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Our Blades Are Sharp

By Spectre4hire

23: Domeric

"I feel as if we ride further and further away from the capital each day, Lord Domeric."

Domeric smiled at Captain Rylen's observation. They had returned to the stables of the Red Keep after another morning ride. It was one of the few ways he could tolerate being in King's Landing. He yearned to be far away from the smells and noises that plagued this city. So he took to riding out. Exploring the lands around it, and had already found some peaceful spots along the Blackwater.

There were few things Domeric Bolton liked more than riding.

"Do you protest, Captain?" Domeric turned to him. "You could always stay here while I rode and I could take other guards?"

"That would be unnecessary, Lord Domeric," Captain Rylen said, "I prefer the riding to the waiting."

"Fair enough," Domeric chuckled, knowing his captain of the guard had no love for this city either and didn't mind the long rides they took every morning since they had arrived to the capital. He left the stables with Captain Rylen and his three other Bolton men-at-arms trailing behind as they made their way back towards the Red Keep and to the Tower of the Hand.

"Are you prepared for the tournament?"

"Aye," Domeric believed he was ready to break lances with the best riders that the kingdoms had to offer. He had been training and riding hard since he had been told by his father that he was to enter the tournament.

When he wasn't training, he was watching his opponents. Trying to pick up on their tactics and discern for weaknesses. The training yard of the Red Keep provided him an opportunity to study some of his more dangerous opponents. There, he watched many knights of the Stormlands, Westerlands, a few of the Reach, and that of the Kingsguard prepare themselves for the Tourney of the Hand.

It was in watching Ser Jaime Lannister did Domeric notice how the knight tended to shift in his seat just before lances clashed. The Kingslayer did the skill deftly and had used it to unhorse many men he went up against. Domeric had already formulated his counter to this particular challenge if he advanced far enough to have to face the Kingsguard knight.

"Good lad," Captain Rylen sounded pleased, "You carry the honor of the north with ya, Lord Domeric."

Words not to be taken lightly, Domeric understood. He was to be the only northern nobleman who would enter the lists. He heard of a few guards from Lord Stark's household may take part, but it would be to him, the heir to the Dreadfort where the commoners and nobles alike would look to.

Let them see, he would not allow himself to be bothered by the attention. He was aware of the expectations his father had put upon his shoulders when he deemed it a worthy endeavor for Domeric to take part in. Why else would his father commission expensive tournament armor for him to wear?

"I will show the south the might of the north," Domeric promised, hoping to make an example out of the Knight of Flowers.

His words earned him a ripple of agreement between the Bolton men who trailed behind him and Captain Rylen.

The Captain of his Guard let out a raspy laugh. "Bold words, Lord Domeric," a grin stretched across his scarred face, "but I've seen you ride." He shook his head in dismay. "You were born on a saddle it seems."

Domeric inclined his head at the compliment. "You honor me, Captain."

He had been riding as long as he could remember. His mother had gotten him his first pony when he was still a boy at the Dreadfort. While his Aunt, had given him his first true horse when he was her page at Barrowton. Domeric remembered fondly the rides he'd take through the Barrowlands and the Rills. His Aunt Barbrey had teased him saying he spent more time atop his horse then he did on his own two feet.

It wasn't until he fostered at Redfort in the Vale did he realize his potential in jousting. Lord Redfort had deemed him a natural and that there were tourney victories in his future. In those three years, Domeric trained vigorously to combine his talent with the lance with his riding to form an imposing threat.

Talent that had yet to be truly tested, he reminded himself. This would be the first tournament he'd partake in. Regardless, of his inexperience, his confidence did not waver in his ability. Domeric was ready to test his mettle with the supposed best fighters that the realms had to offer.

His musings were interrupted at the sound of encroaching footsteps. Domeric looked up and immediately had to hide his frown when he spotted the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon coming towards them. His sworn shield, Sandor Clegane was absent, but following behind the Prince was Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard as well as a handful of Lannister men.

How the Kingsguard has fallen, Domeric had seen them in the training yard. He had read much of the fabled order of knights whose sole duty was in protecting the King and the royal family. He knew many of the famous names that had once donned the white cloak. To see what it has become was rather disappointing.

To think that this Order was once filled with men of exceptional skill and valor such as Ser Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Duncan the Tall. Now, its ranks were polluted. Domeric was surprised their pale cloaks hadn't darkened at being tainted with men unworthy of the honor.

Despite his respect for the history of the Kingsguard he was still wary of them. No one could question the skill of The Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne or Ser Barristan Selmy. Yet these supposed great men did nothing as the Mad King murdered the Warden of the North and his heir.

How much bloodshed could've been avoided if they had put a stop to the madness before it tore Westeros apart? Mayhaps, it was just the north in him that was already naturally critical and suspicious of knights and their supposed value and valor within the south.

"My prince," Domeric stopped and bowed his head out of obligation then any actual respect for the heir to the Iron Throne.

The eldest son of King Robert and Queen Cersei didn't bother to hide his contempt for Domeric. He was dressed in red and golden silks, a roaring lion embroidered into his finery. He wore several rings on his fingers, and a faint perfume clung to him.

He dressed more like a princess then a prince, Domeric thought wryly.

"You smell of horse," Joffrey brought a hand to his face as if trying to wave away the smell. His words and gesture brought laughter to his Lannister guards.

"My pardons," Domeric apologized, "I was not expecting the honor of your presence."

"I didn't ask for your excuses," Joffrey chided him. "Besides, the Red Keep seems plagued with the smell of northerners since my father asked Lord Stark to be his Hand."

The Prince's insults of the north caused a soft murmuring from his men who stood behind Domeric. Thankfully, it seemed Joffrey was ignorant of their reaction.

"It does not matter it was hardly noticeable due to the presence of Lady Sansa." His green eyes glistened greedily, and a smirk played at his lips. "She provides such lovely company."

Domeric's smile curdled. His hand twitched, urging to go for his sword that hung loosely in its scabbard, but he stopped himself. He would not allow himself to get baited by the Crown Prince.

"She was wearing quite the dress," Joffrey was looking for a reaction, "that gave wonderful peeks of her creamy skin and womanly curves." He licked his lips. "Quite the woman you have there, Bolton. Makes me think she's wasted on someone like you."

His gut roiled in indignation. It took every ounce of his self control to restrain his fists from meeting the Prince's face. Domeric smothered the glare he wanted to level at him. Fighting to keep his emotions controlled and to convey a look of indifference that was cracking with each passing taunt directed at his betrothed and the insinuation that seeped with them.

"She needs a lion not a flayed man," the Crown Prince boasted.

The Lannister men chuckled and voiced their agreement at their prince's words. While the Bolton men mumbled and glared back at the insults being given to the future Lady of the Dreadfort.

"She is not yours," Domeric felt the burning rage that lashed and churned inside his stomach.

"I am the Prince!" He shook an angry finger at him. "I can do what I want!"

"There was another Prince who thought he could take what was not his," Domeric said. "Mayhaps you should ask your father what happened to him."

"You dare," Joffrey's face darkened in outrage.

"You threaten the Prince in front of his Kingsguard?" Ser Meryn stepped forward, a hand on the pommel of his sword, his sworn brother, Ser Boros mirrored his movement.

Captain Rylen and the Bolton men reacted immediately, moving forward in front of Domeric, hands on their weapons, poised to draw them.

"I beg your pardons, Ser Trant," Captain Rylen's eyes bore into the Kingsguard knight. "But we cannot allow you to threaten our liege lord."

Ser Meryn was stunned. He turned his droopy eyes away from Domeric and towards his men. A heavy tension filled the room, like a thick black smoke over a raging fire. Men on both sides looked ready to come to blows in protecting the honor of their respected liege lords.

"This is the Crown Prince you are speaking to," Ser Meryn said, like anyone in the corridor needed the reminder.

"I'm aware," Captain Rylen said dryly, "But our oaths are to Lord Bolton and our loyalty is to the Dreadfort."

A swell of pride filled Domeric upon seeing his men step forward to protect him. Their honor and courage were unwavering in the face of two Kingsguard knights and a handful of Lannister men. That being said, the last thing Domeric wanted was for a sword fight to erupt in the halls of the Red Keep.

"It wasn't a threat," Domeric needed to diffuse the situation, "Just a history lesson that our Prince shouldn't forget." He stepped forward putting a calming hand on Captain Rylen's shoulders. "Now, if you excuse us, my prince, my men and I are tired and ornery from our morning ride."

Silence met Domeric's words as Joffrey who had slunk back behind his men once the Bolton men stepped forward, scowled where he stood in the shadows of his guards.

"My Prince," Ser Boros' voice came out nasally, "The Queen is expecting you."

Domeric had heard whispers within the Red Keep that Ser Blount was one of the Queen's creatures. He was not surprised to see him use the Queen's name to try to invoke the Crown Prince in leaving more swiftly before they were delayed any further. Not to mention, it was apparent that Ser Boros was not keen on a fight. He looked at Captain Rylen and the other Bolton men with a touch of trepidation. It was said the man was a coward dressed up as a knight.

"Be gone," Joffrey declared, "I wouldn't want to deny my uncle or my dog the chance of humiliating you at the tournament for the entire realm to see." At his words, the knights and Lannister men stood down, and stepped aside allowing Domeric and his Bolton men to move past.

He chose to ignore the Prince's words. Biting his tongue to keep from responding at how the Prince hadn't the courage to even enter the tourney. Instead, Domeric focused his efforts on just leaving Joffrey and his company of brutes behind as quickly as he could.

Domeric eyed the men warily as he led his men through, his shoulders were tensed and hands clenched. A sigh of relief passed his lips when they were finally clear.

"And Bolton," Joffrey's voice drawled across the corridor. "Send my regards to your betrothed." A haughty laugh from the prince followed as he led his men out of sight.

That pierced Domeric's calm demeanor- the final insult. He couldn't contain the apprehension that spread through him, a slight chill just beneath his skin.

"Come on," Domeric urged his men forward. There was nothing he wanted more then to see Sansa.

He ran towards the Tower of the Hand and climbed the steps before reaching her chambers. Domeric didn't stop to knock, opening the door, to see Sansa sitting at her table working on her needlework with Septa Mordane sitting beside her.

Instant relief came to him upon looking to see Sansa looked well and unbothered.

"Dom?" Sansa's blue eyes widened at his sudden, haggard presence.

"Lord Domeric!" Septa began to scold, but he ignored her.

He moved across the chambers and without speaking pulled Sansa into his arms from where she sat and held her close.

"Dom?" Sansa said again, "What's wrong?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see Captain Rylen politely escorting a fuming Septa Mordane from Sansa's chambers who seemed irate at being put out, though her tone quieted when the Captain of Domeric's guard told her something before the door closed behind them.

He leaned back, so that he could meet her eyes, but his arms remained around her. "Has the Prince come to see you?"

"No," She frowned. "What happened?"

He inwardly chided himself for letting himself be fooled by Joffrey. He should've known better then to have allowed the prince to goad him so easily. His love for Sansa had allowed his judgment to be clouded and had made him unable to properly see through the lies of Joffrey's boasts. Domeric could've easily been provoked into doing something foolish or dangerous or have run into some sort of trap because of his overwhelming concern for Sansa.

Don't allow your sentiment for the girl affect your judgment; his father's cold words whispered their warning in his head.

Domeric pushed out a breath of annoyance, not wanting to dwell on his father at the moment.

"I'm fine," he assured her, smiling to prove his point. "I'm fine."

Sansa wasn't fooled. Her eyes studying him closely, a frown came to her lips, "Dom," her voice gentle, but he heard the strength behind it, and what went unsaid.

"The Prince," Domeric muttered, feeling a pinch of pain flare up in his head at the reminder of Joffrey."He said things, lies."

"About me?" Sansa's face creased with worry, but understanding shone in her blue eyes.

"Aye," Domeric ground out the word bitterly. "I thought, I feared he'd threaten or hurt you."

"My constant protector," she cupped his face with her soft hands, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips that had the power to instantly quell the annoyance that had been bubbling up in his gut. He cherished the feeling of her lips on his until it ended.

When she drew back, her nose scrunched up. "You smell," she gave him a teasing smile.

In that moment all Domeric could do was laugh.

The next morning Domeric found himself breaking fast in the Small Hall. Though, it was hardly small. It was only called that to distinguish it from the Great Hall where the Kings of Westeros could feast a thousand. This Small Hall was a long room with high vaunted ceilings and bench space to sit two hundred comfortably at its trestle tables.

Sitting across from him was his beautiful betrothed, Sansa who looked radiant. She was wearing a dress in the southern fashion, that wasn't as conservative as the northern style. It gave him various glimpses of her creamy white skin. He found it very distracting.

"You are beautiful this morning, my lady," Domeric declared at their table.

"It seems your eyes approve of my dress."

Domeric felt heat come to his face as he looked down at his plate only to hear Sansa's giggling. He looked up to see her bright blue eyes shining towards him. "I'll admit that out of all the southern styles I must get use to that your dresses will be one of the easier ones."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head before going back to their food. They were breaking fast on black bread, boiled goose eggs, and a rasher of bacon. He washed his food down with freshly squeezed juice from some fruits that came from the Reach.

"I found a nice spot on the Blackwater on my morning ride yesterday," Domeric looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs. "I thought we could have a picnic there?"

"That sounds wonderful," Sansa rewarded his suggestion with a smile.

"Good," Domeric was pleased she'd liked the idea. "I'll talk to Lord Stark about it and see what men he can spare for the ride." He knew Lord Stark had sent some of his men to help Janos Slynt and the gold cloaks to deal with the pressing safety concerns that had risen with so many people having come for the tournament.

Domeric would bring Bolton men with him for his picnic with Lady Sansa. However, Lord Stark as her father had the right to want to bring his own men to go with them to act as supervising chaperones. He would not begrudge Lord Stark for his protectiveness of his oldest daughter.

"Mayhaps, we could go after the tournament?" By then, Lord Stark's household shouldn't be too badly stretched and the men he loaned to the gold cloaks would be returned to him.

Sansa hummed her agreement, as she spread some berry jam onto her bread. They ate in relative silence exchanging smiles and the occasional words and Domeric savored every moment of it.

This is our future, he realized. The meals they'd take as husband and wife in the great hall of the Dreadfort, as Lord and Lady or within their own chambers.

Soon, he reminded himself. He waited anxiously for the day to come when he received word from his father. Telling him it's time to return. It's time for him to marry the woman he loves and that it's time to leave this wretched city.

"Dom?"

"Yes?" He blinked to see Sansa was watching him closely.

"What were you thinking about?"

"What do you mean?"

"You had this very silly grin," she told him, amusement bubbled up in her voice, "and you looked quite pleased with yourself."

"I did?" Domeric couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes, you did," she confirmed, "what was it?"

"I was just reflecting on how I'm betrothed to the most beautiful woman in Westeros," he grinned at her, "How can I not be pleased with myself?"

She blushed at his compliment, "You could've made a wonderful bard, Dom."

"You honor me, my love." He honestly thought he'd make a lousy one since he couldn't sing if his life depended on it. However, her compliment laced with such sincerity and love couldn't dampen his blunt honesty.

"Will you play me something before your morning ride and my lessons with Steward Poole?" she asked hopefully.

"Always," Domeric promised, "How go your lessons with the Steward?"

Sansa sighed, "Slowly," she sipped juice from her glass, "Arya always was better at numbers then me," she confessed, wistfulness crept into her tone at the mention of her sister who she dearly missed. "But, I'm improving."

"That's wonderful," Domeric praised.

"It's been a bit easier for me to grasp with Steward Poole using real life lessons," she said, "its had me think more about running a household and being prepared for the responsibilities that will unfold." Determination shone vividly in her eyes, "But I'll be ready when the time comes."

"Do not fret, my lady," Domeric knew she was worried about the tasks that were waiting for her at the Dreadfort when they finally wed and returned to Domeric's ancestral seat. "No one is expecting you to run the Bolton household the day you arrive."

"But I will," Sansa told him confidently.

Domeric was once more struck by his betrothed's poise and resolve. He had to remind himself that he wasn't marrying some dainty southern flower, but a she-wolf of Winterfell.

"You will be a blessing to the Dreadfort, my love."

She opened her mouth to reply when her eyes went past him and widened slightly.

Confused, he looked over his shoulder to see a new guest coming into the Small Hall. It was Lord Baelish, a man Domeric hadn't formerly met, but had seen a few times within the Red Keep. He was a short man with a pointed beard with streaks of silver in his hair. He had laughing grey-green eyes. He wore a silver mockingbird that fastened his cloak.

"Lord Baelish," he rose to greet the Master of the Coin.

"Lord Domeric." He bowed his head towards him before turning to Sansa, "Lady Sansa."

"Lord Baelish," she gracefully stood from her seat and offered him a curtsey.

"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Lady Sansa," Lord Baelish said. "Though we're hardly strangers," he told her, "I'm sure you've heard stories about me."

Domeric was surprised by the man's brazenness. He could only wonder had Lord Baelish spoke with such casualness and self-worth when addressing Lord Stark.

"I have," Sansa didn't allow herself to be bothered by Lord Baelish's words or tones in which he spoke about her mother's family.

In times like this Domeric could only admire his betrothed; her composure, her civility never faltered. That ability to deceive those around her with her charm and courtesies.

It reminded him of a saying he heard his father use to say, Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy, Domeric believed that was Sansa.

That seemed to please Lord Baelish greatly. The corner of his lips curved upwards upon hearing that both Lady Stark had spoken of him and that Sansa was aware of who he was. While in the Vale, Domeric had heard stories of Lord Baelish's infatuation with Lady Catelyn Stark before she had been married to Lord Stark.

"You look just like her," His eyes never left Sansa's face.

Domeric didn't like the look he saw in Littlefinger's eyes as his attention remained on Sansa. He clenched his fork tightly into his palm. Nor did he appreciate him referring to how Sansa looked like Lady Stark, the very woman who Lord Baelish had challenged her betrothed to a duel for the right for her hand. Brandon Stark had bloodied him badly in the duel, nearly killing him if the stories were to be believed.

"Lord Baelish," Domeric called the man's attention to him, "Before I went to the Vale, my Lord Father had me memorize every house in the Vale from high lord to landed knight." He was pleased to see Littlefinger finally look away from Sansa and at him, "And I remember the sigil of House Baelish." Domeric fought the triumphant smirk that wanted to spread across his face when he saw his words got a slight reaction out of the Master of Coin.

"It was a grey stone head with fiery eyes on a light green field," Domeric's eyes went from Littlefinger's eyes to the man's pin of the silver mockingbird.

"You're a clever boy," Lord Baelish complimented, "I can see why your father would want to put you on display here in the south. To show the realm the future of House Bolton," His eyes swept over Domeric's appearance, "Not all of our families can have such creative blazons like the Boltons." He smiled, but it didn't reach his laughing grey-green eyes.

"I fashioned this as my personal crest," Littlefinger explained, tapping to the mockingbird pin, "I'm the only man in this city who wears it," he told them, "but that doesn't mean I'm not without friends."

Domeric understood the unspoken threat in Lord Baelish's words. He had been warned by his father of the influence that the Master of Coin wielded and that he didn't need a holdfast to be dangerous. His currency besides coin was information and favors and he had ample amount of both.

A low growl cut through the growing silence, three heads turned to see Lady had found her way into the small hall. The direwolf's eyes were on the Master of Coin.

Domeric couldn't stop the smile that came to him when he saw Littlefinger pale at the sight of the direwolf.

"Some pet, Lady Sansa," he tried to recover. "It's fortunate that not all families have pets taken after their sigils," He said sarcastically, "Unless you packed some flayed skins for your journey south, Lord Domeric?"

"I may pack some for the journey back," Domeric muttered under his breath.

Lady snapped and snarled as if detecting his growing annoyance towards Lord Baelish.

"If you'll excuse me," Littlefinger backed away with as much dignity as he could while avoiding the annoyed, growling direwolf. "I must speak with your father, Lady Sansa." He turned to Domeric only for a quick heartbeat, "Lord Domeric," before his eyes went back to Sansa; he bowed his head to her and left the hall as hastily as he could.

"You're my hero, Lady," Domeric praised the direwolf, bringing her attention to him as she padded over. He was quick to scoop up a piece of bacon and present it to the direwolf as her reward. She took it delicately from his fingers, her rough tongue licking his palm. He chuckled, petting her with his free hand before wiping his hands on a kerchief.

As far as Domeric was concerned he couldn't leave this city soon enough.