournament," Sansa remarked, wanting to deflect the Queen's attention and insults away from her and her home.

"Oh yes!" Myrcella clapped her hands from where she sat across from Sansa. "The tournament will be wonderful!" Her green eyes nearly glazing over, "Mother has already allowed me a new dress."

"Of course, my sweet," The Queen reached her hand across the table to squeeze her daughter's hand. "Let the kingdoms see their beautiful princess." She smiled at her daughter, "Knights will be inspired by your beauty and will fight one another to name you their Queen."

Myrcella brightened at her mother's words. "Not all knights though," the princess turned to Sansa with a mischievous grin, "I'm sure Domeric will fight to name you his Queen, Sansa."

Sansa couldn't stop the slight blush that came to her cheeks at that image. She wanted to say she outgrew such fantasies and how they would not matter to her, but she couldn't deny the appeal at the scene when it was conjured before her. Or the smile that came to her lips.

It would be a bonus, she thought, but what she preferred over a crown of flowers was that Domeric escape the tournament unscathed of any serious injury. Win or lose, Domeric meant more to her then any performance in this tournament. Just let him come out unharmed.

"You forget darling," The Queen's tone cut through Sansa's thoughts like a rusty knife. "Domeric Bolton is no knight." She sniffed, "the north isn't cultured enough for such titles."

Isn't foolish enough, Sansa wanted to rebut, but she restrained herself. The way the south viewed her home, her people, her family was infuriating. They looked down on the North. Sansa knew more loyal men with courage in the north then any knight she met in the capital. Good, honest men who fought and served her family who didn't need lavish titles to do their duty.

"Tell me, Sansa," the Queen asked, "How is Domeric?" The feigned sincerity in her voice was almost completely concealed. "Is he ready for such a tournament?" The Queen was cutting up her meat in a swift sawing motion, "This is his first tournament after all," she paused to meet Sansa's eyes. "Blood will be spilt."

"Domeric is well, Your Grace," Sansa answered politely, "He will be humbled and honored to know that you have asked about him."

"He isn't nervous?" Myrcella asked.

"He's prepared," Sansa settled on that answer. She didn't like the idea of divulging Domeric's practice or preparations for the upcoming tournament.

"Admirable," The Queen's tone conveyed that she found it anything but, "men have died in these tournaments." She stabbed one of the pieces of meat. "It would be a pity for something to happen to him during the lists." She chewed on it delicately.

"One never knows whose ones opponent will be." She moved onto another piece. "He could find himself facing the Mountain."

Myrcella whimpered at the mention of the fearsome knight Ser Gregor Clegane also known as the Mountain. "Not him!" She sounded afraid, "He's scary, mother!"

The queen moved to soothe the upset princess. "You have nothing to fear from him, my darling." She put a comforting hand on her daughter's shoulder. "He serves our family faithfully. He would die for you."

But Domeric does, Sansa knew what the Queen wanted to say about the Mountain to the Princess. He was a loyal knight to the Lannisters. He would hold no qualms in hurting Domeric or any other man who stood in front of him. She ignored the icy feel in her tummy at the thought of the Mountain facing Domeric in the tourney.

"I hope Domeric does well," Myrcella spoke up; from her seat the princess didn't see the frown on the Queen's lips. "After all, we're to be good sisters soon!" She proclaimed in a giddy voice.

Sansa returned the Princess' smile. Not for the first time, silently thankful that Myrcella didn't seem to share her mother's temperament. "And I'm so thankful for all you've done for me and Domeric since we've arrived."

"It's my duty," Myrcella told Sansa sincerely before turning to face her mother, "I've already shown her around the Red Keep."

"That's wonderful, darling," The Queen praised, "Though I hope you have been courteous in your tour." Giving her daughter a true smile, "For there are some parts of the Keep that could be detrimental to our guest."

Her green eyes then turned to Sansa. "I pray to the Mother that you had better sense not to show her the Great Hall."

The feigned apprehension in the Queen's voice was easy to spot. The reminder of the Great Hall was anything but innocent. Sansa knew what the Queen was alluding to. The Great Hall had been the sight of one of the main catalysts that had launched a rebellion against the Targaryen regime. It was there that the Mad King had killed Sansa's grandfather and uncle in a twisted depraved mockery of the sacred Trial by Combat.

"She has not," Sansa said politely. She had made no effort to seek it out. In truth, she wasn't sure if she was brave enough.

"That's good," The Queen's honeyed voice nearly made Sansa cringe. "Jaime was there when it happened," she took a long sip from her wine glass; "I asked him once if it was as bad as the bards and maesters claim it to be."

This was the Queen the people didn't see, Sansa looked down at her bowl of soup.

"He said it was worse," The Queen spoke quietly. "The bards couldn't do justice to the screams Lord Rickard Stark made when he was burned alive."

Sansa took a breath to try to calm the anger she felt beginning to churn in her tummy.

"Or that the Maesters couldn't properly describe the smell of burnt flesh that hung in the air."

No more facades from the Queen now, Sansa thought bitterly. Once she returned to the Red Keep, to the capital. There was no more need for a performance.

"He always said that wasn't even the worse of it, it was the silence that followed once they were dead that was only interrupted by the roar of laughter from the Mad King himself."

I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she reminded herself. And I am a direwolf who fears no lion.

"Thankfully, we have been blessed with a more civilized king and queen." Sansa raised her glass of wine she barely had touched, "Long may they reign." She looked over to see the princess had gone pale at her mother's story.

The Queen ignored her daughter's reaction. Her attention transfixed on Sansa. The corner of her lips curved upwards ever so slightly, before she mirrored Sansa's movement and raised her glass as well.

"May our friends be rewarded and our enemies punished."

"My lady."

Sansa turned to see Domeric standing in her doorway. His face was flushed, signaling he had only just recently returned from practicing in the yard. He wore black breeches and an equally black doublet, with the pink flayed man embroidered into it.

Lady had gotten up from her spot by the hearth to greet him. Tail wagging, as she licked his outstretched hand, he smiled when he patted her head, but his eyes were on her.

"Dom," She greeted him warmly. Sansa had recently returned from her luncheon with the Queen and the Princess.

He moved towards her to embrace her, she welcomed his touch. Her head resting on his chest as his settled on top of hers, she felt the gentle kiss he planted in her hair. His hand soothingly went up and down her back.

This was what she needed. In his arms, she felt safe. Even here in this rat's nest. She could feel the tension melting away by his touch. The knots in her tummy went undone in his presence. The anxiety that had been bubbling up was quick to dissipate.

"Your Septa told me you were with the Queen."

She looked up to see the concern etched in his face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't attend it with you."

"You needed to practice," she pointed out.

"That can wait," he moved his hand towards her cheek. "You're more important to me."

"Thank you," she said softly, not sure what else could be said or how else to properly convey her gratefulness for him.

"What's troubling you?" Concern laced his voice.

"It's just the Queen," Sansa answered softly; "She was just," she paused trying to find the right word, "trying to scare me."

He adjusted his hold on her so that he could look into her eyes. "What did she say?"

"It doesn't matter," she told him. Sansa didn't want to dwell on the stories the Queen told about the Mad King killing her grandfather or uncle. Or the threats she made of the Mountain or another knight hurting Dom or worse in the Hand's Tourney.

Domeric didn't look convinced. His face creased in worry, eyes holding hers, lips pressed in a thin line.

"I'm fine now," She assured him. "I can handle any of them," she shifted in his embrace, breaking eye contact as she nestled her head against his chest, hearing his soothing heartbeat help to cleanse the fear that the Queen tried to plant in Sansa's heart.

"As long as you're with me," she murmured.

"Always, my love."

Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widened at his words. Had she misheard? She wondered, or worse, she thought with a small pang in her heart, had he not meant them. Sansa stirred in his arms, wanting to look at him, needing to see his face, her heartbeat quickened at the words he had spoke, a frantic beat gripped with uncertainty.

Domeric's expression seemed to take a second to catch up with what he had said. Surprise flickered across his face, his mouth opened as he realized what he just said. And then, his surprise gave way to confidence, a smile formed on his lips and when his eyes met hers, and there was no doubt in what he had said.

"I love you, my lady," he gently squeezed her in their embrace, "Now and forever."

She felt warmth course through her, her heart overfilling with happiness. Sansa returned his smile and moved her lips to meet his in a kiss that if caught by her Septa would've gotten her in quite a bit of trouble. Sansa pushed away that thought, enjoying the feel of Dom's lips on hers and the pleasing heat that filled her tummy.

Sansa smiled in satisfaction at the lingering dazed look Domeric had once their kiss had ended. Realizing that their feelings for one another had only fueled the kiss in a way that made it more enjoyable than any previous one.

Seeing her betrothed before her, Sansa knew her own feelings for him were just as true as the one he had recently confessed to her. She may have grown out of stories and songs, but the hope for love had always remained. Sansa considered herself thankful that she had found it.

"I love you too, Dom."

Her admission got his attention. It was his turn to react. He could not hide the longing look in his eyes, or the disbelief that spread over his face.

In that brief flicker of insecurity, Sansa's heart ached for him upon understanding how little he had heard or felt such a feeling from those around him. She was determined to make sure that he would always know it. She would remind him of her affection and love for him whenever she could. It would make them stronger.

His touch broke her from her musings, his hands cupped her cheeks and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I dare no more," his lips crooked into a smile, "We can only be so reckless without a chaperone."

Sansa giggled at that, and nodded her agreement. Her father allowed her some freedom in her time with Domeric, because of the trust he had for not just her, but him as well. When his hand fell from her face it sought her hand. He was still smiling and in that touch Sansa felt so happy, and so safe.

That's when she got her idea. "Come with me."

"Sansa?" His smile dipped.

"Please?"

He looked uncertain, but slowly nodded, "Very well, but we should bring two of your father's household guard to serve as chaperones."

Sansa agreed, watching him leave to fetch the guards. "Come to me, Lady," She called for her direwolf to follow. Lady was quick to rise to her feet and approach. Sansa crouched down, "I need you with me too, Lady."

Lady tilted her head, amber eyes shining in understanding.

"You and Domeric," she patted her beloved direwolf.

Lady licked her outstretched fingers and Sansa giggled at the direwolf's rough tongue tickling her palm. She affectionately scratched Lady behind her ear before standing.

"Where is it we are going, my lady?" Domeric had returned with the two Stark guards in tow. They both bowed their heads when they saw her.

"You will see," she told her betrothed before taking his offered arm to depart her room with Lady following behind and the two Stark guards trailing them.

"How was the Princess?" Domeric seemed to realize she was not going to tell him where they were going so settled on asking her about her day.

"She is well," Sansa replied, "And excited about the coming Tourney."

"I hope she enjoys it," Domeric said softly, "It may very well be her last. The north has no need for such displays of opulence and vanity."

Sansa agreed with his assessment. Frivolous spending and entertainment did not last in the north. Duty and honor endured while pride withered in the cold, unforgiving north.

"How was your training?"

"It goes well," Domeric answered, "Lord Stark and my father's men have helped me immensely."

"I'm glad," she smiled at him and he returned it. "Are you nervous?"

"No, my lady," he said, "I'm ready."

"Don't you worry about who you will have to face?" Sansa couldn't forget the Queen's casual mention of the Mountain as a potential opponent.

"I know the best fighters in the kingdoms will come," Domeric said honestly, "I trust that my skills can match any knight in the kingdoms."

She felt a sense of relief at his confidence. Hearing it certainty helped to deflate her anxiety that had been slowly building up. Sansa wanted to be supportive and she trusted him, but that did little to fight the niggling apprehension she felt worming in her tummy.

"My lady?" Domeric's words broke through her reverie.

Sansa looked around to see they had reached the end of the hallway.

"Where to?"

"This way," if she remembered right, turning left as they passed a row of dusty suits of black armor.

Domeric simply nodded to her direction and let her lead, while Lady and the Stark guards followed silently. If he knew where they were going he showed no hint of it.

"I got a letter from Arya."

"Oh?" That got Domeric's interest. "How is she?"

"Well," Sansa could only smile upon reflecting on reading her sister's messy scrawl. "She said Robb was working hard as acting Lord of Winterfell and writing poetry to the Princess." Sansa giggled at that and Domeric laughed at Arya's jape.

"Mayhaps, the Princess will let us read it?" Domeric joked.

Sansa's giggling continued at that suggestion. Imagining the Princess' red face if they teasingly inquired about the poetry her brother may have written to Myrcella.

Her sister's mischievousness knew no bounds as far as Sansa was concerned. It used to be a sore spot between them due to Sansa often being the target of it especially after one of their heated arguments, but it was different now between them. So much had changed between her and her sister in the past year and Sansa was grateful for the relationship she now had with Arya.

Her reflections on her sister were interrupted when they stopped outside large oak and bronze doors. A pair of Baratheon guards stood outside the great doors and looked at them with curiosity.

They were here, Sansa steadied herself.

"Sansa?" The concern in Domeric's voice was palpable.

"I'm fine," she gave him a reassuring look before turning to the guards on duty. "May we go in?"

"Court is adjourned for the day, my lady," The guard on the left said, "And the Small Council is no longer meeting."

"I would like to see the famous Iron Throne," Sansa lied smoothly, offering them an innocent smile.

"Very well, my lady," the one on the right said begrudgingly, "but do not linger too long."

"Thank you," Sansa felt her heart begin to beat a bit faster as the Baratheon guards moved to open the doors. This is it, she thought, tightening her hold on her betrothed's arm as she followed the long carpet that stretched out across the Great Hall.

It was cavernous. The Great Hall looked like it could easily fit a thousand people within these walls during a session of court. The once famous dragon skulls that once adorned the walls during the reign of the Targaryens had been replaced by King Robert with hunting tapestries.

She was curious where the skulls had been placed, and wondered if they were as terrifying as she thought. High, narrow windows on the eastern and western walls provided plenty of light to shine into the room. Massive chandeliers hung above them as towering stone pillars supported the room.

Straight ahead, she got her first glimpse of the legendary Iron Throne. Sansa was sure she heard Domeric's breath catch in his throat at the sight beside her. The lessons from Maester Luwin were quick to come to her as she took in the Iron Throne in front of her.

Constructed by Aegon the Conqueror, the first king to rule over six of the seven Kingdoms of Westeros, had it made from the swords of his enemies that had surrendered to him. More than a thousand blades made up the Iron Throne. It had been heated by the breath of Aegon's dragon, Balerion and took nearly sixty days to properly hammer into shape.

It was a monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges. Steel fangs and twisted metal gave it a terrifying almost beastly appearance with an equally imposing presence. It dominated the room. The raised dais it was on allowed it to loom over anything and everyone in the Great Hall. The stairs itself that led up to the seat were forged into the Throne itself, steps of melted swords that symbolized the enemies Aegon had broken and beaten that had elevated him to becoming the first King to unite six of the kingdoms of Westeros under his reign.

This truly was the seat of kings, she thought in mute awe. Sansa looked to see Domeric seemed enthralled by it, not that she was surprised. She knew how much he valued history and was certain he was probably recalling in excitement all the kings that had sat on this throne. On the history that was made in this very room.

Both good and bad, she observed. There was no telling where it happened within the Great Hall. Sansa imagined it must have been at a spot where the Mad King could get an unobstructed view from his throne.

"They died here," she whispered.

"Aye," sadness flickered across Domeric's worried face, "I know."

She turned away from his troubled gaze, her eyes falling on the empty throne. That was where he sat when he gave the order; she moved closer towards it, Sansa heard his footsteps following behind.

This is where he sat when he laughed after they were dead. She looked around the vast Great Hall, this is where they all stood and did nothing.

"Sansa," Domeric seemed to sense her discomfort, "We won't be staying here for long."

The Iron Throne forgotten, she turned to her betrothed, "What do you mean?"

Domeric didn't answer her immediately. First, he looked to see that the two Stark guards had kept a respectful distance and were standing near the entrance doors. Then, his eyes flicked over to Lady who stood with them, he looked at the direwolf as if expecting her to sniff out any other soul that may have been hiding in the Great Hall. When Lady made no move, Domeric seemed satisfied.

"Only a few months," he promised, taking her hand in his. "Then my father will call us back to seal our betrothal."

"Truly?" Sansa couldn't deny the hope that filled her heart.

He smiled. "Truly," he assured her. "Your father will escort us back to Winterfell for the wedding."

Winterfell? Ever since she departed her home for the capital, a day had not gone by that she hadn't missed it. To be told, that she would be returning sooner then she had imagined had been a tremendous gift from the Old Gods themselves.

The revelation brought a well of happiness to her. How she missed her brothers, her mother, and her sister.

"All of your family will be there," His eyes looked distant, "But not all of mine," his voice carried just a shade above a whisper.

"Dom?" Sansa frowned.

"I do not want to impose or insult you, my lady," he said quickly, "I'm just thinking of my brother."

Sansa understood at once. She knew of Domeric's bastard brother, and how he had often thought of him and wanted to form some sort of relationship with him. Knowing he was envious at seeing Robb interact with Jon and how Domeric only wanted something similar to share with his own brother, bastard or not.

"He is your family, Dom," Sansa reminded him, "And if you want him there then he should come."

"Really?" Domeric's face lit up at her words.

She smiled, pleased to see him happy, "Of course."

"Thank you," he said. "We will then go to Dreadfort," Domeric confided to her, "Where we will learn to rule and start our own family soon enough."

Our own family, Sansa couldn't deny her happiness or excitement at that enticing thought. She was not ready to be a mother, but the idea of sharing children with a husband she loved who was as kind and strong as Domeric made her look forward to that day when they did have a family. Even if she wasn't ready to be a mother, she would be lying if she said she hadn't thought about their potential children.

After all, Sansa had grown up being taught by her mother and her Septa of her responsibilities when she became a woman and a wife. Her thoughts naturally drifted to the children she may one day have. When she was still enthralled by the stories and songs of bards, she imagined giving birth to princes and princesses of the seven kingdoms.

Then she had met Domeric. And everything would change. She no longer desired go south to marry a prince, and to become a queen. Sansa understood what most songs truly were, pretty lies to mask ugly truths.

She wanted to remain in the north. To her relief and happiness her desires came true when her father betrothed her to Domeric. At that point, she couldn't stop her mind from drifting to the family they would one day have in the Dreadfort. Despite her initial hesitation at her husband's home, it couldn't drown the happiness she shared towards him. Especially when she realized, together, with him, and their family, Dreadfort would be their home.

It was not just family, she imagined, but names she thought on giving their future children. Bethany for a girl, Sansa had decided in honor of Domeric's mother who had meant so much to him. Edric for a boy, she wanted the name to serve as a tribute to the two men whom she loved and respected so much; her father, Lord Eddard and her betrothed Domeric. She was hopeful, he would be agreeable with those names.

"Does this please you, my lady?" Domeric's words broke her out of her musings on her future family.

"They do," she beamed, "There is nothing I want more."

"Aye," Domeric said, "We will go home soon enough, my love."