A/N: I want to thank everyone for reading, alerting, and favoring this story.
I also want to extend my appreciation to doRodrigo, OBSERVER01, Spirally, CJaylynn26, WeylandCorp 4, thepkrmgc, Lita of Jupiter, jackli10345, Queen of Ice and Winter, MrSir17, Pandean, X59, Dread Knight N7, JimmyHall24 (2), JohnnyHarder, onyxhaider98, RENRY, baronnis, Northern wolves, Ari989, InDeathWeLaugh, 'Slash17,' 'XBolt51,' El Chacal, senpen banka, Axular, lilnudger82 (10), DaphneSlytherinWinchester, Cancer-Chris, Nox Descious, Doctor Khan, 'Anna,' DoNotPanic, and to all the Guests for taking the time to review. It really means a lot to me.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
26: Eddard
Ned found his mood surprisingly good on the morning of the final tournament tilts.
Breaking fast with Robert had brought fond memories and easy smiles to him for the first time since he had arrived to the capital. Now, as he and the king moved towards the jousting field to see the end of the jousting for the Tourney of the Hand, he found smiles harder to come by. He had fallen quiet as Robert continued to talk and laugh about their days together in the Vale fostering under Jon Arryn.
The king was oblivious to Ned's sudden discomfort. A luster could be found in his deep blue eyes, his smile white and wide through his dark beard, looking younger and sounding happier then Ned had seen him since the two friends were reunited at Winterfell all those months ago.
Wistfulness seemed to be Robert's closest companion now, Ned thought sadly. Whether his friend was thinking on their time together in the Vale as boys, pining over Lyanna, winning the crown in the Rebellion, and defending it against the Greyjoys, Robert preferred the past to the present.
They had changed. Ned had moved forward while Robert remained bound to the past. When he left the capital after they won the throne, they faced the unexpected and the unknown. Robert was now the king and tasked to govern the seven kingdoms while Ned found himself, the Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. They married women who were strangers to them.
Thankfully for Ned, he found love in his marriage with Catelyn. The same was not said between Robert and his Queen. There was no love between them only scorn that they didn't bother to hide anymore. Too tired to perform their roles and the act they had been playing all these years.
Their marriage was to be the foundation for a new dynasty that was to rule the Seven Kingdoms in the aftermath of the Targaryen demise; a notion that disquieted Ned greatly upon seeing the fruits of that union.
Arriving to the Royal Pavilion, Ned was quick to notice that the Queen was not present. Her seat beside the King was empty.
"Lord Hand," Lord Baelish called to them. "Good to see you attending your tournament."
"This is not my tournament," Ned corrected him. This is more your tournament then mine, he thought bitterly.
He had fought hard and often to try to dissuade Robert from having this tournament, but the King would not listen. When he realized that he could not change his mind, he tried to at least lower the winnings. The country was reeling, its coffers were empty, and the amount of money they owed to Tywin Lannister among others was troubling.
Robert would have none of it. Claimed, Ned was counting coppers. Frustrated, and friendless, Ned yielded again. He would not forget how the other members of the Small Council were quick and happy to side with Robert despite knowing this tournament was folly.
Ned couldn't understand how even the Master of Coin, Lord Baelish would consent to having such a lavished spectacle which was what this tournament had become. If anyone were to side with him, it should've been him, but Lord Baelish didn't.
He said yes, bowed and smiled and promised that the funds would be found. Robert was very pleased with that. Uncaring that those funds meant borrowing more from Lord Tywin Lannister, the Warden of the West, and Lord of Casterly Rock.
That got an amused look from Lord Baelish. "Truly?" he asked, "Someone must inform the heralds they've been calling this The Hand's tourney," chuckling at his own joke.
"You must be proud, Lord Stark." Littlefinger was lounging in his seat, eating grapes. "Your future good son has performed admirably, so far."
"Domeric is a good man," Ned said, "But not because he wins a few tilts."
"Of course," Littlefinger smiled, "I almost forgot how the north views these tournaments."
Ned did not care for them. A tournament being held in his name and honor would not endear them to him either. He had come today to support his daughter and her betrothed, Domeric Bolton. His soon to be son by law, Lord Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort had surprised all at the capital when he proved his talent as being one of the last four remaining riders.
Domeric was the only one of them who was not a knight. That was something of a scandal to many of the lords and ladies in attendance. Unable to comprehend how a northerner, and one who was not anointed with the holy oils had been able to best so many of their southern sons and brothers.
Ned was not surprised by Domeric's success. He had seen the young man ride countless times in the training yard at Winterfell under instruction or in the Wolfswood. Ned had been quietly impressed at how well Domeric rode. Reminding him of his brother Brandon, and his sister, Lyanna, both accomplished riders who their father joked were half horses.
The horns blew loudly announcing the start of the day's first joust and bringing Ned's attention back to the tournament in front of him. The spectacle and lavishness of the tournament was expected as he watched it unfold from the royal pavilion.
Harrenhal came to his mind's eye. Glimpses of his time there surfaced, memories stirred within. There, he had attended it as a second son. Winterfell was closed to him, and he had gone not with his family but with his second father in Lord Jon Arryn, and with Robert who he saw as another brother.
Ned could still remember the opulent display that Lord Whent had shown to the realm for his grand tourney. The nobles and commoners alike were united in their entertainment and their happiness upon taking in the Great Tournament of Harrenhal.
How they had cheered their Crown Prince when Rhaegar had won the joust at Harrenhal. He had bested Ser Barristan Selmy and received the recognition and love of the people in his victory. All had expected Princess Elia, his wife when the Crown Prince was given the laurels, but Rhaegar rode past her and crowned another his Queen of Love and Beauty.
All the smiles died then. The crowd became as silent as the grave.
A flurry of blue winter roses flickered across his vision. Promise me, Ned.
"Rhaegar," Robert murmured.
Ned blinked, turning suddenly to his friend and king, wondering and fearing had he silently whispered something when he had gotten distracted by his memories of Harrenhal. Ned looked to see Robert's blue eyes were wide and blinking. He wasn't looking to Ned, but to the field.
Frowning, Ned followed Robert's line of sight to see something that had Ned wondering if he was still thinking in the past. Riding before him, Ned saw the shade of Rhaegar Targaryen, a rider dressed in plate armor as dark as pitch with rubies glistening in the chest plate.
"A hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced when Ser Jaime Lannister entered the field, opposite the ghost of Rhaegar.
"Done," Renly replied, The two lords were oblivious to the reverie that Ned and Robert found themselves in. "Lord Domeric hasn't been bested yet."
Domeric, Ned's eyes snapped back towards the rider in black. Cutting through the fog of memories he saw that the rubies wrought in the plate armor did not form the three headed dragon of House Targaryen, instead they resembled what looked to be rain drops, surrounding a flayed man hanging upside down on a cross.
"Domeric," Ned muttered in equal parts disbelief and relief that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He then watched the heir to the Dreadfort lead his horse towards the stands to see he was making his way over to where Sansa was sitting. That was when Ned spotted a wisp of green knotted to Domeric's arm.
Sansa's favor, he realized.
"RHAEGAR!" the disbelief that had colored the king's tone had crumbled to the famous fury of House Baratheon. The King looked ready to charge the field, eyes scanning for his weapon of choice-his famous war hammer.
"It's not Rhaegar, Your Grace," Ned told his friend quickly, wanting to calm the rage that was building up in his friend at the mention of the former Crown Prince. "It's my daughter's betrothed, Lord Domeric Bolton."
Thankfully, Robert's outburst had gone mostly unnoticed by those lords and servants that were closest to the King. Their attention was on the field where Domeric was talking quietly with Sansa while the Kingslayer prepared himself for the bout. Renly and Littlefinger were distracted by their own conversation. The two members of the Small council were talking quietly about their newly made bet on the bout between the Kingslayer and Domeric.
"What?" he blinked, looking back down to the field, his mouth twisted bitterly as his eyes looked over the dark armored rider. He sat back down with a grunt.
"Stupid armor," Robert grumbled, "Bloody rubies!" He groused. "More ale!" he bellowed his command, holding up his horn for it be refilled.
The King's timid squire, Lancel Lannister quickly came over to fill the horn which Robert then swallowed in one greedy gulp before holding it out again.
"More," the King of the Seven Kingdoms growled, "I'm cursed with the reminder of the dragonspawn raper." Robert drowned this one as well.
"Damn Rhaegar to the seven hells!" Robert's blue eyes were cold and hard as they remained on Domeric Bolton who was still conversing atop his horse with Sansa from her seats.
Ned shifted uncomfortably where he stood by his friend's seat. Not liking the look the King had on Ned's future good son. The resemblance Domeric's armor had to Crown Prince Rhaegar's as well as him currently talking to Ned's daughter, Sansa left him to only imagine what memories and bitter thoughts were churning in his Robert's mind.
"He stole her from me," Robert said quietly, looking down at his empty horn. "Lyanna," he said sadly.
"More ale, your Grace?" Lancel asked, uncertain what else to say to Robert's painful and emotional confession.
"Yes," Robert's voice lacked anger or sadness. It was just hollow.
Lancel quietly filled it once more.
"Your Grace," Ned said softly, concerned with how much and how quickly he had consumed his last few horns of ale.
Robert looked to him. His face was already beginning to look flushed. His eyes looked a bit unfocused.
"You won, Robert." Ned reminded him. He wanted to distract his friend and to bring his thoughts back to the present and away from the past.
"Did I?" Robert let out a humorless chuckle, "A cold bed and an empty seat," he gestured with his ale to where his Queen was suppose to be sitting, but Cersei had chosen not to attend.
"The gods are cruel," Robert nursed his ale in brooding silence. "Go, Ned," he told him, "Go to your daughter."
"Your Grace," Ned said awkwardly, still not certain he should leave his friend no less his king to his thoughts and drink. However, he had learned soon enough since reuniting with his friend that sometimes it wasn't company or sweet words that Robert needed when his mind and heart tore at him with memories of their past, but solitude and silence.
With a bow, Ned left the royal pavilion and made his way towards his daughter's seat.
A clash of jewels, Ned thought dryly about the final two riders for the last remaining tilt. Sapphires, and rubies, knowing the two fine jewels that dominated the armors of Ser Loras Tyrell and Domeric Bolton. Sapphires to resemble flowers for the third son of Lord Mace Tyrell, and rubies to look like blood drops for the son and heir of Lord Roose Bolton.
Loras Tyrell's entrance for the final tilt proved how beloved he was by the people. The young knight's appearance earned him murmurs and fervent whispers from the crowd, commoners and noblewoman alike swooned when the Knight of Flowers rode his circuit around the field. Several were clasping roses in shaky hands gifts that Loras had given to the fawning women from both today's and yesterday's bouts.
He was dressed in armor for parading not for fighting, Ned thought. His silver armor was bright and polished, black vines snaked across his chest plate while sapphires were wrought into the armor to resemble forget-me-nots. There were some signs of dirt and grass on his armor from his brief, but dangerous encounter with his last opponent Ser Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain had violently protested how he had been bested by the young knight. He had killed his horse in a ferocious blow that brought shrieks and sickness to the crowd. The towering knight had stormed off the field, cursing and grumbling after he had been stopped from nearly killing Loras in a fit of rage. It had taken the timely interference of Sandor Clegane, the King's bellowing command, two members of the Kingsguard, and an additional dozen knights before Gregor left the field.
Silence descended on the crowd when the Knight of Flower's final opponent took the field. Domeric Bolton led his dark destrier out into the open to receive a smattering of applause and cheers that was far softer then what Loras Tyrell had received. While others in the crowd had begun to chant his new name, Dread Knight.
A ghost from the past, Ned still could not ignore the striking resemblance of Domeric's armor to that of the former Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He had not grown use to the striking sight the heir to the Dreadfort made to the previous heir to the Iron Throne.
His rubies shone against the dark backdrop of his black plate armor. The red flayed man who hung upside down looked harrowing despite being surrounded by the red jewels. The red colored cloak trailed behind him like a shadow formed from blood, and his horse helm completed the intimidating appearance that made Ned understand why the people were calling him, The Dread Knight.
He rode to where they were sitting. When he removed his helm, Ned was half expecting to see long silvery hair, dark indigo eyes and the handsome, but melancholy face of the Crown Prince. But this was not Rhaegar Targaryen, and instead it revealed the dark hair, dark eyes, and plain features of Domeric Bolton.
"My Lady," he said softly.
"Dom," Sansa replied warmly. "Return to me,"
"Always," he assured her before pressing his lips to her outstretched hand. He then tapped the green scarf that was knotted to his arm. His look was determined when he snapped his helm shut and rode over to his men and squire.
Domeric had only solidified his growing reputation as a rider and jouster in his fist match of the day against the Kingslayer. While Loras had relied on tricks to beat the Mountain, Domeric had used skill to defeat Ser Jaime Lannister. He had ridden twice against the Kingsguard knight before defeating him. He had aptly picked up on the kingslayer's method and exposed it to defeat the heavily favored rider.
"Will you allow me to win my coin back, Lord Renly?" Littlefinger asked the Lord of Storm's End, "My gold dragons on the northern lord."
"The same northerner you bet against all tournament?" Renly laughed.
"Yes," Littlefinger stroked his beard, "But I have a feeling that you'll not bet against your friend, Ser Loras."
"Very well," Renly said quickly, his voice strained. "You have a wager."
"Excellent," Lord Baelish sounded pleased.
Ned noticed his daughter had taken the conversation with a look of dislike.
"They're rooting for Domeric to be beaten or worse hurt just for a few gold dragons," Sansa said sharply. Her anger and disgust were palpable.
"Aye," Ned patted her hand which was resting on his arm. It was just another reason for him to be against these tournaments. Gambling on the fate of a man did not sit well with him.
There was no more time to talk as Domeric was galloping down the field towards Loras Tyrell. As they neared, Loras' lance hit true, smashing into Domeric's chest, wood splintered on impact and Domeric rocked backwards in his saddle, but he remained atop his horse. His lance had broken on Loras' shield, but the knight looked undaunted from the attack as he retreated back to his side of the field.
Ned felt Sansa's grip on his arm had tightened. "Sansa, he'll be fine." He told her gently.
Sansa blinked at her father's words as if she hadn't heard them. Her blue eyes didn't turn to him, but remained on Domeric. Intently looking to see if he had taken any injury from the hit, she dispelled the breath she had been holding in relief when he took the offered lance without grimace or sign of pain.
The second bout began suddenly and Domeric urged his destrier across the field, while Ser Loras' mare matched their pace. For the second time, Ser Loras' lance struck Domeric, this time higher up on the chest that had Domeric reeling so far that his back nearly touched his horse.
Sansa gasped, but it was swallowed up by the deafening roar of the crowd.
Loras seemed to have thought his victory assured when his lance hit and he rode past. When he turned back he looked to be expecting to see Domeric on the ground, but that was not to be. Incredibly, Domeric did not fall from his horse. Equal parts surprised and frustrated, the Knight of Flowers rode back to prepare for the next bout.
Domeric's return was more gradual. Ned could spot the discomfort in his movements when he reached his men. His squire was quick to his side, Domeric bent over with some difficulty to hear what his squire had to tell him.
"He's hurt," Sansa lamented softly. Her eyes shone with concern and transfixed on him.
"Don't worry," Ned nearly winced at how tightly her fingers were digging into his arm. "Captain Rylen wouldn't let Domeric ride if he was injured."
When it was time for the third bout, Domeric led his destrier to dash forward. The horse looked like a blur blazing across the field. Ned was amazed at the horse's speed despite having run so many times already, showing its remarkable stamina.
Something Domeric had been counting on, Ned realized, looking to see Loras' mare could not match the pace of the warhorse.
Domeric was holding his lance in a still grip as he urged his warhorse to go faster. In the last second, he shifted his lance, so instead of hitting Loras' chest plate the tip smashed into his ornamented helm. The speed behind the destrier and the force behind the hit shattered the lance and sent the Knight of Flowers tumbling into the dirt in an armored heap.
The crowd which had been expecting a victory for the Knight of Flowers after witnessing the first two rounds was stunned as they watched their beloved knight hit the ground-hard. That disbelief quickly gave way to cheers and applause and chants of Dread Knight.
Ned wasn't sure anyone was clapping louder than Sansa, who had jumped to her feet upon seeing Domeric knock Loras off his horse.
Domeric dropped his broken lance and looking in their direction, moved his hand to where Sansa's favor had been knotted to his arm. He then removed his helm and saluted the king when he arrived to the front of the royal pavilion.
Ned watched anxiously, eyes on his friend. The king who had not been pleased at his armor, but Ned silently hoped, that Robert's displeasure and anger would not be taken out on an innocent Domeric or to be voiced in front of the crowd.
"Your champion," Robert bellowed. His tone came out loud and a bit harsh. He wasn't smiling or clapping as the crowd did when he announced Domeric the victor. He looked down at him with a stony expression.
Domeric, who was oblivious to the king's reaction smiled and thanked him as he was given his victory purse of forty thousand gold dragons. He was then given a wreath of golden roses to serve as his crown for him to name his Queen of Love and Beauty.
It was that decision that seemed to have the crowd's interest as they murmured to one another. Domeric holding the garland of roses urged his horse forward.
Let the gods be good, Ned found himself thinking. He felt a chill of apprehension crawl up his back at the fleeting thought of Domeric spurning his daughter for someone else. It immediately brought a feeling of guilt to his gut.
If Rhaegar could pass his wife then is it not fair to suspect what another man may do? A small voice whispered to him.
It wasn't until Ned felt a shadow did he look to see Domeric had stopped in front of them. He had eyes only for Sansa. Seeing his daughter's face and the look he gave her. He should've known it was folly to expect Domeric to choose anyone else. It was foolish of him to doubt Domeric's devotion to Ned's eldest daughter.
Sansa who had been standing dipped her head to allow Domeric to crown her with the laurels of golden roses. When she raised her head she flashed Domeric a dazzling smile, her cheeks red, but her eyes shined bright. She was glowing.
The crowd's reaction was boisterous, hollering and clapping at the display. Ned was certain that neither of them were even aware of the crowd's response as their attention was solely fixed on one another as they shared an intimate silence between them.
Pleased, to see his daughter look so happy, Ned found the strength to ignore the pain that had stemmed from Harrenhal and in that moment, he allowed himself a small, but proud smile for his daughter, the newly crowned Queen of Love and Beauty.
The feast to conclude the Tournament of the Hand was a grand affair. Extravagant and expensive given the troupes of performers that had been brought in, the numerous courses presented to the guests, and all of the gild and opulence that seemed to cover every table and piece of cloth that served as decorations.
At the center of the dancing was his daughter, Sansa who was enjoying herself, laughing while she twirled in Domeric's arms; swirls of blue silk and red lace trailing behind from her dress. She was still wearing the crown of gold roses that Domeric had given her. The flowers nestled atop her long, curling auburn hair. She was beautiful and happy. Domeric had picked a black doublet with red trimming while the sleeves had the flayed man stitched onto them. On his right arm was Sansa's green favor.
Ned smiled from his seat. Sipping his black beer and seeing how his daughter interacted with her betrothed. He couldn't help but feel foolish for doubting Domeric's intentions of crowning someone else.
He sighed, at the guilt that festered in his gut for those misleading thoughts. Ned had seen the two of them together nearly three years now, two at Winterfell, and these past few months at the capital. He knew soon they'd be sitting at the high table at Winterfell enjoying their own wedding feast.
Winterfell, he was ready to return home. To hold and kiss Cat in his arms, to watch Robb in the practice yard, to be with Rickon, his youngest who he feared may see him as a stranger the longer he stayed in the capital. He wanted to see Bran, to see his son with his eyes and to see how he was coping with his fall.
The wedding of Sansa to Domeric gave Ned the opportunity he needed. It was the perfect excuse for him to return to Winterfell to honor the betrothal agreement between him and Lord Bolton and to see their children to be married. There he could get council from those he trusted, wise Maester Luwin, sensible Ser Roderick, and Cat, whose voice he relied on so often as he ruled Winterfell. He could not think of any other he had wanted or needed by his side besides Cat.
He could tell them what little he learned and of his suspicions from the safety of his family's ancestral seat. Ned wouldn't have to worry about Lannister retribution north of the neck. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he needed to make arrangements to prepare for his departure.
It was time for him to go home. It was time for Sansa to marry.
Ned looked out onto the dancing, his grey eyes searching for his daughter. He found her, smiling and breathless as she and Domeric had just finished an up tempo dance. It was then that they were interrupted by the arrival of Lord Renly Baratheon and his niece, the Princess Myrcella. It looked as if Renly was asking Sansa to a dance. She had taken his interruption with a polite smile and acquiesced to the Lord of Storm's End request.
Domeric was frowning. He was ready to retreat from the dancing before the Princess took his arm with her hand and had them following her Uncle Renly. Domeric looked to have declined her, but Myrcella seemed too stubborn to accept.
Good, Ned thought about the Princess. She'll need that stubbornness and confidence when she goes north to Winterfell. Ned knew how the northern lords could respond to another southern lady being the Lady of Winterfell. She'd need her stubbornness and charm to get through to them and if she could get Domeric to dance with her, then Ned thought she was off to a promising start.
His eyes drifted back towards his daughter. Robb had been born out of duty from his marriage to Cat. Not Sansa, she had been born out of the love that had blossomed between him and his wife.
She was a child of that new formed love. For that, she would always hold a special place in his heart.
Robb had been nearly a year when he looked upon his son and heir for the first time, but Sansa had only been a few hours old. Her wisps of auburn hair, pale, soft skin, Ned had cradled her in his arms sitting next to Cat who had been resting and recovering from the ordeal. He could still remember the warmth that filled him when he saw Sansa's eyes look to him for the very first time.
Sansa's sudden presence brought Ned back to the present. No longer was he holding his young daughter as a babe, but looking at a young woman who took the seat beside him. Her face was flushed from dancing, and Ned suspected wine too.
"Where's Domeric?"
"Getting us drinks," she answered, out of breath, her eyes bright and she was smiling.
"You look happy," Ned observed of his eldest daughter.
"I am happy," her dainty fingers were gently brushing up against one of the golden rose petals from her crown. "Happier than I've ever been!"
"Good," He returned her smile.
In his mind's eye, another Stark girl sat before him, beautiful and willful, with long, dark hair and atop her head rested a garland of blue, winter roses. Lyanna looked to him, eyes sad, but determined: Promise me, Ned.
His smile dipped.
The ghosts of Harrenhal descended upon him. This tournament was trudging up thoughts and memories that he had long since buried. The shade of Lyanna and her laurel of winter roses slipped back in the dark crevices of his mind.
He was back in the present. Sansa was with him, replacing the ghost of his sister. A garland of golden roses rested atop her auburn curls. She was practically glowing, as her eyes viewed the dancing that was going on in front of them. Her glances often went astray searching for her betrothed through the crowd of nobles who were drinking and laughing among themselves.
"We'll be going home soon," he said quietly.
Sansa turned to him. She looked as if she hadn't quite heard him.
"I'll be making the preparations soon," he told her, "I'll be talking to Vayon and speaking with Robert in the morning."
"When do you think we'll leave, Father?" She asked hopefully.
"I still have letters to write to the Dreadfort and to Winterfell," he admitted, "but within a few weeks if possible."
"That would be wonderful!" Sansa brightened. "I miss them and home." Her tone had more then just a shade of wistfulness to it.
"You know what that means," he said softly. He was pleased to see she wanted to return and reunite with her family and Winterfell, but there was a bigger reason for why they would leave the capital. "We go north to fulfill our betrothal agreement with House Bolton."
"I am ready to be the next Lady of the Dreadfort." Sansa answered without hesitation."I care for him, Father. I want this." Her fingers returning to her crown of golden laurels. "I love him."
"Good," Ned gently patted her arm that was resting beside him. "I'm proud of the young woman you've become, Sansa."
"Thank you, Father." Her face flushed with his praise. "Will the Princess be traveling with us?"
"I'm not certain," he answered honestly. That was one of the reasons why he needed to speak with Robert. "What do you think of her?"
"She'll make Robb happy," Sansa's tone conveying her approval of that. Her eyes went to the Princess who was currently dancing with her Uncle, Lord Renly. "But I'm not certain the north can make her happy."
"What do you mean?" He was curious with Sansa's thoughts on the Princess since she had spent so much time with her.
"Her roots to the south go deep. She has a heart for tournaments and feasts." Sansa gestured to the dancing Princess and the spectacle that enveloped the area of these lavish festivities. "But I once felt the same," she admitted softly, "and I learned and so can she."
"She'll learn," He was certain. The Princess would have Cat to help teach her and guide her to what is expected of the Lady of Winterfell.
"She must," Sansa said, "because winter is coming."
"We'll be ready for it when it comes," He assured her. Once more pleased, and proud of the young woman who sat beside him. She had grown these past few years. Seeing her wisdom and maturity, Ned knew that the Dreadfort would be blessed and thankful to have her as their Lady when Winter arrived.
He'd miss her, but he knew he needed to let her go. Soon, his role of providing and protecting her would pass to another, to Domeric. She'd always be his daughter, but it was time for her to start her own family, and to strengthen their pack.
"Father?" Sansa asked, "They say Lord Renly looks a lot like the King when he was younger."
"Aye," Ned turned to see that Sansa was watching the Lord of Storm's End dancing with Princess Myrcella with a pensive look.
He remembered seeing Renly again for the first time in years on their journey south to the capital. He had looked just like Robert it had been frightening. He was not as muscled or as tall, but the eyes, the face, the hair. There was no mistaking it the striking resemblance.
"Why do you mention it?"
"It just seems strange, Father," she said reluctantly.
"Strange?" Ned frowned, "How so?"
"Yes," she looked to be choosing her words carefully. "While Renly looks just like his brother, a stag, a Baratheon, but none of the king's kids look like him. They all look like lions."
He was surprised by the insight in his daughter's words, and could not help but agree with them. However, wasn't it normal for children to sometimes favor one parent in looks? All of his children with Cat except for Arya favored her family with their Tully coloring of auburn hair and blue eyes. Mayhaps, the Lannister coloring was more dominant then the Baratheons.
"Oh no," Sansa's words caught his attention.
He turned and regarded his daughter to see her eyes had hardened and her mouth curled angrily. Surprised by the sudden shift in his daughter's demeanor; he turned to see what had caused them. Ned instantly understood her reaction when he spotted the Crown Prince Joffrey standing in Domeric's way.
The heir to the Dreadfort was carrying two drinks, but Joffrey had been quick to swipe one away.
"A warrior and a servant," he said to the onlookers, as they tittered nervously at the Prince's jest. Joffrey then drank from the goblet, smacking his lips when he finished. "That was quite good. I'll have another." He took the second and drank from it too.
"I live to serve, my prince," Domeric said stiffly.
"Good, then mayhaps you should serve me and my guests more wine." Joffrey decided.
"Now, now nephew," Renly appeared standing between the two young men. "That's not anyway to treat the tourney champion," he put his hand on Domeric's shoulder, and murmurs of agreement rippled around them.
"Forgive my young nephew, Lord Domeric," Renly announced to the curious crowd of nobles, "He's had too much to drink, I fear."
Seeing them side by side, Ned could only agree with his daughter's observation. There were no similarities at all between Renly and Joffrey. They looked more strangers then kin. He felt something tug at the back of his mind, as if trying to tell him the importance of this detail.
"I think some water, bread, and a tonic from the Grand Maester before bed may be the proper cure," Renly ignored his nephew's glare. "Trust me, I speak from experience," he added the last part with a wink and a smile that earned laughter from those that had been watching.
A pair of guards draped in the Baratheon colors appeared at the Prince's side. Joffrey looked at them with anger and disgust and refused their assistance when he stormed off.
"Make sure my nephew finds his chambers," Renly instructed the guards, who bowed and left to follow behind the Crown Prince. "Go Domeric, do not mingle with us when you have a lovely lady waiting for you," he clapped Domeric on the back, "I'll have a servant come to your table with more wine."
"Are you alright, Dom?" Sansa asked, eyes shimmering in concern when Domeric moved to take the seat next to her.
"Yes, I'm fine," he assured her, "Just enjoying the Prince's hospitality."
"You handled him well, Domeric," Ned told him, impressed at how he was able to stay calm. A trait Ned knew he had inherited from his father, The Lord of the Dreadfort.
He had heard of a recent altercation between the Crown Prince and Domeric, and had been pleased that his future good son had been able to dissolve the tension without it escalating. To think, Robert had wanted Ned to betroth his daughter to Joffrey. He shook his head not wanting to dwell on that possibility of Sansa being tied to such a mean spirited and spoiled young man.
No, he had been wise to decline that offer. Even if Sansa had not already been promised to Domeric and he had to choose between them: his daughter's happiness or the prestige that came with marrying into royalty. He would choose her happiness. He wanted her to have a good, supportive husband. He was thankful that he had found one for her with Domeric.
"Thank you, Lord Stark," he nodded. "But enough talk of tiresome princes," Domeric drank from his glass, "When I have better things that require my attention." He smiled, extending his hand to Sansa, "like my beautiful betrothed."
His smile turned sheepish as if just remembering Ned's presence, "With your permission of course, Lord Stark."
Ned smiled at the two of them, "You have it."
"Thank you, Father," Sansa clasped her hand to Domeric's as he led them back to the dancing.
Tonight, Ned had decided that he'd enjoy his daughter's happiness and the bright future that awaited her in the north.
While tomorrow he'd continue his investigation up until he leaves the capital in a few weeks to return to Winterfell. If he were to discover the circumstances that led to Lord Arryn's death or perhaps crucial evidence to implicate the Lannisters he'd be able to go home. Ned would take that knowledge with him back to the north and he could plan accordingly in the company of his allies and most trusted advisers.
And from there only the gods would know what would come next.