wtr-draft

by Hankton

unedited draft

2. adreadfultime1

Nov 19, 2019

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#1

Chapter 1: In the House of my Father

My first conscious memory was of dressing, that is, being dressed. The servant girl's hands were busy lacing up the sleeves on my top, my...my doublet I think it was called. The word seemed right. I'd heard it before.

"Come along, Dom, his lordship is waiting for you," she said.

I stared up at her, uncomprehending. Dom. Is that my name? Why can't I remember? Well, I didn't have the energy or inclination to argue, and she seemed to know what we should be doing, so I took her hand and let myself be led down the dimly-lit corridor.

Another memory, I was eating porridge sweetened with cream and honey in a huge smoky hall that to my eyes was like a stone stadium. Taste, tastes were easier to remember. They left a definite mark, something that went deep and stayed with you. Eating was how I started to remember who I was, before.

The food was good at least. Fresh baked bread and freshly slaughtered meat every day, all local, organic, more organic than organic, the kind of experience rich people in the old world would pay big money for. We could even afford some pepper in our stew so I couldn't complain about blandness either.

One day at table I was nibbling on some cheese and had a thought: this would be good on a pizza. Pizza. Pizza? What's that? I thought on it for a good long while, trying to match a taste to the nonsense word that popped into my head. It didn't happen all at once, weeks or months I couldn't say. My perception of time was that of a child; everything took forever.

But sure enough, like a dream that still seemed real a few minutes after waking but vanished in the light of the dawn, the fog receded and my ego reasserted itself. I was not always Domeric Bolton.

This didn't bother me nearly so much as you might think, in fact it didn't bother me at all, strange as it sounds. I was Domeric Bolton. There was no psychological whiplash, no dysphoria, and mercifully no emotional connection to my old memories. My loved ones were just vaguely remembered smoky images, nothing to grieve over, and moreover I couldn't remember too many details in any case.

I was excited to tell it true. This was a new world to explore, and what a world! Even if I could remember technological details from my past life, which I couldn't, there would be precious little I could really improve. The skill level of the artisans here exceeded anything you could find on twenty first century Earth. The stonework of the Dreadfort would put a Gothic cathedral to shame. The tailoring of my clothing, the comfort, the fit, there was nothing to compare it to, and my child's clothes were nothing to what the adults wore. This was the dour, practical North, what might the fashionable south wear? No descriptions, no matter how well done, would suffice; I wanted to see. I had to know!

As for myself and what I've seen so far, I wouldn't even know how to begin to describe it. The best I can manage is this world is without budget constraints. Imagine a castle, continuously inhabited and gradually improved on for thousands of years. That was the Dreadfort, a sprawling stronghold, easy to get lost in, and not even notably imposing by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms. I could only imagine what the far-famed castles of this world looked like.

Of course, high quality goods such as I enjoyed were all custom made by the hands of men who spent a lifetime mastering their craft, and expensive enough to only be available to the nobilty. I counted myself fortunate for my position. The peasants had to content themselves with much less and worse. Being born poor here would be unpleasant indeed.

As my understanding expanded my perception of the rhythm of life improved. I become conscious of the day to day. There were meals, all life revolved around them when you really got down to it. Taken either in the great hall or my father's solar, they were the only time I reliably saw my parents. Had I not recovered my memories, I might've mistaken my nursemaid for my mother. She was always chattering about about this or that while I trailed after her, dressing me, playing with me, and so on. It was well that I was not yet conscious of myself when it was still necessary for her to feed me. That would've been mortifying.

Today's evening meal was in the great hall, more like a military mess hall than anything else, where my father's soldiers ate on rows and rows of benches and we presided on a high table above the salt. That wasn't an everyday thing, though, only for special occasions.

Of course when I say "we presided" I really mean my father, Roose Bolton himself. The man reminded me of nothing so much as Dracula as played by Christopher Lee, a creepy old vampire, but with a certain grandeur and dignity about him that could cow lesser men with a look. He didn't look at me much, and thank goodness for that. I was a quiet boy, and well-behaved. As far as I can remember, the first Domeric had been much the same, so nothing was taken amiss.

Mother was quiet too. She visited me sometimes, but we never really developed much of a natural relationship. She might've been pretty at one point, but looked older than Roose despite being ten years younger. I noticed she was pregnant again, and pale, and tired looking. I didn't have a lot of hope for any trueborn siblings.

As it happens, we were eating roast capons, something I never had in the old world, and they were good. I tried to eat well, drinking milk at every meal and eating vegetables whenever they were served. Never was there a boy who ate his greens half so diligently as I. I can't remember what my old face looked like but I remember I was thick and powerfully built, a far cry from the skinny boy I was at present. I exercised as well, playing rough games with the children of my father's men, games like monsters and maidens (I was always the monster) and Valyrian wrestling, where grabbing the legs was against the rules (dragon tailing, it was called, and you'd have to restart from a penalty position if you got caught doing it twice). As skinny as I was, I was long limbed and wiry strong, winning more often than not against boys around my age.

"Domeric," my father said softly.

I stopped chewing and gave him my full immediate attention. He rarely addressed me directly.

"You have seen six name days now," he continued. "It's past time to begin your education. On the morrow, after breaking your fast you will report to Gregor in the yard for training at arms."

"Yes, father," I replied respectfully. Finally, something interesting to do!

"And after the midday meal you will see Maester Tybald and learn your letters. You are the heir to the Dreadfort, Domeric; I expect you to do well."

"Of course, father." Perhaps I spoke to soon about the dysphoria. Just then, I sounded all of my six years, a boy excited about his first day of school. The person I was before might as well have never existed.

Father favored me with a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. He almost seemed human. "I believe you will do us proud."

Mother's smile was a deal warmer, but she didn't speak. She hardly ever spoke in father's presence.

I got out of bed groggy, having been too keyed up to get much sleep. Breakfast was tortuous and I was only able to force down a few bites, but father eventually dismissed me.

Gregor, just Gregor, for we had no knights at the Dreadfort, sent me to the armory with a wave of his hand as I approached. A squire helped me into a padded gambeson with a leather helmet and handed me a wooden sword and shield. They were heavier than they looked, but I stronger than I looked.

"Right, boy," Gregor said, "stand with your feet apart, no, like this," he adjusted me. "And grip your sword like so. Now, give me a slash." He held his shield expectantly, so I let him have it.

"Hm," he gave no indication whether that was good or bad. "Again."

He spent about an hour running me through the basic movements, how to attack, how to defend, how to move my feet. The more I practiced the more familiar it felt. This is just like boxing, I thought. My body started to remember movements it had never made. I had been an amateur boxer once, and the essence of Westerosi swordplay was much the same. It was footwork, angles, range, timing, getting around your opponent's guard, and it made sense.

Gregor ran me through increasingly elaborate drills, admonishing me to keep my shield up and not let my footwork get sloppy in a prolonged exchange. I lost myself for a time.

"Enough," Gregor said. "Take a short rest."

All at once I felt cold as I realized I was soaked with sweat. This was spring, and winter's grip was only just loosening on the land. It hadn't been a particularly long or hard winter, but it kept me inside much of the time. I warmed myself at a fire and dried off with a rag before returning to the yard.

"Right. Let's see you against a real opponent." He gestured to Watt, a big boy two years my senior, the son of one of father's men at arms. Gregor whispered something in his ear. I hoped it wasn't "go easy on him".

All the men and boys in the yard paused to watch. "Begin!"

Our first clash of swords told me he wasn't going easy, more like the opposite. I immediately realized he was a lot stronger than I was and circled away, trying to get some room to breathe, but it didn't work so well.

Everywhere I went he followed, his longer legs allowing him to quickly close the distance. He eventually cornered me and rained a relentless series of blows down on my shield. This couldn't last, my arm was going numb. I had to get him off me!

He was bigger, but I was faster, and you're never so open and vulnerable as when you extend in attack, and Watt was more extended than most, thinking me already beaten. The very next time he slashed down at my shield I uncorked a vicious counterstrike and struck him in the elbow. He cried out in pain but I didn't let up, following with a backhanded blow that slammed into his leather helmet with all the force I could muster.

Watt crumpled to the ground.

"Stop!"

Gregor didn't need to tell me that. Watt was whimpering like the little boy he really was and I was starting to feel a little bad for him, well, as bad as you can feel for somebody that was trying to beat you bloody half a moment past.

"That will be all for today," Gregor decided. "You may go."

All eyes followed me as I exited the yard. "Gods..." I heard one man mutter.

"...and those are the letters that we use to spell the common tongue."

Maester Tybald was a fairly young man, with red hair and an accent I could not yet place. All I could tell for certain was that he wasn't from around here. Conscious of my conspicuous performance in the yard I did my best to sandbag the lesson. From what I could tell letters and numbers and even spelling conventions all carried over to this world from the old, so I was in for a deal of boredom as I playacted illiteracy.

Heraldry was new to me, though, and it was in pictures! There were funny terms like "bar sinister" and "rampant" that meant really specific things, and I made sure to pay attention. These funny little flags were the difference between being captured alive and killed out of hand. The focus was not only on the major houses of the North but also the small ones sworn to the Dreadfort, families like Harrow, Carrow, Furrow, Woodrow, Hedge, Heath, Clod, Barret, and Grim, names I'd have to know if I was to lead some day.

"Fine progress today, Domeric. Once you've got a good grasp on your letters we'll move on to sums and reading simple passages. If you keep this up I'll have you reading High Valyrian histories in a year! Now go on, there's a good lad. I'll see you on the morrow."

And so it proved. In only a few turns of the moon we had gotten to material that was new, genuinely new, that I couldn't master in a single afternoon. The Maesters of the Citadel kept good records, so we had several thousand years of detailed history to work through. At my insistence, Tybald demonstrated just how far mathematical knowledge went at the Citadel, and it was kind of intimidating. Valyrian trigonometry was heavy stuff without a calculator, let me tell you! They had models for energy transmitted from water wheels and heat efficiency in forges. They probably could create their own industrial revolution right now based on existing knowledge, and for a moment, a long moment, I was tempted.

Ultimately, I didn't have enough time. My birth year was 280 AC, one of the first things I checked when we got to astronomy and how calendars worked. My information was fuzzy, but I was pretty sure things would go pear shaped around the year 300 or a little before. I'd barely be an adult by then, and Roose really wasn't the kind of guy to countenance his only trueborn son taking up the life of an inventor. No, better to focus on getting good at fighting and making friends with guys who were also good at fighting.

Speaking of which, I overhead Gregor telling my father that I was the best natural swordsman he'd ever seen. That would've gone to my head if I was just another boy, but I really wasn't.

The experience from my first life helped, it's true, but the thing that really made the difference, and it shames me to admit it, is Domeric Bolton was two or even three times the natural athlete I ever was in my old life. Balance, reaction time, quickness, hand eye coordination, I had them all. Things just came easier to me. Defeating Watt wasn't a fluke at all; nobody around my age could touch me. Gregor had to match me against older pages and younger squires, some who were already well into puberty, to give me a decent workout.

Horsemanship and the lance went just as well. I progressed from being led around on a pony, to riding by myself, to riding at rings, to tilting at quintains (jousting dummies) in about a year. I put special effort into getting good at this stuff because Westeros is a jockworld of the first order. Your skill in the lists did a lot to determine your relative social standing. We made a guy who was good at hitting people with hammers king after all!

When full summer broke out I rode every day. I raced other boys, accompanied my father on hunts, and just explored the surrounding countryside.

The lands along the Weeping Water, my family's lands, were more densely populated than you might imagine, with a new crofter's village every hour or so no matter what direction you rode in. I wasn't allowed to stray farther than half a day's ride from the Dreadfort, but that was more than enough for now. With the summer sun shining down, it was a beautiful green land, with clean, crisp air, sweet water, and friendly (or fearful) people.

We visited other noble families from time to time when father had business with one of them, the Hornwoods quite a lot, the Umbers a few times a year, and White Harbor once. Father was arranging to sell wool through there, he said. The mouth of the Weeping Water wasn't really an ideal port, and ships rarely stopped there, or so Maester Tybald told me.

Father went to Winterfel a few times too, but never took me. He didn't tell me why, a hands off parent, was my father.

Until one day, he summoned me to his solar when I was about to go on a ride. Oh no, he's about to discipline me for being too friendly with the smallfolk, I thought. It was true, I greeted everyone I met in the countryside warmly, and didn't maintain that "appropriate distance" that my father liked to create with everyone around him.

"Enter," he called out just when I was about to knock, creepy old man.

But he wasn't old, early middle age, if that. People lived hard here; even rich men were lined with age before their time, but not my father.

"Domeric," he said without ceremony, "pack your things."

"We going somewhere, father?" I asked cheerily, pleased that this wasn't about what I thought it was about.

"You are," he replied, and let the silence linger. And linger. And linger.

I'm nine and have no patience. "Where?" I blurted out after about a minute. He enjoys this, I swear.

"You are to serve as a page to your Aunt Barbrey in Barrowton. Walton and your mother will accompany you. She wishes to visit with her sister," he said evenly.

"The Barrowlands are good, open country, with plenty of hunting and fine horses, and you'll be able to see your Ryswell cousins often enough. Show them what a fine boy you are and return to me a man."

Fan Fiction: A Dreadful Time (ASOIAF Domeric Bolton SI)

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Macho9

Nov 19, 2019

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Macho9

Nov 22, 2019

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#29

Chapter 2: Cool Wine Aunt

The further we got from the Dreadfort the more talkative mother became.

"...Barbrey was always the wicked one, the things she got up to with Brandon Stark...but that's not for young ears."

Stark? I wonder if there's a story there. "But mother," I complained petulantly.

"Not until you're older, Dom," she said firmly. "Walton, how much further do you think?"

"Evenfall, my lady, or a little after. We'll be feasting in Barrow Hall this night, I vow," rumbled Walton, the man they called Steelshanks.

Steelshanks was the captain of my father's guards, a stout fighter and uncommonly well equipped, for he had plate where most Northmen had only ringmail. Walton only spoke when spoken to, a trait common in my father's men.

I tried to be friendly. He would be my man someday after all, but it was no good. Father had likely warned him about my tendency towards familiarity. He wouldn't even talk about horses.

At the Dreadfort I said little and listened more, and horse talk was a guaranteed ice breaker with any man richer than a dung gatherer. Coursers, destriers, palfreys, I loved them all. The breeding, trading, and training of fine horseflesh was the respectable pastime for the highborn.

Our party of five (which included two guards Walton had brought with him for a little extra security) traveled with 15 horses, mounts and remounts for the whole party plus a few baggage horses and a prize stallion that was to be a gift to my aunt, breeding stock for her herds.

"How about that red stallion, Steelshanks? A fine animal, wouldn't you say?" I said as we were galloping over the Sheepshead Hills.

"A fine animal, young lord," Steelshanks agreed, and said no more.

"He had a good sire, didn't he? One of my father's old favorites," I said as we were crossing the White Knife.

"One of his favorites, young lord," Steelshanks repeated after me.

That was when I gave up and started focusing on mother.

It was a week to the Barrowlands if we rode hard all day. The Sheepshead Hills were rough country and father didn't want us passing by Winterfel. It was almost as if he was hiding something from the Starks, couldn't imagine what. But the man didn't want Lord Eddard to ever have cause to look towards the Weeping Water, of that I was sure.

My usual practice was to ride near the head of the column whenever I was traveling with father, but on the morning of the third day I fell in alongside my mother at the rear. She smiled at me, but said nothing.

"So that's why they call them the Sheepshead Hills," I said.

She smiled again. Say something, damn you! I'm going mad! It'd been nothing but long leagues of empty nothing since we'd left the Bolton lands yesterday, and no one was talking! Riding one day is near complete silence was fine, even relaxing, another day manageable, but by the third I was just about near my 9 year old limit of good and orderly behavior before I did something rash.

My obvious distress must've triggered her maternal instincts, because she spoke up.

"Oh, yes, your father has large flocks he grazes there, along with the Hornwoods. It's where most of our cash comes from, but that wouldn't be interesting to a boy," she finished in a small voice, like moving her mouth was a painful, unfamiliar movement and she wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, but I wasn't about to let her!

"No, no, please continue. Our cash comes from the sheep? How so?"

She looked thoughtful for a minute. "We don't raise much grain, just enough to feed ourselves in good years, but the wool profits allow us to make up the difference in bad ones."

That actually sounded like something the future lord of the Dreadfort should know, should've been told. "Where do we sell it?" I pressed. "White Harbor?" I could've sworn father said something about wool when we visited White Harbor that one time.

Mother looked small for a second and wilted in her saddle. "Yes," she muttered, and said no more.

What did he do to you, mother? I wondered. I tried to leave her alone for a time but the midday tedium started eating at me after another hour or two and I spoke again.

"And father mislikes that we have to sell our wool through White Harbor?" I asked brazenly.

She stared at me for a long moment. "Aye," she said eventually.

"Why?" I asked childishly.

"There's no safe anchorage at the mouth of the Weeping Water, or at Ramsgate. We sheer the sheep at the Dreadfort and haul the wool in wains along the coast. The way through the Hornwood is too difficult. It's slow and expensive, and the Manderlys take a portion of all the goods sold through White Harbor. Your father doesn't like having to rely on other houses for such a large share of his income."

She exhaled deeply. That was definitely something I wasn't supposed to hear, and like a spell being broken, she spoke more freely after that.

"Barbrey will adore you, Dom," she said merrily over our evening cookfire five days into the journey.

"What makes you say so, mother?" I asked.

"My sister never had a son, but always wanted one. When we were girls she hoped to marry Brandon Stark, but he was promised to another. She was married to Willam Dustin for a time, and said she was happy with him. I don't doubt her; Willam seemed a good man the few times I met him. He died in the war, though. Barbrey had her heart broken twice, and never considered any suitors after that. I think having a boy of her own blood running through her hall is just what she needs."

"And you, mother? What do you need?"

"You're all I need, Domeric."She gazed at me lovingly.

That's sad, I thought. The Domeric who was always Domeric might not have understood, but the Domeric who was not always Domeric understood all too well. She considers all the pain and hardship she's gone through in her life worth it, because she's got me. I'm nobody special.

For the first time since I realized where I was, I felt a real emotional connection with someone in this world. I'd protect her if I could.

"So, what did Stark and Aunt Barbrey get up to again?" I needled her. She'd break eventually.

"Not now," mother said more harshly than I would've imagined possible only a few days past. "Look! You can ask her yourself soon enough."

There were riders in the distance. My eyesight was pretty good and I spied crossed axes on their standard. Dustin men for true. Steelshanks urged us on to meet them.

"Hail," one of them greeted us. "The Lady Barbrey bids you welcome. Meat and mead are already prepared at Barrow Hall for your arrival. By your leave, we'll escort you the rest of the way."

"Granted," said my mother magnanimously.

"It's only a short ride from here, this way," the Dustin man indicated a well worn path.

Barrowton was decidedly less impressive than the Dreadfort, I decided. All of wood save for a squat stone keep commanding a hill on the far side.

The streets were narrow grass paths and few houses had lanthorns lit. There was just a bit of daylight left to guide us but if we'd been an hour slower we'd probably have to lead the horses through on foot. There was a pleasant breeze blowing from the Barrow River, and it didn't carry much stink, either. The river washed away most of the shit, I supposed.

Barrow Hall was well lit, with fires crackling merrily in many a brazier. A serving girl showed me to my chambers and I made haste to change out of my dusty riding leathers. I decided on my good pink doublet (Bolton colors, don't you know?) and left in search of food.

The steward found me quick enough and assigned me to a seat at the high table, but I didn't sit down just yet. Feasts didn't properly start until the lord or lady of the castle gave their leave.

"The Lady Barbrey Dustin!" a herald announced, and all turned toward her as she entered, walking and talking with mother. The hall was smoky so I couldn't make her out too well, but she was tall and her long legs carried right to the high seat to my left. She looked down at me with a neutral expression that made me feel quite small. She was pretty, in a stuck up sort of way.

"Polite boy, aren't you?" she asked. "Your son knows his courtesies, Bethany, I'll give you that, knows not to sit and start eating until he's been told. That's rare enough in a child of his age. You should see how wild Roger and Rickard's boys are. I had half a mind to feed them with the pigs last time they visited. Well, I won't make you wait any longer."

She eased into her chair. "You know what to do then, Domeric?"

"Cut your meat, pour your wine," I replied simply.

"Well, get to it!" She gave a wave of her hand and everyone sat down.

In a traditional feast like this, it was the custom for every man at table to serve the lady to his left, offering her the best portion first and only accepting what she declined. Not terribly complicated stuff, but this was more of a Southron thing, this formality. Feasts at the Dreadfort were orderly I'll grant, but simpler. You were there to eat, not act out elaborate rituals.

I carved off a bloody hunk of ox with the knife I kept on my belt and placed it before her. Mother was being served by Steelshanks and I thought I could hear her whispering to him what to do.

Aunt Barbrey smiled at his discomfort. "Where did you learn your courtesies, nephew?"

"Maester Tybald," I said.

She made a nasty face. "We have no gray rats in Barrowton. Boys have no need of maesters to learn their courtesies. They have aunts for that."

"And my education?" I asked, nonplussed. Maester Tybald was only just getting into really useful stuff when we left, advanced Valyrian grammar, architecture, economics, military theory, things I could really use.

"Has been sorely lacking," Barbrey finished for me. "Now don't make that face. I've had letters from your father. You can read, do sums, ride a horse, and swing a sword better than most boys your age. Well and good, but what you really need is some polish. Can you sing, Domeric?"

"Sing?" I squeeked.

"Yes, sing. I have a fine music master here. You'll learn to sing, dance, play the high harp, and more. Have you any High Valyrian?"

"Some," I admitted.

"Good. You'll continue with that as well as Myrish and Braavosi. I intend to make a proper cultured young man out of you, somebody old Roose will be proud to show the world, mayhaps even send to court. Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time for riding and fighting. And service."

I don't like the sound of that. "Service?"

"Aye, service. All men must serve. I have need of a new page. You'll run my messages, attend me at court and at table, and just do whatever I tell you, generally. It's time you learn what life is really all about. Think you can do all that?"

"I suppose we'll find out," I replied flippantly.

She laughed. "Oh, Bethany, are you quite sure this one is Roose Bolton's get?"

The first music lesson went better than I had any right to expect, turns out I had a fine singing voice, despite going a whole lifetime without any musical talent whatsoever. Like so many things, it was different as Domeric.

The only problem was once I got good enough, I was no longer the student, but the entertainment. Aunt Barbrey had me sing for her and her ladies every day, in that embarrassingly high ten year old boy voice. It was mortifying. I even started writing my own material, cobbled together with half remembered melodies from songs I heard a lifetime ago and lyrics that made more sense in Westeros. My rendition of The Sound of Silence brought them to tears!

It was funny, the things I remembered. In general, the younger I experienced something, the deeper the emotional or animal connection, the clearer it was. Music my parents, my first parents that is, played for me, that I could usually recreate after a fashion, but nothing from my adulthood.

After a few months I gave up the harp for the lute, which suited my style more. Barbrey thought me something of a music genius, but I thought this was all a gigantic waste of time. Of course, it wasn't up to me.

It turned out a page is basically a gofer. She had me running errands all the time, buying a new horse, taking a letter to an out of the way holdfast (no Maester, remember?) and even acting as a secretary when she held court. It was a full time job, but I still had time to keep up with my military training.

The horseflesh of the Barrowlands and adjoining Rills were the best in the North. I rode everywhere and practiced lance accuracy daily, spitting rabbits and such on a spear she'd given me for my name day.

Hunting was a way of life. I went hunting with my Ryswell cousins (Roger and Rickard's boys, Roose's were too young) just about every week. They were wild. It was a strange kind of whiplash, with Aunt Barbrey trying to culture me and the Ryswells trying to turn me into a wildling. I remember my first boar hunt well.

"Ha! The bays have him cornered. Release the catch hounds!" commanded Robar, one of Roger's boys, or Rickard's, I could never keep it straight. If the Ryswells wanted me to remember their names they should've been more creative in the naming.

Alvar the kennel master hastened to obey, letting go of the big boys, the monster dogs we used not to run down the boar, but to bite and hold him for us. They didn't need to be told what to do, going quite mad as soon as they heard the pig's squeals. I doubt Alvar could've held them back a moment longer.

"This is your first Boar with us, Dom," said Ryger, who was brother to Robar. "You should do it." He handed me a boar spear.

I took it in hand, dismounted and approached. The boar wasn't huge, a juvenile male that got separated from his sounder, most likely, an appropriate quarry for a ten year old boy's first kill.

The poor animal struggled mightily and squealed pathetically, but the catch dogs were just too strong. Once they bit into something, they did not let go until it was dead.

If this sounds cruel, it is. I arrived at a terrible realization as I approached my victim, spear in hand. This wasn't for food. It wasn't even for fun. It was to harden the hearts of boys like me. Pigs are the closest animal to men when you get right down to it. They're big and fleshy like men. They bleed and scream like men. It's easy to tell when they're in pain and afraid. Someday, I'm going to have to kill men, and this will be the first step.

"One clean thrust, Dom, just like we showed you!" Robar cheered me on.

One clean thrust. I forced myself to look into the animal's eyes and pressed home. The creature made a terrible sound for half a moment, then shuddered and died, held down by the catch hound's jaws.

Next thing I remember my cousins were all around me, patting me on the back and saying what a fine thrust I'd made, how they'd never seen a better first try. I smiled back with good grace, feeling terribly guilty on the inside. The method worked though, after a few more hunts I could kill without feeling anything at all.

It wasn't long before I felt more at home at Barrow Hall than I ever had at the Dreadfort. On days when she had no work for me I had the run of the place, most notably, the kitchens.

"I was wondering if I could try something," I asked Hagon the head cook one day.

"You? Begging your pardon m'lord, but I don't see..."

"Just this once," I entreated. "You'll see, I only need some flour, cheese, garlic, and a few other things. What harm can I do? You can watch it all if you like, keep me out of trouble." I smiled my winning smile.

Hagon softened. "All right, you are m'lady's nephew after all. Show me what you want to try."

My first attempt at pizza (well, cheesy bread, tomatoes were lost to me for all time, to my grief) went better than expected. Hagon's eyebrows rose in alarm when I tossed the dough in the air, and working with a brick oven wasn't an exact science, but it came out quite edible, with just a little burning round the edges. I presented it to my aunt at the midday meal.

"What are you so happy about, Dom? Written another song?" she asked hopefully.

"Better, Aunt Barbrey, just try this." I placed my creation before her triumphantly.

Barbrey Dustin was a grand lady of the old style, and probably would've been happy as a Victorian governess in another time and place. She went "Mmmmmmm" in an audible way after she took her first bite.

"What is this, Dom? Did you find it in the Myrish cookbook I bought from that merchant? It tastes Myrish."

"My own notion, Aunt Barbrey."

She looked at me thoughtfully. "Let Hagon know he's to indulge you if ever you get any more notions, then."

Yes!

It turned out that Myrish cookbook (which I could read about ninety percent of after a year and a half of Myrish lessons) did have a number of dishes that resembled Italian ones. Aunt Barbrey loved most of them, even sprung for imported olive oil because I said I needed it.

There were a few other interesting things; the book had a recipe for yellow mustard that shamed anything I'd had in any life. We served it with sausage at a feast for our neighbors and people were still talking about it moons later.

I didn't stop trying to recreate things, either. Simple things like sandwiches and burgers and buns for sausages were a revelation. People just didn't use bread and meat together in that way. Mayonnaise took a moon's turn to get right, but I managed it. My biggest project was barbecue, by far.

Without tomatoes, I settled on Texas style, which didn't require sauce. I'd actually worked at such an establishment in the formative years of my old life, and the memories were associated with taste, so they were clearer than most.

It was difficult to get the spice rub just right, and I had to make a few clever substitutions, but smoking a brisket till it was melt in your mouth tender was something I'd done more times than I could count.

When she tried it, Aunt Barbrey closed her eyes and clasped her hands together at her chest like she was having a religious experience.

"Domeric. Domeric. Domeric. This is the best thing you've ever done," she said reverently.

The way to a woman's heart is through her stomach, I thought, and felt the truth of it in my bones.

After that, there was nothing Aunt Barbrey would deny me. She had me working with her steward to train her whole kitchen staff, even introduced a few hygienic practices I remembered from my first life.

The days slipped by one after another. Mother visited several times a year, but father only joined her twice in my four years in the Barrowlands. The first was to talk about my inheriting Barrow Hall. Barbrey was not a Dustin by birth, and there were a few distant cousins of her dead husband who might make some noise, but I'd made myself popular enough with the locals that I could probably claim her seat after Barbrey passed. She and father thought so, anyway.

The second time he visited was my thirteenth nameday, today. We feasted on barbecue brisket and I played a few songs for my parents while they digested their food.

Old Roose looked at me in a strange way that I couldn't place. Was it pride? Was he proud of me? Was he planning something? I really couldn't say.

When I finished my rendition of Behind Blue Eyes I overheard him talking quietly with my aunt.

"...where to finish his education," Father said.

"I thought it was to be your kin in the Vale, the Redforts wasn't it?" Barbrey questioned.

"It was, but I've negotiated something better.

"Domeric, come here," he called out across the hall. I approached meekly.

"I've just come from Winterfel," he continued, his creepy gray eyes looking quite amused. "You shall round off your education as a ward of Lord Eddard Stark."

Aunt Barbrey made the nastiest face I'd ever seen from her. I never did get around to asking her about Brandon Stark.

Fan Fiction: A Dreadful Time (ASOIAF Domeric Bolton SI)

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Macho9

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Threadmarks Chapter 3: The Wolves of Winterfell New

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Macho9

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Chapter 3: The Wolves of Winterfell

Aunt Barbrey flatly refused to accompany me to Winterfell. I'd never seen her in such a temper!

"Gods," she raged, "I was hoping I'd be dead before I had to witness another of your father's ridiculous ploys. You are so like your father."

I am?

"Don't look so stricken, Dom, it's quite plain to me. You get peculiar notions to make beautiful songs and delicious dishes. Roose's notions are all cruel games, but it's the same thing in both of you, some queer blood passed from father to son. It won't amount to much, I promise you. The Starks think themselves above mere Northerners."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow, Aunt," I said politely.

"Domeric, I thought you were paying attention in court. Family and land. Who marries whom and who gets the land after they die. That's all the matters in the end. You are as fine a son as any man could want, and Roose believes, foolishly, that you will be able to impress Eddard Stark enough to win the hand of his maiden daughter."

Marriage! "How old is this girl?" I asked seriously.

"Young. Out of swaddling clothes but not much beyond that. Won't be flowered for long years yet, but that never stopped lords from scheming before, least of all your father, the prince of schemers. It won't work! I told him last night, the Starks look to the south now. You're an accomplished boy, Dom, but you're no princeling. Roose knows all this. You aren't really meant to succeed. He's just stirring up the water to see what floats to the surface. It's his way."

"And what should I do?"

"Guard yourself, nephew. Winterfell is great and grand to look at, but you're not a Stark. You'll never be a Stark. They aren't what they seem. When put to the test, they'll show you who they really are, to your sorrow. Put no trust in their promises."

"You speak as if you hate them."

"I speak as if I know them." Barbrey gave me a long look, and sighed. "You need to hear this tale, little as I'll like the telling. Sit down, Dom.

"Two Stark men made promises to me, and two Stark men broke their word.

"The first was Brandon, old Lord Rickard's heir. Handsome, strong, and above all, charming. He made such charming promises to me, that he'd love me forever, that I'd be his lady wife if only I gave him my maidenhead."

Her face looked so pained as she forced out the words, I wanted to embrace her, to comfort her, anything, but didn't dare interrupt once she really got going.

"He made the same promise to half the maids in the Rills," she said bitterly. "Words and wind, all of it. Brandon was promised as well. Her name was Catelyn Tully. He rode down to Riverrun one day and I never saw him again."

Aunt Barbrey had always been a handsome woman, and looked younger than her age, but she looked every one of her years now.

"There was another man," she continued. "A good man, and true, who had the heart to love me, soiled as I was. His name was Willam Dustin."

She swept her hand about the stone chamber. The morning light was just beginning to seep through the windows of her solar. "This was his place. We wed at Barrow Hall, and were happy for a year. We might've had a son about your age, if not for the war.

"Eddard Stark promised to bring him back to me. He brought back his horse! My Willam's bones bleach in the Dornish sun, while his ill bred sister's bones rest beneath Winterfell. Is that justice, I ask you?"

Gods, I never knew. The hurts people hold and never tell…

She hugged me fiercely. I was so shocked I didn't embrace her back for half a moment.

"Remember all I've said, Domeric," she whispered in my ear.

On that cheerful note, we broke our fasts and I set out with my father. To Winterfell!

He hadn't brought Steelshanks and it'd been a while since I lived at the Dreadfort, so I didn't immediately recognize any of our guards. There was no way they'd open up with my father around, so I didn't even try.

Old Roose looked much the same, just smaller. I was thirteen now and noticed my father wasn't a particularly large man. Highborn are taller than the smallfolk, as a general rule, but I wasn't much taller than some peasants my age I knew in Barrowton. I was panther quick, and stronger than I looked, but I was still terribly skinny, no matter how much I ate or exercised. Judging by Roose, this was probably going to be my ultimate fate. I hoped puberty hit me like King Robert's warhammer, but knew better than to count on it.

Father set a leisurely pace, which I suspect was because he could tell it aggravated me, and crept quietly along the way to Winterfell, too quietly. I was bolder than I'd been at nine, and broke the silence on the second day.

"How's mother?" I asked.

Father didn't react for a moment, and I was about to repeat my question when he turned his head slightly and answered, "well."

"Well, is that all?"

His thin lips turned up a bit. "And with child. If the gods are good I'll have another son, and you a brother."

If.

"And the Starks?" I pressed.

Roose smiled in satisfaction. "Lord Eddard loves me but little, I fear, and his wife less, but you might gentle their hearts towards our family if you fill their hall with music."

"Is that all you'd have me do?" I raised my voice over the sounds of the road. The Barrowlands were windy and wild. A strong breeze was blowing that day, and near drowned out the sound of our horses' hoofbeats at times.

"Not all." Roose didn't deign to raise his voice in turn and I strained to hear him. "Lady Dustin's master at arms concurs with Gregor. You're a fierce little fighter, to be sure. Don't go shaming the Stark boys in the yard if you can help it. Some of those fine foods you created wouldn't go amiss either. Beyond that, have fun," he said lightly.

Have fun? Have fun! He was japing with me, had to be. This was one of his games Aunt Barbrey warned me about.

"Roose doesn't mean for you to succeed," she had said. Well and good. Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind. Let the Starks think of me what they will. It would only be three years, whatever happened.

Gods, Winterfell was huge! No budget. There was no possible way you could put a price tag on something like that. There were two layers of walls, tall towers, not of steel and concrete and glass but of stone, and a gigantic keep and several other buildings within. So this is what it takes to make the Dreadfort look small.

Passing over a bridged moat and beneath two layers of thick gates, seeing how it looked even larger from the inside was an experience in itself. Adequately provisioned and manned, there was no taking this place, I knew at once.

Perhaps not the friendliest thought, but these were the Starks. Aunt Barbrey hated them and father feared them. I was ready for anything.

The whole family was waiting for us in the courtyard. Father had briefed me the day before so I was ready. Lord Stark himself was no man to take lightly, that was plain. He had the look of a lord, and gave no indication of being afraid of father. His lady wife was shockingly attractive. They didn't really match.

There was Theon Greyjoy the hostage, who smiled at me with the same sort of smile father used when he was playing his games. I disliked him instinctively.

Robb the heir and Jon the bastard were of an age, and looked at me curiously. Sansa was a little girl and Arya a littler girl. Bran the baby was inside. It'd been a chilly day, even though it was summer, a wise precaution.

Father dismounted and bowed and I followed suit. He went up to Lord and Lady Stark, speaking softly. I eyed the older children one by one. Theon smirked, Robb was neutral, and Jon looked away when he met my eyes. A long three years, I thought.

Father swept a hand towards me. "I present my son, Domeric."

"Welcome to Winterfell," said Lord Eddard.

"A feast has been prepared," said Lady Catelyn.

They beckoned a servant forward, bearing bread and salt.

The feast wasn't terribly grand, but I wasn't expecting it to be. They sat me between Robb and Sansa. Robb would speak a little, but was guarded. Sansa wouldn't even look at me. It was almost like they'd been warned to be wary of Boltons.

"Domeric, perhaps some music," suggested my father. The light from the wall sconces flickered merrily in his creepy gray eyes, well, our creepy gray eyes since I had them too.

The games begin. "Certainly, father. Lord Stark, may I get my lute from my chambers?"

"No need," father said. "I had a servant bring it up."

Think of everything, don't you, father?

Sansa looked at me for the first time. The others looked vaguely interested as well. The servant handed me my instrument, and I noticed the strings had already been tightened. I only needed to make a few minor adjustments.

Thankfully, my voice hadn't changed yet. I was afraid it would ruin my singing. "This is one of mine own songs. I call it The Sound of Silence." I took a good long breath tried a few experimental strums on my lute, and started up the intro.

"~Hello darkness my old friend~"

Father left the very next day at first light. He didn't say much, but gave me a meaningful look before he mounted his horse and galloped off. My move, I guess.

Once he was out of sight, Lady Stark was kind enough to notice how lost I was and indicated for me to follow her.

"My thanks, Lady Stark," I said. Gods, she was good looking. She might've been the best looking person I'd seen in Westeros.

Watch yourself, Domeric, these people are no friends of yours, said a voice in the back of my mind. I followed her closely, but not too closely.

"The morning meal is about to be served; your hungry, I hope," she said kindly.

"Aye, always. It was a long journey. I've never been to Winterfell before."

"We noticed Lord Bolton never brought you when he came here on business. It was a bit of a surprise when he suggested we take you in as a ward, to tell it true."

"To me as well, my lady. I suppose father wanted me to see as much of the North as I could."

All the Stark children greeted me brightly when I sat down at table.

"Will you play for us again?" asked Sansa, the little girl.

"Well..."

"Just one song," pleaded Arya, the littler girl.

One looked like their mother and the other their father, so they were easy to tell apart.

"Girls, not now!" said Lady Stark sternly. Lord Stark smiled kindly, though. It looked passing queer to me. That was a face meant for the cold, not warmth. I'd been expecting a worse version of father. Who was this man, really?

"Later," I said. "I practice music every day, you know. You can listen then. My Aunt Babrey keeps a music master at Barrowton."

"I wish we had a music master," muttered Sansa.

"Does she keep a master at arms as well?" asked Theon the hostage with a cocky little smirk. "Can you fight?" Robb the heir and Jon the bastard seemed amused. They were just as easy to tell apart as Sansa and Arya.

You'll find out soon enough, boy, I thought viciously. But no. No shaming them in the yard, father had said. Theon Greyjoy was only a year older than me but he was half a head taller and a deal more handsome. I wanted to put him in his place just for that, but it probably wouldn't endear me to the Stark children.

"Better than some, worse than others," I replied diplomatically.

A servant brought in a huge platter of bacon and I was spared further interrogation for a time while we dug in.

I considered offering to help in the kitchens, but decided against it. This was only my first day here, and I'd have plenty of time to show off once I'd settled in.

"I'm told you can read Myrish," said Lady Stark when our plates we nearly cleaned.

"I can, and Braavosi too. All sorts of foreign merchants visit Barrowton so my aunt insisted. I attended her in court quite a bit. The Braavosi always brought the most tedious complaints before her, and the Myrmen were the most brazen liars."

Lord and Lady Stark chuckled politely but the kids didn't seem to follow.

"What of Pentos, Lys, or Tyrosh?" asked Robb the heir. "Could you speak to them?"

"Close enough. The southern dialects are pretty close, and the same is true for Braavos and Pentos. The words of Lorath are strange, tis true, but nobody much bothers with them." I waved my hand dismissively.

"Do you seek to become a maester?" asked Theon. "You're so learned. Are you quite sure you had time to pick up a sword?"

"More than enough," I replied. "I learn fast."

"Care to prove that in the yard?" Theon challenged.

More than you know. "With Lord Stark's leave." I looked at him expectantly.

"Very well. You boys have a lot of energy today, so you must needs work it off. Report to Ser Rodrik. You're dismissed."

Theon the hostage, Robb the heir, Jon the bastard (who had said nothing the whole meal) and I pushed away from the table and headed out.

Just before I rounded the corner I heard Lady Stark, "Are you sure he'll be all right? Domeric is rather small for his age."

Ugh. I used to be tall!

"Right, you both ready? Begin," commanded Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master at arms. He was a stout man, with bushy sidewhiskers that were going gray, but that didn't mean much. I'd known plenty of fat old men who were surprisingly dangerous in both of my lives.

Theon shot a cocky grin my way and advanced.

I exhaled. Self control.

The boy wasn't too bad, to give him his just due. He was nearing manhood, and his swordplay showed a certain maturity as evidence of that. He didn't overcommit and didn't open himself up too much.

His main flaw was his rhythm. You see, everyone has their own internal rhythm. It dictates everything from your heartbeat to the cadence of your steps. His rhythm was utterly predictable. One two three four one two three four. I wasn't consciously counting but I felt it. Without fail, he attacked on two or four. Timing him was easy.

Swing between swings. I'd nail him with a good sharp strike on his off beats. It broke up his attacks rather well, and before long the momentum shifted from him pressuring me to him on the backfoot. I pursued halfheartedly, and didn't really try to knock him in the dirt. Once I figured him out he couldn't touch me but I could touch him.

"Enough," called out Ser Rodrik. "Robb, Jon, you have a go."

I let myself relax a little and enjoyed watching the boys swat at each other. Jon the bastard was a little more animated in the yard, but not too much.

Quiet as a cat, Ser Rodrik sidled up next to me. "You were playing with him," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I didn't wish to shame him and make an enemy on my first day here," I replied earnestly.

"Mmm, right, but that's not good for you. Tomorrow, get yourself a tourney sword from the armory and join Jory and the other guardsmen at their practice. How's your lance?"

"Better than my sword, to tell it true. I learned from the best."

"Aye, the Barrow knights are some of the best seats in the North," he agreed. "Hullen, our master of horse, is running the men through passes at quintains right now. You might as well get mounted up and join them. You can go."

I tried to leave quietly without drawing undue attention. When I was about half way across the yard Theon called out to me. "Oi, Bolton! Where do you think you're going?"

"Lance practice," I replied, and didn't stick around to hear whatever else he had to say. I had enough Theon Greyjoy for one morning.

Lance practice was pretty standard. The guardsmen accepted me in their midst without much comment. I wondered if Ser Rodrik had sent word ahead. We'd take turns riding at a dummy called a quintain that would spin around and nail you unless you hit it just right. Jousting against other humans wasn't really an everyday thing. It was all control. Control the horse, control the lance, control your balance, keep your seat. Sounds easy, but doing all that at once was by no means natural. Even I had to work at it.

Horses are living things and getting even a trained horse to do what you want to do isn't an exact science. It sounds crazy, but you really need the right energy. Horses can smell nerves and hesitation. The horse has got to believe in you. You can establish some of that by building a rapport over a period of years, but even then, if you lose your confident vibe, a horse can suddenly refuse to go along with your will.

We had a pleasant morning riding and talking about nothing in particular. There was a bit of a chill in the air but it only really served to cool and refresh us. The Stark men were more talkative than my fathers at any rate. After a few turns of the glass Jory dismissed us to the midday meal, and I departed in search of Starks.

"Domeric Bolton is pretty good," said a voice I didn't recognize. "Theon couldn't do much against him."

"Mind your tongue, bastard," said Theon nastily. That was when I walked in.

Awkward.

"Hello, Domeric," greeted Sansa politely. Cute kid.

"Hello Starks, Greyjoy, Snow. What are we eating?"

"Venison stew, looks like," Robb said. "So what did you do this morning? Why did Rodrik send you off?"

Seven hells, what do I say? I really didn't want to seem full of myself. "Ah, lance practice," I said. "Ser Rodrik wanted to see everything I could do on my first day, so he could see where I needed improvement." Yes, that was sufficiently humble.

Robb seemed to accept that and we sat down to eat. Lord and Lady Stark were late but that didn't seem to stop anyone. It was pretty informal, all around.

We had lessons with the maester after we ate, and things were pretty individualized so I didn't stand out for not doing the same thing as the other children.

Guess it's back to having a maester. Luwin was a kindly old man, and knowledgeable, but he didn't have the youth and passion of Tybald at the Dreadfort.

He gave me a little diagnostic test in Valyrian geometry and I got to work. The Valyrians had something of a reverence for the perfect circle, and a lot of their calculations were based on it in some way. Their architecture wasn't nearly so angular as Westerosi, I knew, and round drum towers as seen in most castles were probably based on copies of their designs. I was surprised by how much I remembered from Tybald. That was four or five years ago.

Maester Luwin chuckled good naturedly. "Domeric, I didn't expect you to be able to complete half of these. You could probably forge a yellow gold link right now. Wherever did you learn? I thought Lady Dustin didn't keep a maester."

"Aye, but the Dreadfort does. I learned from Maester Tybald. I have my letters, sums, heraldry, and history from him. My Aunt Barbrey kept me to languages and music, in chief."

Luwin stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You're advanced for your age, to be sure. There are acolytes at the Citadel with less learning, some who've been there for several years. But you need to learn something. Is there anything you don't know?"

"Maester Tybald was about to start me on military theory when I left for Barrowton," I said at once.

He smiled. "I have a link in warcraft, very well. Now, what do you suppose is the essence of battle? How does one win?"

I thought for a moment. "Drive the enemy from the field. Make them break."

"Aye, aye, a fine answer, and true as far as it goes. How?"

I thought again. "Attack the weakest part of the enemy host, the lowborn foot."

"Are they?" he asked pointedly.

"Are they what?" I really didn't follow.

"The weakest."

"Isn't that self evident? The untrained and poorly equipped men will be less used to battle, and more like to break when the press becomes thick."

"Mm," Luwin made a noncommittal sound. "You'd think so, but directly charging ranks of prepared spearmen is not wisdom. Don't let pride blind you. Even the finest war bred destrier will shy away from a wall of pikeheads, and a rain of clothyard shafts was the end of Daemon Blackfyre. Do not underestimate the foot."

"Then why do we spend so much time and money training and equipping the heavy horse?" I asked.

"A fair question," Luwin acknowledged. "The foot is not to be underestimated, but the horse is usually what wins the battle in the end. Break up their formation, set your spears against theirs, feather them with arrows, and they'll be ripe for your lances. Disordered foot will not stand a charge."

"So that's the answer," I suggested. "Soften them up first, then finish them with a charge of knights."

"That's about the essence of it." Luwin nodded approvingly. "However, in real war, nine parts of every ten is siege and supply. It's not exciting for a boy, but that's the truth. For every war that ended with a great battle, many more ended when one side or the other starved out their enemy, or gave up trying to starve them out and went home.

"Keeping a host of thousands fed is no easy task. A general should always be weighing numbers in his mind. How long can the land I'm on feed my men? How long will my supplies last? When is it advantageous to seek battle? When to avoid it? These are the questions you must ask and know the answer to if you ever mean to be a war leader."

Gods, these people are even more advanced than I thought!

"I think that's enough for today," Luwin said finally. "Sansa and Arya were asking for you. Perhaps you could play for them while they're at their needlework?"

So I did. I played for Sansa and Arya, along with Septa Mordane, Jeyne Pool, Beth Cassel, and the other young ladies of Winterfell every afternoon, and for the whole great hall after the evening meal. My changing voice disrupted things for a time (Sansa was quite miserable) but I settled into my grown voice, which was still quite high, by my fourteenth nameday.

My cooking skills won me much good will, not just with the Starks but with their men. Mustard and barbecue were naturally popular with Jory and company, and Lady Stark was quite fond dipping things in mayonnaise. Lord Stark preferred sandwiches, and we took them whenever we went out hunting or to visit nearby bannermen.

And thus I spent a more or less pleasant two years at Winterfell. Lord and Lady Stark were warmer people than I had any right to expect. They weren't blood, of course, but I didn't feel uneasy in their presence anymore.

Sad to say, but Robb and Jon never really warmed up to me. I was just working on different things, becoming a man while they were still boys, and Theon's hostility and jealousy made it hard for Robb to get close to me, and Jon followed Robb. I tried to be friendly, but a bond just never formed properly.

Sansa grew into a little lady and Arya a little hellraiser. They both liked my singing, but they were kids. We had nothing to talk about. Lady Catelyn threatened to forbid me from singing sometimes as a punishment for Arya, and that put the sisters at fierce odds. Winterfell became a dramatic place as they fought more than ever and Lady Stark was heavily pregnant with another child.

I found myself feeling lonely. I had friends here, but no family. There was nobody at Winterfell I was even a fraction as close to as my Aunt Barbrey. I wrote her often, but she steadfastly refused to visit, and mother as well, for she was heavy with child just as Lady Stark was.

I was trolling around the library, looking for something interesting and not too dense, when a servant tapped me on the shoulder and said Lord Stark wanted to see me in his solar.

When I saw his grim face my stomach dropped and was immediately on guard.

"I'm sorry, Domeric," he said, not unkindly. "But your mother has died from childbed fever. Your father has taken a new wife."

I was fifteen years old.

Fan Fiction: A Dreadful Time (ASOIAF Domeric Bolton SI)

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Threadmarks Chapter 4: Winning My Spurs New

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Dec 24, 2019

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Chapter 4: Winning my Spurs

Dead. Mother is dead.

I barely knew her, in truth, but it stung nonetheless. Bethany Ryswell was lively and kind, like Aunt Barbrey without the bitterness, and now she was gone.

"Childbed fever?" I asked in a quiet voice.

"Aye," replied Lord Stark from across his desk. The sun was shining through the solar's window, brightening all in the room save its occupants.

"The Maester said that two stillbirths in a year's time was too much for her constitution. The pregnancies weakened her and she died in the night," he added.

"The Maester wrote that?" I asked with a flash of anger. "Not my father?"

Lord Stark looked stricken. "It was in the Maester's hand."

Figures. I let out a long breath and tried to calm myself. Father had kept mother continuously pregnant for years. All the children were lost, all but me. A woman's war was in the birthing bed, or so they said in Westeros. Fight enough battles and eventually you meet your match.

"What now?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Perhaps a visit," Stark offered.

"And meet my new stepmother? Did the Maester say who she is?"

Stark glanced down at the letter. "Alys Grim, the daughter one of your father's men."

Younger than me! "Alys Grim is 14 years old!" I ground out the words, disgusted. "They made sure to sit her next to me whenever I visited their holdfast with father. Master Grim wanted a Bolton Husband for his daughter, and father granted his wish before my mother's body was even cold!"

I turned away. Lord Stark would not see me cry. I shouldn't be feeling these feelings. I was not always Domeric Bolton.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "There's no shame in crying over your mother," said Lord Stark. He'd somehow managed to push away from his desk and sneak up behind me.

"I'm not crying!" I snapped back viciously, but my tears gainsaid me.

Lord Stark smiled at me. "It's good to know that there's a real boy in there."

I spent a long moment mastering myself and worked up the courage to look him in the eye. "A real boy?"

"Aye, a real boy. You're a terror in the yard, Domeric, and as fine a singer as I've ever heard. You know more dishes than the head cook of a Pentoshi Magister's kitchen; you're literate in at least three tongues, and Hullen says you've the makings of a great jouster with a bit more seasoning."

"And what of it?" I asked petulantly.

Lord Stark leaned down conspiratorially till we were at eye level. "Your father is not so clever as he imagines. I knew his game after I'd known you a week. You're more accomplished than most princes, and any man would be lucky to have you for his goodson."

I took a few cautious steps away from Lord Stark, putting some distance between us. Men were dangerous when it came to daughters.

"And what do you think, my lord?"

Ned Stark laughed merrily. "My Sansa is nine, Domeric. Arya is seven. Mayhaps we'll speak of this in a few years, but gods, they aren't even women flowered! Roose Bolton likes to play the waiting game, and I think I'll let him wait a while longer.

"But yes," he said seriously. "You're a good lad, and I would give your suit appropriate consideration, in the fullness of time. I doubt either of the girls would object. They love your songs well, and your fancy Free Cities cooking too."

"But what now?" I asked again.

"You're almost a man grown, Domeric. What do you wish?"

I thought hard. "Mmm, I'd like to go to my Aunt Barbrey for a start."

Lord Stark nodded. "I notice you write more letters to Lady Dustin than anyone else. Well and good. Will you return? You're welcome to the hospitality of Winterfell for as long as you like, but the agreed upon period of your fostering will end soon."

Back to the Dreadfort? No. Not now. "Mayhaps I'll go South," I offered. "Aunt Barbrey always said she was preparing me to go to court."

Lord Stark gave me a wan smile. "I was afraid of that. You're ready; don't doubt it, but the children will be sad to see you go. His Grace is a friend of mine from boyhood. I'll write you a letter of introduction myself. I'd go and present you in person, but there are matters in the North that I can't leave just now. Go with my blessing, Domeric Bolton. If the Gods are good, we'll see each other again."

Sansa and Arya were of one mind when I announced I was leaving at the evening meal.

"Please don't go!" Sansa begged.

"The castle will be so dull without you!" Arya pleaded. "Your music is the only thing that gets me through my needlework!"

Poor things, I thought. Real entertainment was kind of rare in the North, and everywhere, really. Music didn't exist unless somebody actually performed live.

"Now, now," I said consolingly. "I've played you every song I know half a hundred times. You must know them by heart. You can sing them yourself."

"Not as good as you!" they said together.

I sighed, should've known this wouldn't be easy. "I'll be at court; mayhaps you can join me in a few years. Queen Cersei and Princess Myrcella always have need of ladies."

My words felt false even as I spoke them. My first life seemed more a dream every day, and I had nothing except a vague notion that the Starks would go south and somehow end up at odds with the Queen's family. More than that, I couldn't say. Westeros was my world now, and my memories from the old one only dimmed with time. I had my songs, my recipes, and little else. Just now, I couldn't see these Starks ever having cause to leave the North.

"Ugh, it's so unfair!" Sansa moaned into her mutton. "You'll be at court, playing for the king and riding in tourneys. All the fair maids of the South will be there and we'll be stuck here!"

"Sansa!" Lady Stark admonished.

"Sorry, mother," Sansa said sheepishly.

For once Arya didn't have anything to add. For some reason, Lord Stark was always strangely pleased to hear that Arya was just as fond of singing as Sansa. It was the one ladylike thing about her, to tell it true. The only time she ever sat still was when I had my lute out.

The boys were harder to read. Rickon was a baby and Bran half a baby, all but beneath my notice. Theon seemed to sense that now was not the right time to make an ass of himself and Robb and Jon were at the age where sulking prevailed over histrionics, which suited me fine.

Winterfell was a fine place, to be sure, but I'd seen enough of the North. Mother's death had left an emptiness inside me; I wanted to do something rash. I'm young, and I want to go on an adventure!

We left at first light the following day, and Lord Stark had thoughtfully assigned Jory and a few more of my companions from the yard as company, and guards.

We laughed and japed and raced and drank all the way to Barrowton. I'd almost forgotten my grief.

Aunt Barbrey hugged me fiercely when I dismounted outside Barrow Hall, reminding me.

"I'm sorry," I muttered into her hair. At least I was taller than her now.

"Don't be, nephew. I knew this was coming for years. Bethany complained often that rising from every childbed was harder than the last. You had no hand in this. I told Roose to slake his lusts elsewhere but he's been mad to make another one of you."

That was a disturbing thought. And now he's married to a girl a third of his age. "I can't go back, not now."

She took my hand between both of hers. "I thought not. It's time," she said seriously.

"Aye," I agreed. "Lord Stark—"

She squeezed my hand a little too hard.

"—gave me a letter of introduction. It's King's Landing for me."

She gave me an odd look. "Mayhaps not," she said lightly. "The King is not there."

"Not there? Is he on progress?"

Her odd look became conspiratorial, the same kind of look she gave me to let me know one of the foreign merchants in her court was lying.

"There's a tourney. All the court is going."

She took my arm and walked me to the stables. Some grooms were leading out a big red monster.

"Is that the same horse we brought you when I first came here?"

Aunt Barbrey chuckled. "Of course not, silly. We crossed that Stallion with the best mares from my herds. And this is the best colt of the bunch. His training is just about complete, like you."

I examined the animal closely. An older colt, around four years if my eye for horses was worth anything, bred for war and trained as a destrier, he was a magnificent animal.

"How's his temper?" I asked.

My aunt smiled. "Like you," she replied. "Fierce enough, but in a quiet way. Intelligent, too. I'd been planning to give him to you for your sixteenth name day, but I suppose we can do this a little early. My men have been running passes with him. He'll be perfect for the lists."

I ran my hands through the colt's thick black mane. As I was on the cusp of manhood this one was on the cusp of, well, horsehood. He was big and powerful looking. I had little fear he could bear a rider in armor.

He'd be my second horse. My palfrey was for daily riding, for the hunt and for travel. I'd liken palfreys to luxury cars. A destrier was no car at all. It was a tank. This red monster was for fighting, no doubt about it. Would I ride him into battle one day? I wondered.

"And where is this tourney?" I asked after a while.

"The Westerlands," Aunt Barbrey said. "I only just had word from a trader out of Lannisport. Lord Tywin is holding another grand tourney. The King and all the court are going. You'll have to ride hard to make it in time."

I sighed. I would've liked to stay longer but this was an opportunity I couldn't very well pass up.

"What of armor?" I asked. I had only a coat of mail, which was pretty normal. Most Northern mounted lances and men at arms made do with mail. Only lords and sons of lords had plate up here, and only once they were men grown, too expensive otherwise.

My aunt just smiled. "Do you remember when I asked for your measurements in a letter a few moons past?"

Happily, the armor fit with only a few minor adjustments. Unhappily, I'd hardly grown at all since I'd last been measured. The plate was nothing special, ordinary steel without ornament or decoration. There was a nicely painted ironwood shield with the Bolton sigil, a red flayed man on pink with red drops of blood, though.

I was no knight and had no intention of ever becoming one, but I'd look the part at least.

Aunt Barbrey had even provided me a squire. Ryman Ryswell was a ten year old boy, one of Roger's boys, or perhaps Rickard's. I'd not seen my Ryswell cousins in years but it was clear Ryman had a head full up of stories about me.

"Is it true nobody in all the Barrowlands or the Rills could outrace you, Domeric?" he asked me at the evening meal.

"Depends on what horses we rode," I humored him. The boy was enthusiastic, but the prospect of enduring his chatter all the way to Casterly Rock was starting to give me anxiety. We'd have two guards on the road as well, seasoned Barrowton men. I knew my experience my Aunt's soldiers had better humor than father's, but they wouldn't make half so much noise as Ryman.

I needn't have worried. We all stopped talking about halfway through the Neck. It was a miserable slog through a humid, swampy, hellscape and none of us slept well. I was worried about being bitten by a snake or lizard or any of the other two dozen poisonous things that lived there, and young Ryman was worried the Bog Devils would come and eat us.

Neither happened, thankfully, but we did have some trouble. Our pack horse stumbled and fell, ruining most of our supplies. One of our guards, Rolf, struggled to help the poor beast out of the mud, but he must've gotten some of the foul water in his mouth or up his nose, for he sickened immediately. We had to ration our remaining food carefully, and Rolf declined so much he had to be tied to his saddle to keep from falling. We sold his horse to pay for his long term stay in an inn as soon as we reached civilization, but I feared he was quite doomed.

Aunt Barbrey sent us off with six horses, well, five now. I had my palfrey and destrier along with a pack horse carrying our food and arms. Ryman and Willam (our other guard) made do with a rouncies, the economy car of the medieval world.

The Riverlands were a warm, cheerful place. The peasants waved as we rode by, and sold us fresh food at shockingly cheap prices. I had a purse of silver that I'd hardly made a dent in, and we ate well and slept in a good inn every night once we were in the South. The difference in average standard of living and population density was stark. The smallfolk were taller, too, much to my chagrin. I had a good half a head on the average peasant in the North, but in the Riverlands I might well pass as a commoner if I took off my fine clothes and didn't speak.

We did get the proper hedge knight experience one night when we ran out of daylight with no inns close at hand. Hedge rows were common here and they functioned as a sort of natural fence, marking boundaries and keeping animals in or out as needed. They provided a reasonable amount of shelter as well, but there was no wind or rain to keep out this night. It was comfortably warm and camping was more pleasure than hardship.

"This will make as good a camp as any, Ryman," I said.

"Aye, Domeric, but I'm not sleepy yet!" my squire complained.

"Then you can have the first watch. Hone my sword as well," I commanded.

"Aye," he said sourly. "Good night, Domeric."

"Good night, Ryman."

A muffled scream jolted me awake. Hands were reaching out to grab me but I squirmed out of their grip and broke free. I backed away while blinking the sleep from my eyes.

Five. There were five of them, wearing dirty roughspun and carrying cudgels. They had the horses and they had Ryman, and they had my sword. But where was Willam? Had he abandoned us?

"You'll regret tha' boy," said the one holding Ryman in a rough voice.

He and the two on the horses stayed in place but the two on me advanced, trailing their cudgels menacingly.

I'll have to scare them to get some room to breathe, I thought desperately. I drew my dagger and tried to look lethal.

"Now, now, no need fer tha'," said the one holding Ryman, their leader, I supposed. "Just set tha' little piece o' steel aside, and we'll let you live."

"Release my squire and I'll let you live," I said coldly.

They laughed at that. "I think not," he replied. "You wouldn't be the first hedge knight we've done for, and such a little one too. We ain't scared of your like."

I was flicking my blade from my left to my right hand nervously, looking for an opening. The two men were advancing on me again. One had a cudgel but the other actually had my sword, not a cudgel. He was just holding it like a cudgel. Things were getting clearer and I was wide awake now.

I danced a little away from the hedge until I was in open ground. They gave chase. I feinted in, bold as brass, and the fool took the bait. He swung my sword wildly but all he cut was air. I dashed in without ceremony, driving my blade into his chest up to the hilt. A heartbeat later I wrenched my sword from his grip and tripped him with my leg in one smooth motion.

I noticed the blade was freshly honed. Ryman had managed that, at least. Time to die, filth.

The second man was shocked stiff, and I dispatched him with two wicked cuts, one to the forearm and another to the thigh, neither of which quite severed either limb. He collapsed and set to moaning horribly.

"Release my squire, or you're next," I commanded in a voice that didn't even seem like my own.

The rogue didn't even hesitate. He cut poor Ryman's throat then made a break for the horses.

The horses!

His two fellows were already mounted on my palfrey and Ryman's rouncey and were galloping away. It looked like my destrier was reserved for the leader. He didn't make it.

My sword bit into his greasy leather jerkin when he had one hand on the bridal, opening up a deep wound that oozed blood from his shoulder to his abdomen. He dropped like a sack of flour.

Shit! Two horses were gone and I'd never catch them on my destrier, a beast not exactly build for speed or long chases.

The leader tried to rise, weakly, but I kicked out his arm that was braced against the ground and he crumpled again.

I walked around his body and got a good look at him. Ugly bastard, aren't you? I thought. He really was. He had a bulbous nose that looked like a pepper, blotchy sunburned skin, and a receding hairline.

"Pl...pl...please," he struggled to get out.

"Mercy, ah. You want mercy," I stated. His eyes seemed to agree.

I clicked my tongue in chastisement. "I think not. You cut the throat of a ten year old boy. I think I'll just let you bleed to death slowly."

And speaking of blood, my destrier just stood there placidly. "Not afraid of blood, are you boy?" I asked him. The horse was calm as ever. "You know, I haven't really named you, yet. I think I'll call you Blood. How do you like that, Blood?"

I don't know if I was expecting him to reply, or what, but nothing really happened while I waited.

Ryman was the first to die, gurgling out his last bit of life while I was dispatching his murderer. The three bandits I'd managed to kill lasted a while longer.

It was a myth, I found out that day, that deaths by the sword are clean. Men didn't just drop dead after you cut them. In fact the opposite was true. Men could live a long time after a sword had opening them up. Or mayhaps it just felt like a long time.

The one I'd cut across the thigh bled out quickest, and lingered only a little after Ryman. The one I'd stabbed in the chest was weakly sucking in air for a few minutes before going silent.

The ugly leader was the longest in dying, perhaps because I wished it so. I just stood there, watching, fascinated. I didn't feel like a killer, but that's what I was.

None of this would've happened if Ryman had woken my up for second watch! I recriminated, but felt guilty as soon as the thought passed. No, I have nobody to blame but myself. I let my guard down once we were in the South.

I found our guard Willam when I was looking for a likely place to bury Ryman. He was quite unrecognizable save for a bloodstained Ryswell badge on his chest, beaten to death with cudgels when he went off to take a piss, I thought. I buried my guard and my squire in the shade of an apple tree. The bandits I left to rot, as they deserved. Some knight I'd turned out to be! I'd lost my squire and two of my aunt's men and half my horses on my way to my first tourney! I don't know how I would ever show my face in Barrowton again. My Ryswell cousins would blame me for this, I was sure. Seven hells, I blamed myself!

I busied myself going over everything I'd lost, just to take my mind off it all. I still had the destrier, Willam's rouncey, and the pack horse, with all my arms and armor, my clothes, some food, and my lute. My purse of silver was with the palfrey, though. There'd be no inns for me unless I could make some coin playing in taverns. But was there any point in going to the tourney without a squire? I needed somebody to help me put on my armor and hand my fresh lances in the lists. I could hire somebody but it wouldn't be the same. I'd lost a day already; would I even make it to the tourney in time?

There were hoofbeats in the distance. I'll have time for plans later.

I fingered my sword, if the other two came back to finish the job I'd finish them. But it wasn't them. I spied banners in the distance, the twin towers of Frey. They were upon me in no time at all.

"Oi, are you the hedge knight what done for ugly Wat?"

Ugly Wat? Was that his name? "I'm no hedge knight," I replied. "I am Domeric Bolton, and I slew three bandits around daybreak. Two escaped, though."

The Frey knight narrowed his eyes. "Which way?" he asked.

"East, and they have two of my horses, a palfrey and a rouncey."

They talked amongst themselves in hushed voices for a moment, and half broke off and rode east. "You'll want to tell my lord grandfather this," he said. I could tell it was not a request.

The Twins looked strong, and more than that they were well-manned. Men in mail toting spears and crossbows walked the walls at a rate I'd hardly believe. There were just so many more people in the South. It was hard to get used to.

"This way," said the Frey who spoke for the others, one of the many Walders, I believe. The portcullis was raised and we rode into the inner courtyard of the east castle. "My lord Grandfather awaits."

He wasn't waiting long; the path to the great hall was pretty direct. Old Lord Walder looked familiar enough. He had that same vampire look my father had, a withered Nosferatu aspect, as contrasted to father's more vigorous middle aged Dracula. I felt myself feeling strangely at home in the atmosphere. Don't speak unless spoken to.

The Frey looked down on me enigmatically from his high seat, as a spider who wasn't particularly hungry just now on a fly that stumbled into his web.

"Heh," he grunted. "So this is the one that finally finished Ugly Wat. Don't look like much, do you?"

I remained respectfully silent.

"Shy too, eh? There's no need for that. You've done me a service, one my sons failed to do." He cast a nasty look about the hall. "And who are you exactly? I'm an old man, you see, and like to forget things in my dotage."

"Domeric Bolton, my lord, son of Roose Bolton and heir to the Dreadfort." I let my voice carry. It echoed faintly around the hall, didn't want anyone here thinking me less than I was.

"Oh? And what is a Northman doing in my lands?"

"Riding to Lord Tywin's tourney, my lord. Only those bandits attacked our camp and killed my squire."

Lord Frey eyed me carefully. "A tourney, eh? My eyes haven't dimmed so much that I fail to notice how young you are. You must be very good, or very stupid, heh."

I'll let you decide which, my lord.

"Aye, aye, very good. Ugly Wat and his band have troubled my lands for years, eluding my best men and robbing travelers as he pleases, and you carve him up like a wheel of ripe cheese, heh. Not bad, not bad," he muttered. "I'm afraid you missed my knightly sons and grandsons headed for the tourney. They departed not two days ago, elsewise you might've traveled together, safer, you know."

He talked a bit more to himself but I couldn't quite make it out.

He spoke up again. "Well, I suppose I must reward you for ridding me of those bandits. What would you have of Walder Frey?"

I knew just what ask. "I have need of a new squire, my lord."

Every boy in the hall started clamoring to be picked.

Aye, even in the North we knew of how Walder Frey was always looking for ways to ship off his surplus descendants.

The lord's thin, veal colored lips curled upwards. "I believe I can accommodate you, Ser. You'll have the hospitality of the Twins tonight, and tomorrow you can get back to the road."

At the evening meal I found myself surrounded by teenage girls, brazenly flirting with me and trying to catch my attention. One in particular was wearing one of those low cut dresses that basically functioned like a push-up bra, more renaissance than middle ages, really. I couldn't say I disapproved of Southron fashions.

Lord Walder's game was transparent, but even so, I found myself feeling an irrational urge to impress all these noble maidens, to perform if you will.

"Bring me my lute," I commanded a passing servant. "It's in my baggage."

"Oh, you play music? I love music!" said Alyx Frey coquettishly. She was the one in the low cut dress.

Just you wait, girl. You'll see.

The servant was quick enough considered how crowded the hall was. I got ahold of my lute and made a few quick adjustments.

The girls around me started making requests immediately.

"Seasons Of My Love!" cried one.

"Two Hearts That Beat As One!" called another.

"The Bear And The Maiden Fair!" requested Fat Walda. Everyone looked at her funny for a moment then pretended she never said anything.

"Ladies, ladies, please! I've got something better, a song I wrote myself."

"What's it about?" asked Alyx Frey. Her eyes were lit up merrily, or that could've just been a reflection from the braziers that lined the hall.

"The song tells a story, just wait and hear. It's called The Wreck Of The Edmund Faircastle.

"~The legend lives on from the White Knife on down, to the city men call the White Harbor~"

So that's what having fangirls feels like, I thought.

The feminine Freys went mad. They laughed, they cried, they screamed for more. I'd never actually played for an audience that large before, and the crowd had an energy all its own, an energy that I fed off of. Somehow, I played better. My transitions were smoother, my voice sweeter, I really let myself go all out. I sang until I nearly lost my voice, and they were never bored for a moment.

If I decided to never return home I could make a good living as a singer. It was a thought, a definite thought!

The squire I picked out was Bryan Frey, whom I choose because his father Walton reminded me of Steelshanks. The name wasn't all they shared, either. Walton was a bluff, simple soldier, just like my Walton. It fit, somehow.

We left the twins to much maidenly weeping, and sped down the Kingsroad as fast as we possibly could.

Bryan knew his way around a whetstone and an oilcloth, I can say with certainty. He cared for the horses passing well, and obeyed my commands instantly and without question. He was a bit nervous around me, but understandably so. Squiring for a man who would be a great lord one day was probably something he'd never dreamed of. Every knight in a family was a serious expense, and Lord Walder didn't lack for knights. He might've been shipped off to be a maester or a septon if I hadn't snatched him up. Lord Walder hadn't even needed to spare him as horse, as I still had my old guard's rouncey on hand.

"Ever been this far away from home before?" I asked him on the road.

"No, ser."

That was all he ever said. 'Yes, ser. No, ser. Right away, ser.' He wasn't talkative or curious or anything. I wondered whether he was just naturally that way or if curiosity had been beaten out of him.

I stayed wary on the road, anxious to not be caught off guard again, bedding down in inns or begging the hospitality of local lords and landed knights. I played in taverns and tower houses to earn coin on the way and by the time we turned from the Crossroads to the River Road we were being recognized. Somehow, word of my singing had traveled faster than two mounted men. We had a warm welcome wherever we stayed, and lords even sent their men to bid me stay in their hall for a night. It was passing lucrative, and by the time we reached Wayfarer's Rest and the path to the West I had more silver in my purse than I started the journey with.

The tourney was only a week away when we passed by the Golden Tooth. Everywhere we stayed there was word of the King and his court having passed through first. I knew the court traveled slowly, but somehow we never quite caught up to them no matter the pace I set.

Casterly Rock was visible for long leagues in every direction. An invincible stronghold carved into the mountain itself, and the fields around were dotted with tents and great lordly pavilions, glittering in every color under the sun.

"This is it, Bryan, onward!" I commanded, and he followed dutifully, as he had the whole way there.

After cutting my way through the crowded camps I presented myself to the Master of Games, the man in charge of registration.

"No hedge knights," he said brusquely at my approach. The Master wore a Lannister livery, and for all I know might've been a Lannister. I was a stranger here.

But hedge knight? We were dirty from hard riding, I supposed. It was an easy mistake to make.

"I'm no hedge knight. I'm Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort."

He eyed my skeptically. "Are you? Ser Domeric?"

"I'm no ser. We have few knights in the North."

"Then come back when you've won your spurs," the Master said dismissively. "Lord Tywin has ordered that only anointed knights of good birth may compete in the joust. You may fight in the melee, if you can find a team that will have you. Now be off."

Now listen here you…

Good sense stopped me. This was Lord Tywin's man on Lord Tywin's land. I couldn't do as I pleased.

I rode off, dejected. Had I come all this way for nothing?

My heart was sick with the failure of it all and for half an hour I just wandered around aimlessly, brooding on my failures. Bryan trotted along behind me at a respectful distance, but didn't speak up. I found myself wishing Ryman was here. That boy would at least complain about the injustice of this!

I sighed. There was nothing for it. I'd ride in my first tourney another day, or perhaps not. I didn't have to do anything. With my lute and my voice I'd be welcome anywhere. I could take ship at Lannisport for Oldtown, the Free Cities, anywhere I wished. I could see the world and just enjoy myself without worrying about anyone or anything else. Another son of my father's could have the Dreadfort. I was past caring. But first I needed coin.

This tourney would be the largest concentration of rich men I'd ever experienced. I might as well stay and see what I could earn from their patronage. I'll play for a while and see where the wind blows me.

I posted up on a likely spot and unpacked my lute.

Mmm...what to sing...what to sing…

This wasn't really the place for a ballad designed to tug at a teenage girl's heart strings. I needed something lively. Ah, that one.

"~If I leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me~"

Whew! That just about pushed my lute to the limit, but I could safely say that nobody here had ever heard the likes of that!

There was a little pile of coin at me feet, and a crowd round me. I was just about to move into my next number when a boy approached.

He was prettier than most girls and clad in green silk, a few years younger than me with a face framed by the kind of lazy brown curls that were almost always the result of a lot of hard work from a highly paid hairdresser.

"Singer, my master bids you come and play for his party privily," the lad said imperiously.

I didn't know who I was dealing with, exactly, but they must've been a real heavy hitter to have servants like this. Before I could reply the boy shoved a coin into my hand. It was a gold dragon!

Needless to say, I packed up my belongings and my squire and went where I was bid, which was a huge green tent, a cloth castle with a silk canopy, and the royal banner flying overhead.

A giant in finery rose to greet us. "What have you brought me, Loras?" he asked in a kindly voice.

"Your grace!?" I knelt hastily. This man could only be King Robert himself. The King laughed at me.

"Hah, I'm not the King, lad, rise, rise! Who is this, Loras?"

"The finest singer I've ever heard, Renly, just wait and listen."

"Oh? And what are you called, singer?"

The king's brother! I still had a chance! "Domeric Bolton of the Dreadfort, my lord."

The big Baratheon looked at me quizzically. "The Boltons are a Northern house, are they not? And a singer too? Well, play!" he commanded.

"The same song as before," the boy added.

"As you say, my lords."

Lord Renly smiled but didn't speak.

"See, see! What did I tell you, Renly? Was that not the best singing ever? I've never heard Freebird before. Where did you learn it, singer? Is it a Northern song?"

"I wrote it myself," I said as modestly as I could manage.

"Ever better! Oh Renly, you simply must bring him to court. Imagine having this played at parties!"

Renly chuckled good-naturedly. "Must I, Loras? This singer is highborn, and not mine to command. Bolton, wasn't it? What brings you South, lad?"

The moment of truth. "I came to ride in the tourney, my lord. But the Master of Games turned me away!"

"Ride?" Renly asked. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen," I replied.

"Fifteen," Renly echoed, sounding unsure. "That's a bit young. Mayhaps the Master of Games was right to turn you away. Are you even a knight?"

"No," I granted, "but knighthood isn't something we hold to in the North, and I promise, I'm as good with a lance as I am with a lute!"

"For true?" asked Loras.

"For true. I wouldn't have come South if I didn't like my chances. I could unseat Lord Stark's captain of guards and other seasoned men."

"Oh, Renly, please let him compete," Loras implored.

"Don't you remember your brother?" Renly asked pointedly.

Loras wilted for half a heartbeat then fired back, "He's fifteen! That's much older than thirteen! If he rides even half so well as he plays he'll be champion."

The king's brother looked conflicted, but finally relented after some more of Loras' pleading. I decided I liked Loras, even though no maiden would ever spare me a glance with him around. "Very well, I'll speak to the Master of Games about entering you in the lists. The first jousts are tomorrow. Will you do me the honor of supping with my party tonight? A few of your songs wouldn't go amiss either."

I could hardly refuse. Renly's party mostly consisted of other young Stormlords with few women around, but they liked my music well enough.

The morning was spent getting buckled into my armor by Bryan and warming up Blood, my destrier. The tourney was to mark the anniversary of the defeat of the Greyjoy rebellion, and had peculiar rules.

There were four champions who would have the honor of competing on the final day to crown the grand champion. Over three days of competition, we would compete for the right to challenge one of the champions for their place. To call out a champion, a man would have to win seven victories, or win a victory over a rider with seven victories, or some combination. For example, if I defeated one rider with two victories, that would count as three, one for my victory over him, and two for the men he'd defeated previously.

On the morning of the first day, the four champions were Ser Barristan Selmy, lord commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Lyle Crakehall, a huge knight of the West, and Lord Renly himself.

I didn't like my chances against any of them, to tell it true. Had I made a terrible mistake?

My first opponent was an unlucky draw, too. Ser Addam Marbrand, one of the best young lances in the West to hear people tell it, was matched against me. He was tall and handsome and definitely a man grown. Mayhaps they thought they'd feed an easy first opponent to the local favorite. For all they knew, I was a green boy from the barbaric North, barely even a part of the Seven Kingdoms. Well, perhaps they were right, or so I felt.

Animals are smart. They can sense things most humans cannot. And Blood knew I was nervous. That wasn't good, not at all. If a horse doesn't believe in you, he won't follow your commands. I had to master my fear.

Right, remember what Ser Rodrik said: 'Control the horse. Control yourself. Control the lance.'

And speaking of which, "Lance, Bryan, if you please."

My squire handed me my weapon, a long, ungainly thing painted in an appropriately gaudy Lannister swirls, red and gold. It was a far cry from the shorter, sturdier war lances I was used to training with in the all business North. Those things were meant to kill, the ultimate armor-piercing tool. This was a toy, a giant toy meant to be played with by grown men, but a toy nevertheless.

The Trumpets blared. The Crowd roared. The herald announced us, but I heard nothing save my breathing in the helmet and Blood's hoofbeats, which sounded far away.

With me, Blood, I thought, hoping he somehow sensed my intentions. The colt wasn't afraid of blood, and was accustomed to all sorts of unnatural things in his training, but this was a tourney. There was nothing like this in the North.

What I remember most was the smell, the sea breeze and the sawdust, the freshly baking bread and roasting meats, all clean happy smells. This wasn't the smell of war. I watched for the signal flag to drop.

I wasn't going to go all in in the first pass. The angle was the game. Hitting your opponent's shield square would transfer maximum energy, but like any other kind of fighting, in attacking you opened yourself up.

The flag dropped, and faster than I would've imagined we hurtled toward one another. Neither lance broke cleanly.

I rode conservatively, trying to present a bad angle where his lance would glance off my shield. It worked, but I didn't hit him strongly either.

Again! We wheeled around for another go. Both lances snapped cleanly. It was like an electric circuit had been switched on for the blink of an eye, jolting me in the saddle. Both of us kept our seats though, an even trade.

The crowd made its presence known. Nobody expected the Northern boy to last this long against the local favorite. I couldn't tell who they were cheering or jeering to tell it true, and had to gesticulate wildly to Bryan for another lance. There was no way he could hear me over all this.

I noticed I wasn't nervous anymore. Just another day in the yard.

Blood took off at the next signal flag like he understood what was going on. Horse and man were one as I put my lance dead center of a burning tree.

Ser Addam Marbrand went flying.

Loras Tyrell (I learned last night he was a Tyrell) was mad with effusive praise. He ran down from the champion's box where he was attending Lord Renly to congratulate me.

"I just knew you'd be a great knight, Domeric."

Heh. Loras was only a few years younger than me but he was still definitely a kid. The other knights were looking at me thoughtfully, though.

Another tall handsome type with a fine purple lightning bolt on his breastplate patted me on the back. "Fine riding, ser. There were those who thought Ser Addam would win this tourney. But the day is not yet done! I'll see you in the lists!" And he rode off.

The Westermen were a colder bunch, sore to see their fellow unseated by an unknown from the edge of the world.

I ended up not being summoned to the lists the rest of the day. It was a crowded field and they wanted everyone to go at least once to narrow it, single elimination you know.

Renly's party that night was insane. He insisted I play for his lords and friends, and so I did, strumming and singing sweetly while the chivalry of the south got themselves blackout drunk and sexually harassed serving girls. The lightning lord from before actually threw up on my good pink doublet halfway through The Wreck of the Edmund Faircastle, which, as you might imagine, spoiled the mood of the song.

Renly really was the lord of it all. Laughing and japing and playing referee to the mayhem. I wondered if they did this sort of thing all the time. Was court just one big never-ending party? I didn't exactly hate the idea.

On the second day I tilted twice, but they were both light touches. Marq Piper was obviously hungover and I unhorsed him in only a single pass. Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard was afraid of me and it took three lances for me to adjust to the way he was shying away from my blow and put him down. Both men had a single victory from the first day, which put my total to five. One more, and I'd be able to challenge a champion.

Renly lost his place in the champion's box to the lightning lord, Beric Dondarrion, who challenged him immediately after unhorsing Ser Andar Royce.

I thought Renly would smash him easily. He just looked like an invincible warrior, but it didn't play out that way. Beric had him reeling in his saddle and tumbling into the dirt and made it look easy. But my lord laughed it off and rose to his feet in good humor. The crowd laughed with him, not at him, I noticed.

The field narrowed further as more were eliminated or earned the right to challenge champions. Nobody dared call out Ser Barristan or Ser Jaime, though. In hindsight, I should've realized the reason Renly was the first challenged was because he was popularly perceived as the weakest lance in the champion's box. These men had all been here before, and I was seeing everything for the first time.

The talk of the evening of the second day was all about the melee, which was to take place on the morrow. Teams of seven would compete in a mounted mock battle with blunted weapons. There were only four teams so far, but a fifth team was forming even as I reached Renly's pavilion.

The requirements to enter the melee were less, and it was widely viewed as the proper place for squires, hedge knights, and lesser lordlings of little renown. Many of the finer jousters considered it beneath them. I had half a mind to sit out as well, and focus on winning the right to challenge a champion.

But they wouldn't hear of it.

"Come on, Domeric, we just need one more. With you we can't lose!"

"Aye, you can write a song about it!"

We were fast friends, and yet I didn't even know their names, not really. These were the young men about Lord Renly, second sons of minor houses, lesser branches of great ones, young and landless and hungry for glory.

I should've refused them, but I'd be lying if a part of me wasn't hungry for glory as well. If I could unseat great Southron knights, what could I do to a pack of freeriders in a melee?

"Oh, all right," I agreed.

Me and my big mouth...ugh!

A blunted tourney sword collided with my helmet, rattling my teeth and sending shivers all the way down to my toes.

Where did he come from?

My erstwhile allies had scattered at the first charge, leaving me quite isolated and surrounded by hostile horseman. They were hammering me from all angles. I only managed to keep my seat thanks to Blood, who read my signals expertly and turned with the slightest shift of my hips, letting me move with the blows, which lessened their impact somewhat. I had to get out of there.

Now!

I charged clear before wheeling half a heartbeat later and leveling one of my pursuers with a backhanded sword stroke that he rode right in to.

That discouraged them right enough, and just as it looked like they were mustering the courage to try me again the battle shifted and they found themselves engaged with others. I slunk away to the margins.

Five teams of seven we were, all mounted with blunted weapons, but just then I couldn't spy anyone I started the melee with. The affair had devolved into chaos, as all melees inevitably did.

Our battlefield was entirely open so we could theoretically fight all over the countryside, but in practice it was good manners to stay within sight of the King, though he was far away and barely visible.

The prize was ten thousand dragons, not exactly a small sum, but split seven ways the great lords and landed knights thought it not worth the bother. I should've trusted my sense.

Now I was all alone, battered and bruised, and we could be at this for hours.

I skirted around like a scavenger, waiting for an opportunity to catch somebody alone, but it didn't happen. The other teams had more coordination than mine, and held together even as we scattered and imploded. The only way I'd get through this with honor was going out in a blaze of glory.

Three men in yellow surcoats were galloping toward me.

Now or never. "DREADFORT!" I cried, and spurred Blood onward.

As you might imagine, swordplay ahorse is a different beast than swordplay afoot, more mobile. Turn and chase and run, turn and chase and run, whack that one, whack the other, retreat, advance, a chaotic dance.

The yellow team weren't ready for my fury, or else they were in worse shape than I was. One yielded after I smashed his elbow. I knocked the other off his horse with my shield and he was nearly trampled to death. The third fled from me.

Could I...could I win this? I wondered. I took in my surroundings.

Oh. I'd been surrounded by all seven members of the blue team.

I realized then that the last member of the yellow team wasn't running from me.

I had to forfeit from the third day of jousting when I realized I couldn't hold my lance upright.

Nothing was broken, the maester assured me, but my right arm was purple, all of it.

And so passed my first tourney in the South. I gave the king my letter of introduction with my left hand when Renly presented me at the feast that night. He was about to throw it away until he heard me mention 'Eddard Stark'. The fat man read the letter intently, laughed aloud, then slapped me on my arm.

Somehow, someway, I managed to thank him while gritting my teeth and blinking back tears. Renly and Loras were overjoyed that I'd be staying at court for the foreseeable future. I spent the next week in a Casterly Rock apartment out of my mind on milk of the poppy. I'd never be able to sleep otherwise. On the eighth day I departed with the rest of the court for King's Landing and the rest of my life.

Last edited: Dec 26, 2019

Fan Fiction: A Dreadful Time (ASOIAF Domeric Bolton SI)

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Macho9

Dec 24, 2019

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Macho9

Feb 5, 2020

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#197

Chapter 5: The Squad

Hah!

I felt the lance snap cleanly as we rode past one another, a nice square hit. Sparing a glance behind, I noticed Ser Richard Lonmouth was twitching in the dirt, but not very much. He wouldn't rise quickly from that one.

Secretly, I was relieved. That'd gone on far too long. Four lances we broke without result, and on the fifth the King was to choose the victor. Richard Lonmouth had ever been a favored friend of Robert's, I had heard.

Now there would be no need for that. This was the moment, my moment, that I had been seeking since I arrived at court over a year ago: my first tourney victory!

I'd come close once before, but Ser Barristan put me on my Northern backside when I became overconfident. Still, the prize for second was substantial, decadently so. I spent coin like water and hadn't made much of a dent in my winnings nearly six months later. Gold went far when you weren't paying the wages of a private army, as most lords were. I maintained only ten men, including my squire Bryan Frey. Not a huge retinue, but enough to keep the pickpockets of Pisswater Bend more than an arm's length away when I ventured out into the streets.

Steam radiated from my head as I removed my helmet, a ghastly thing in truth. Blood red it was, with the visor wrought in the image of an actual flayed man, his mouth gaping in a rictus of pain. It was a little much, I admit, but Lord Renly recommended the smith to me. Master Mott was as good as his word when he said he'd forge me a suit of "dread armor to match the Dreadfort."

It was to the good, I supposed. I wasn't much to look at out of my armor: a plain, common face, short and slight as noblemen went, and creepy light gray eyes. The maidens loved my singing, but I had no illusions about them loving me.

But still, still, court was a beautiful place, and I had the honor of choosing the Queen Of Love and Beauty.

My horse, Blood, took me on a victory lap around the lists as I considered my choice carefully.

Jena Rykker winked at me. She was one of the Queen's ladies. Jena was a raven haired beauty with an icy aristocratic face that belied a lusty, hot blooded nature. She all but offered herself to me one evening after I'd spent the afternoon serenading the Queen's ballroom.

Ah, but I can't!

Jena would take the crown as a marriage proposal, I was sure. I didn't need her getting any ideas about my intentions.

The Stormlords had attended this tourney in force, and several had brought pretty daughters with them, but dare I crown a girl I didn't know by name? No, that wouldn't do.

King Robert was drunkenly shouting over the din of the crowd, but I couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

Bryan handed me another lance, and two page boys advanced with a crown of roses on a golden pillow.

I speared the crown and held it at the tip of my lance. All right, all right, time to choose. Perhaps I can risk Jena…

"JEZ DOO IT ALREDEE!" the King slurred.

How about you let me savor the moment, you fat fuck? I thought viciously. Robert's warmth for me completely evaporated as soon as he heard me sing. It made me feel like the whole trip south was cursed. My squire and my guards were murdered on the road for nothing. The king loved me not; it would've been better if I'd never come south.

Then I had it.

I didn't need the King to love me. I road towards the royal box to crown the Queen Of Love And Beauty.

"Domeric, I vow, that was mad, even for you!" Renly groused. We were having a little private afterparty in his Red Keep apartments, but instead of congratulations I was getting berated.

"I've seen Ser Jaime crown her before," I argued.

"That's her brother, Dom. Don't be dense. Seven hells, this is the most scandalous thing to happen at a tourney since Harrenhal."

"She was the most beautiful lady there. No man can fault me for acknowledging the simple truth."

And Gods, she was! Had Queen Cersei been born in the other world, if the other world ever truly existed, the word they would have used for her would be 'supermodel'. The brilliant smile she favored me with when I presented her the crown took my breath away, truly. Jena Rykker and even Lady Stark were really nothing in comparison. I couldn't begin to understand why a man married to her would spend so much time with whores.

With King Robert, though, the action of crowning his wife sobered him up in an instant and he looked at me with such perfect hatred I could hardly stand to remain in his presence.

"Mayhaps...mayhaps you're right, Renly. I suppose I could go back to the Dreadfort for a time, give his grace some time to cool down. Little as I'd like to see my father again, I fear I have no choice."

"Now I wouldn't go that far," Renly said, putting his hand on mine. "I still have need of you. There's some business at Storm's End I must see to in person. You'd be most welcome in my party."

I sighed in relief. Renly was an oddly kind man when you got past his court persona. I lived on his charity for a few turns of the moon until I was able to ransom some horses and armor I'd won in my first tourney at King's Landing.

A dark thought struck me. "And what of the other Stormlords? Will they not be angry that I shamed the King in public?"

"Let me handle them," Renly reassured me. "They're my bannermen, after all. Most of them haven't even heard you sing yet. They'll love you well once they know you well."

His voice became uncommonly serious. "And there are things I'd discuss with you privily, but not here. We'll speak more at Storm's End, and at Highgarden."

I raised an eyebrow. "Highgarden?"

"Aye. Loras wishes to visit his family."

There was more going on here, I could tell, but Renly would say no more.

I was no stranger to the Kingswood, having accompanied many a hunting party during my year in the capitol, but this was different.

Hunting parties traveled light, as a general rule, and Lord Renly's retinue was anything but. We had stewards, septons, smiths, cooks, tailors, huntsmen, heralds, knights, men at arms, archers, and trumpet blowers to sound our advance. We had mounts and remounts and a mighty baggage train carrying all the luxuries of civilization, comforts Renly wouldn't want to be without, even for a night. I spied an enormous bathtub in one of the carts. What was the point of bathing when you were on the road in the middle of a forest, I ask you?

But that was Renly. My friend was vain, I freely admit it. He placed more stock on appearance than most, and would rather look like a great warrior than be one. Rarely did he ever deign to show himself in the yard, leaving the training of his squire to Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep's master at arms, and to myself, naturally.

"Domeric!" the boy called out as he rode towards me. I say "boy" but Loras Tyrell was only two years younger than me, and a fine warrior already, able to give me more than a little trouble when we crossed tourney swords.

"Loras, what brings you here?" I asked. I was keeping a cautious distance from the Stormlords and riding on the fringes of the column, firmly resolving to think before I acted from now on. I really didn't need more enemies in this world.

"Lord Buckler is a bore and a braggart, and I grew tired of his tedium," Loras said contemptuously.

"You mislike braggarts, Loras?" I raised on eyebrow.

Loras smiled. "Only those who can't back it up, Dom.

"Speaking of which, there's talk of knighting me at Highgarden. Renly won't say anything, but I know when he's keeping secrets from me."

So I'm not the only one, I thought. What is Renly up to?

"For what it's worth, I think you're ready," I said seriously. I rode in my first tourney when I was his age, and Loras was at least as good as I was. He was a little taller than me, but dagger thin. You'd think him frail from his looks but he was fast and fearless with plenty of dirty tricks, something I assumed he picked up from the Dornish Ser Aron; his people were the masters of dirty tricks.

"I still don't understand why you refuse knighthood, Domeric. Renly has offered more than once."

"Bah, I don't need it. A 'ser" before your name doesn't make you a better fighter, and besides, I'm a Northerner. We don't follow your traditions."

"Well, I think you are a knight, Domeric Bolton, one of the finest in the realm. You are everything a knight should be."

Loras looked dead earnest. I was touched.

"— Except tall and handsome!"

I chased after him halfheartedly as he rode away laughing musically.

I sighed, same old Loras.

One day, after more than a week on the road, the forest stopped. It wasn't an organic thing, but a hard line where you had wilderness on one side, and tamed nature on the other. Blood stumbled over one of the boundary stones and the world opened up to tilled fields, fenced pasture, and human settlement.

The peasants ceased their plowing and watched us warily; it wouldn't be the first time outlaws had emerged from the Kingswood to despoil the countryside.

They cheered once they saw the Baratheon standard switching in the wind, though. Loras had the honor of bearing it, and dressed for the occasion in polished steel that caught the light of the midday sun just right. Even his hair was playfully tussled. I looked a right cutthroat in my muddy riding leathers by comparison.

"You've never been this way, have you?" he asked.

"Can't say as I have, Loras. Is Bronzegate far?"

"Nay, once you're out of the Kingswood it's only a short jaunt. We'll be feasting under a real roof tonight!

"Lord Buckler will be insufferable, though," he said in disgust. "The man has several young daughters, including one newly flowered. He's been talking her up to Lord Renly for days. You'll see."

"And Renly has been politely humoring him," I said. I knew the man. Renly liked it when people wanted something from him, and was skillful at only giving them enough to keep them around. I was here, after all. What business did Domeric Bolton have attending the lord of the Stormlands?

"Naturally," Loras agreed. "But Buckler's hopes are in vain. His lordship's heart longs to another."

Really? I'd never seen Renly pay particular mind to any maiden. There was much I still didn't know. I bit back the urge to question further. It wasn't any of my business.

"Well," Loras said, "I must attend Lord Renly. Do try to look presentable tonight, Domeric. Farewell for the nonce."

"You heard him, Bryan," I instructed the squire in my shadow. "As soon as we reach the castle you'll need to bring me a basin of clean water to wash in; I don't care if it's cold."

Bronzegate definitely had a different feel compared to the Red Keep. The royal castle was grand, to be sure, but it was definitely new as castles went. Bronzegate had an ancient grandeur that reminded me of the Dreadfort, or even Winterfell. The towers weren't as tall as some, but the thick curtain wall and squat, sturdy gatehouses with heavy bronze bracing were imposing enough. This was a strong place.

It seemed as if all the principle lords bannerman of the Stormlands had gathered for the tourney just to accompany Lord Renly south. Our party had Buckler men in plenty, but also those wearing the livery of house Caron of Nightsong, Swann of Stonehelm, and a dozen more. The only ones I knew well were Lord Beric who I had ridden against in tourneys and a few of the younger ones who attended Renly's parties from time to time. Private chambers were probably too much to ask for a party of this size. I'd likely be bunking with Lord Ralph's bachelor knights, which suited me fine.

Bryan was quick enough with the basin and I took a quick whore's bath with water from a small stream near the castle, washing off the better part of the sweat and dust of the road, and masked the rest with a generous dose of perfume, nearly a necessity in this world, and one of the larger chunks of my monthly expenses. From what I gathered, it was much the same with other highborn young men in the social circles I traveled in. Castles stank, servants stank, so why should you, eh?

Servants were rushing about the castle courtyard and I caught the eye of one.

"Boy! Where is the knight's barracks?" I called out.

"This way, m'lord," replied the servant, indicating the southern tower.

"Right, good. Bryan, see that the horses are stabled and fed, then come find me. I can dress myself," I said, unloading the baggage I'd need for the night from our pack horse as I spoke.

My squire was a good stout lad who knew how to follow directions, so I rewarded him by not burdening him overmuch with tedious tasks. The great and good of Westeros had a bad case of learned helplessness in my personal opinion. I could lace up my own doublet, thank you.

The servant led me to a dormitory lined with beds. The mattresses were stuffed with fresh straw with fresh rushes on the ground too. They must've had a good deal of advance notice of our coming, I supposed. Our party was large so it would be two to a bed. Only lord Renly and a few other high lords would be getting one to themselves.

I claimed one side of an unoccupied bed and sent the servant off with a copper coin tip. From there, I carefully unpacked my clothing and laid out my outfit for the night's feast.

I choose an elaborate pink silk creation with blood drop buttons and fringed with Myrish lace, foppish even for me, but Renly always insisted pink was my color. I even got a good deal on the Myrish lace when there'd been a dispute about the proper payment to his grace's tax assessors. The good captain of a Myrish trading galley had been accused of undervaluing his cargo and paying less of an import duty than he ought. Being fluent in Myrish and acting as an interpreter, I explained it away as a simple miscommunication and of course the captain would be happy to pay the correct amount on his taxes and harbor fees. The man was so grateful he gave me a steep discount, one of the benefits of knowing the master of laws. Renly always knew when somebody was in trouble.

I'd hardly grown at all in my year at court. It was beginning to dawn on me that at seventeen I might not get much taller, no matter how well I ate. Short and slight as highborn men went, I needed to stand out in other ways, hence the loud pink outfits and demonic armor.

I completed the look with a red sidecape fastened with ruby brooch. There was no mirror at hand, but I felt like I looked appropriately flamboyant. Pink had no feminine connotations here, much the opposite, really. It was a fierce, aggressive color, chosen by house Bolton as a warning, the flayed skin of our enemies. For once, I was glad of my fortune to be born in the Dreadfort.

"Oi, Bolton!" called out a rough voice.

I sighed. It was Ser Donnel Swann, heir to Stonehelm. I had a favorable opinion of his little brother that resided at court, but this one was just about as disagreeable a knight as I had ever met.

"Ser Donnel," I greeted him politely.

"You must think you're a real hotspur, Bolton. You win the tourney and shame his grace in front of the whole court. Now you're here, bold as brass, Lord Renly's pet Northerner, and dressed like that." He snorted in disgust.

"I didn't take you for a student of fashion, Ser Donnel. Do you object to my house colors?" I couldn't quite keep the scorn out of my voice. Donnel Swann was older and bigger and stronger than me, but I really wasn't afraid of him at all. I'd faced much worse. There was a part of me that wished he would try something so I could put him in his place.

"Save your cheek, Bolton. You're not wanted here. Go back to your wildling lands."

"Ah, would that I could. But it's far too cold there and I'm enjoying myself far too much here. See you at the feast, Ser."

The man could bluster all he liked; he let me pass without incident, though. Smart man.

The feast was a raucous, roistering affair, almost a living thing. At court Queen Cersei always insisted on certain proprieties being maintained, but it was all Stormlords here, and me of course. Men were laughing and pounding the table and devouring roast ox with gusto and calling for serving girls to fill their cups. The poor things were run ragged, bringing flagons of wine and mead and ale to increasingly drunk lords and knights, enduring clumsy gropes and ribald jests for their trouble. It wouldn't end there, though. Many of them would be warming highborn beds tonight, some against their will, and those who fell pregnant would be rapidly dismissed. Out of work with a bastard in their belly, their prospects would be grim. This was a great world, but not a good world, not a kind world. Not for the last time I counted myself fortunate to be a highborn male.

Renly was holding court at the heart of the chaos, japing and drinking with his lords, but paying chivalrous attention to Lord Buckler's maiden daughter, a shy girl of thirteen or so, freshly flowered. Ellyn was her name, and Lord Renly was about twice as tall as her, nearly twice her age too. My abhorrence of that kind of thing was just about the only reminder I still had that I wasn't always Domeric Bolton. In Westeros this was normal, but not to me.

"A song!" Renly commanded. "A song for sweet Ellyn!"

Sweet Ellyn tried to melt into her chair and disappear as every singer in the hall clamored for my lord's attention and favor, but I knew a summons when I heard one. He'd done this before.

I stood up from the table and motioned for Bryan at the squire's bench. He knew what to do. My lute was in my hands a moment later.

"Ah, Domeric, would you favor us with a song? Ellyn, this is Domeric Bolton of the Dreadfort. Don't let the name fool you, his voice is as sweet as summer rain."

I must admit that I did enjoy being talked up to strangers.

"One of the best young lances at court too, but this isn't a tourney, it's a feast! Domeric, what say you?" Renly boomed theatrically. The whole hall was focused on us now.

"As my lord wishes," I replied good naturedly. "I know a great many songs. What sort would my lady like to hear?"

Ellyn Buckler looked stricken, but she eventually mumbled something I couldn't quite make out.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Something sweet, Domeric," Renly offered helpfully.

Sweet? I can do sweet. "I think I have just the thing."

I plucked a few dreamy notes on my lute that rang across the hall like raindrops, setting the scene.

"~Moon river, longer than a leauge, I'll cross you when I need, someday~"

"That was beautiful," Ellyn said earnestly in a loud clear voice. I inclined my head genially.

Renly smiled. "Wasn't it? Our Domeric might just be the finest singer in the Seven Kingdoms, and a great lord of the North, never forget!"

"My father is a lord," I said, making my way over to them. Ellyn Buckler was a cute little thing, the kind of girl every boy had a crush on in middle school. Up close she really did look absurd next to Renly, who was six and a half feet if he was an inch. "He rules our family's lands, while I play the lute and play at war in tourneys."

"But you play well!" Renly said spiritedly. "Speaking of which, what's a feast without some dancing? Music!" he commanded. "My lady, might I have the first dance?" he asked.

Ellyn meekly obeyed while I struck up something lively on my lute, nothing modern this time, but nobody complained. Pipes and drums joined in and before long we had half the hall on their feet. Even though nothing was written down and had never practiced together before they all followed along passing well. I was impressed, but perhaps I shouldn't have been. When it came to artistry, to mastery of any craft, music included, the professionals in this world put anyone in the other world to shame.

When the first number wrapped up and I was about to dive into the second Renly stomped over to me, his long legs carrying him through the crowd in record time.

"Let the other musicians have a go, Domeric," he said. "You should dance too."

"I should?" This was highly unusual. At Renly's parties I usually played all the night through. But then I saw it. Ellyn was eyeing us from across the hall. Oh.

"Well, it is her castle," I said. "If my lady wants a dance, I'll give her one."

Renly clapped me on the shoulder. "Good man. I'll leave you to it then." Then he shoved towards the girl and walked off. Gods, he was strong.

Ellyn had stars in her eyes. "Ser Domeric," she said demurely, offering me a little curtsy.

Babysitting duty tonight then, I thought. "My lady, shall we dance?"

We twirled and pranced about for I don't know how long, but I never saw Renly again for the rest of the night. Perhaps he was with that secret love Loras mentioned.

The plan was to stay at Bronzegate for three days, then on to Storm's End. On the morrow Lord Renly announced an impromptu melee. Nothing fancy like teams or special rules, just a free for all, last man standing wins. Fortunately, dancing with Ellyn all night had kept me from drinking too much so I wasn't as hungover as some. Donnel Swann was particularly rude on the way to break our fasts.

"Piss off," he rumbled, bumping me out of the way at the entrance to Bronzegate's great hall.

Oh you're going to pay for that, I thought. When the melee started I was going to smash him to pieces, nice and artistic. I rarely rode in melees at King's Landing, having learned my lesson from my first tourney. It was smarter to focus on the joust. But I had to admit that melees were more fun. Sometimes you just wanted to hit someone!

Ellyn asked me to sit by her at table and I didn't have the heart to refuse. Lord Ralph Buckler was watching us warily, but he needn't have worried. Seducing his barely teenage daughter was the furthest thing from my mind.

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Domeric?" She worried over me.

I was only picking at my food, true, but it was all calculated. Eating a big meal before a fight wasn't the best idea in my experience.

"More than sure, my lady. I won the tourney only a moon's turn past. There are some good fighters here, I admit, but none I fear to face."

I looked about the hall, Donnel Swann and his brother Balon, Bryce Caron, Beric Dondarrion, Guyard Morrigen, Renly and Loras were all possible opponents. Take seriously? Aye. Fear? No, not these. Fear was for real monsters like Gregor Clegane, the impossibly skilled like Jaime Lannister, and even fat King Robert. The man could have my head if he wanted it. That was reason enough to fear.

"I believe you, Ser Domeric," said Ellyn seriously. She kept calling me 'ser' and I figured it was pointless to correct her. I was a man grown by the standards of Westeros, and a highborn warrior, I couldn't be anything other than a knight to a southron girl like her.

We chatted for a while longer, until it was time to get up and get ready. As I was rising she grabbed my sleeve. "Will you...will you...wear my favor in the melee?" she asked.

Heh, why not? "Of course, my lady," I said kindly.

The girl nearly tripped over her own feet as she ran from the hall after hearing my answer.

My squire Bryan helped me into my armor with silent efficiency. I was warming up my horse Blood when Ellyn found us.

"Domeric, I—"

I turned to face her.

She didn't speak; she looked afraid.

I tried to smile disarmingly. "You didn't know? House Bolton's sigil is a flayed man." I flipped up my creepy visor when I realized she couldn't see me smiling.

The girl took a deep breath and with what looked like a great deal of courage, came within arm's reach of me and tied a blue and bronze strip of cloth around my arm.

"For luck," she said softly.

Sweet girl. "I'll win this one for you," I declared, and meant it. It would be a nice memory for her, and a nice reminder for any Stormlords who might want to try me.

Ellyn hesitated, then went in and planted a kiss on my cheek before running off.

There were no stands to speak of. We would fight in the fields beyond the castle while the spectators watched from the walls.

I checked out my competition, about twenty men in all, armed and ahorse. There were only five or six knights of renown, the others unknown to me. Renly was sitting this one out; I would've recognized his green armor immediately.

Mmmm, not bad, I thought. The ground was good and firm, a rarity in the Stormlands, and I was fresher than most. I might just be able to back up my boast.

Renly's voice carried easily from the Bronzegate battlements. He bid us fight honorably and well, and may the best man win. A cheer went up and the melee began without further ceremony.

I stayed still, scanning my surroundings. The competitors were arrayed in a wide oval. Two bold knights had charged the man directly across from them and were bashing one another in the center of our little formation. The men closest to me had better sense, lingering on the margins and waiting for a fight to come to them.

As a general rule, it was bad form double team somebody in a free for all melee. Ideally, you challenged the closest man at hand and had it out. This would repeat until one man remained. In practice, this rule rarely held. Temporary alliances would be made when it looked advantageous, and broken just as swiftly when that looked advantageous. However, most had the decency to hold off from such unsporting tactics until the melee had degenerated into a proper melee and chaos well and truly reigned.

The knight to my left turned his horse towards me and raised his weapon in challenge. I raised mine in acceptance and spurred Blood forward.

On the first pass I concentrated on catching his blunted war axe on my shield, a heavy ironwood piece that I had painted just before we left King's Landing. Even blunted that heavy piece of steel sent a jolt through my body and I was unable to answer with my tourney sword.

Fast, faster than I would've imagined, the knight's horse turned and the knight brought his axe down on my head. I only just deflected it with my sword and rode away at an angle, trying to get some distance.

"I heard your song last night, Bolton; now hear mine!" the knight taunted.

I only just then realized who I was dealing with, none other than Lord Bryce Caron of Nightsong himself, the knight of nightingales. His yellow shield had a flock of little black birds on it.

Bad luck, the first man I face is probably my greatest threat here.

We exchanged a trio of blows before breaking contact again, but he was getting the better of it. Lord Bryce was a big strong man, and he wielded that axe expertly, with only one hand. I tried to roll with the blows but there's only so much you can do when your foe has such a heavy weapon.

His axe bit into my shield with a sickening thud that I felt in my toes and he would've caved in my helmet on the backswing if I hadn't ducked.

He's definitely not playing!

My instincts kicked in then. I stopped thinking and started fighting, replying to every swing of his axe with two or three of my sword. Every time he missed I punished him and soon enough he was the one trying to break contact, not me.

Blood was a huge help here, almost as if sensing my attentions, he wouldn't let Lord Bryce get away to breathe.

I was raining down blows now: on his shield, on his other arm, and on his head. One hit to his gorget made his exhale sharply and drop his axe. Once I noticed he was unarmed I gave him the chance to yield as good manners dictate, and he took it with good grace.

One man down.

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was harder than it should've been. From there I paused and took stock.

The field was definitely narrowing. Half a dozen combats were raging in my peripheral vision, and no convenient targets were alone just then.

Those two aren't fighting, though. Did one just yield? Oh. Oh no.

The brothers Swann were riding together, and right for me! Having armor that was easily recognizable at long distances was a curse sometimes!

It wasn't immediately apparent which was which. I knew Balon was a good lance, but I'd never crossed blades with him and I'd never seen Donnel fight at all.

Eh, nothing for it. "DREADFORT!" I charged.

All thoughts of fighting conservatively were gone. Lord Bryce had left me in an aggressive mood and I resolved to overwhelm them with fury.

I struck one and then the other, turning Blood with my hips as I put my weight into each swing.

It worked...for a while. The Swanns were no fools. After enduring my initial barrage they encircled me. When I faced one the other got behind. They were on me like wolves on a big buck. When I charged at one the other nipped at me from my unprotected side, if you can call a blow with a mace a nip.

Yes, the Swanns were using maces, still quite deadly with no spikes or flanges. Balon, or perhaps Donnel nailed me on the back with his when I lunged at his brother. If I hadn't been riding away from the blow, thus allowing most of the force to be spent before it reached me, he might've paralyzed me.

I was no fool. This fight was unwinnable. It was time to disengage and lead them into a big group fight where they couldn't both focus on me. But there wasn't any group. Most of the other knights had already yielded. There was only...only…

Loras!

My good friend took one Swann off my back and was hammering him mercilessly.

Payback time.

Donnel, or perhaps Balon, was easy work after that. With speed and precision and bad intentions I beat him bloody. The man was, if anything, too quick to yield. I wanted to hurt him a little more.

I was about to help Loras with his man when I saw the other Swann riding away in defeat.

"Just you and me, Dom," Loras said, his voice sounding oddly mature through his helmet.

"Aye," I agreed, but didn't raise my weapon in challenge. Suddenly all my energy was gone.

"You're hurt!" Loras said in alarm.

"Nay," I replied, "just tired."

"Me as well," Loras said. "Between us we've won plenty of honor already. Another day?"

"Aye, another day," I agreed.

Loras and I rode side by side back to the castle. When we got there he raised my hand and everyone cheered.

"Remember this when we get to Highgarden," Loras said in a voice only I could hear.

Ellyn was as distraught to see us go as she was elated at my victory the day before.

"I'll write," I promised.

She only nodded through her tears.

On the road to Storm's End Renly bid me ride by his side.

"Thanks for distracting that girl for me," he said.

Ah, so that's how it was. Renly did disappear rather abruptly at the feast. I considered asking him about his secret love but thought better of it. Renly's affairs were his own business.

"I do hope Lord Ralph is not wroth with me," I said.

Renly hummed. "I think not. He desires a favorable match, aye, but he could hardly fault you for entertaining his beloved daughter when I was not at hand. It was all very chivalrous and innocent anyway. You did nothing wrong. But it is good that you are considering the consequences of your actions, Domeric.

"There's a girl at Highgarden. Charm her as you charmed little Lady Ellyn and I will be well pleased. This is important, Dom."

Renly had never spoken to me in this tone before. "Who is she?" I asked.

"Loras' sister," he said quietly. "But mark this: it's not just her you'll have to impress, but her lady grandmother as well. I require her for a great work . Loras will tell you more at Storm's End. There are certain matters there that I can no longer put off so I won't have much time for you.

"Don't look so worried, Dom," he tried to sound reassuring. "I have to resolve a few disputes between my lords, tedious complaints like the placement of boundary stones, cousins squabbling over inheritance and the like. While I'm busy you just keep being you. Entertain who I would have entertained and try to enjoy yourself! The brothers Swann are appropriately chastened so I don't think any of my bannermen will be inclined to vex you overmuch, if you behave."

"I'll behave," I promised.

"There's a good lad," Renly said, clapping me on the shoulder.

What had I gotten myself into?

Winterfell was a huge fortress but it was plausible that humans without heavy mechanized equipment could've constructed it over several generations. I would not believe the same about Storm's End.

Imposingly tall and impossibly thick, Storm's End was without a doubt the strongest castle I had yet seen. The curtain wall was smooth and round, the stones set so perfectly that the it looked like it wasn't assembled from many smaller parts at all, but a great unity. Rather than an assortment of many towers, the central structure was one huge drum with many floors and only a few outbuildings inside the walls. Whatever entity or entities made this, they had a power beyond mortal men. It'd been a long time since I wondered how exactly I came to be Domeric Bolton. Now I thought I had some idea. There was power here. If they could raise such a castle, surely they could arrange a paltry reincarnation.

About half the party we began the journey with had departed for their own lands. Bryan and I had our own room, which I supposed was a mark of favor. Loras, though usually inseparable from Lord Renly as his squire, wasn't included in whatever business Renly had with his remaining lords, so we passed the time together.

Loras already knew his way around the castle so he gave us a tour.

"—and these are the stables. Farley is master of horse here."

Yes, yes, every castle has that sort of thing. This wasn't what I wanted to know. I wanted to know what was up, what was really up.

"I hear you have a sister, Loras," I said lightly.

My friend didn't miss a beat. "Aye, a lovely maid a little younger than me, freshly flowered." His eyes drifted to my squire and I took the hint.

"Go brush the horses, Bryan," I commanded, and the boy left us.

Loras led me up a staircase and into an empty chamber that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a while. "What has he told you?" Loras asked.

We both knew who he was. "Little enough. He wishes that I charm her as I charmed Lady Ellyn, and your lady grandmother as well. He mentioned a great work. What work is that, Loras?"

He hesitated before replying. "We want to bring her to court," he said softly. "Perhaps as one of the queen's ladies. Her grace was pleased with you in the last tourney; mayhaps she'll accept your recommendation."

"As a what? A—" I stopped myself before I said spy. That was a dangerous word, a treasonous word. Loras took my meaning though.

"What? No, no, nothing like that. We merely want her at court, to be seen. She really is lovely, you know; we look quite alike." He smiled vainly, but the jape didn't set my mind at ease.

"Seen by whom?" I asked pointedly.

For a moment I thought Loras would refuse to answer, but he finally relented. "The King," he whispered. "We want the King to notice her beauty."

"And why me?" I asked.

"Dom, shouldn't that be obvious? The queen likes you and the king mislikes you. If you bring my sister to court his grace will crave her, if only to take her from you."

"I've never even met your sister!" I said a little louder than might be prudent. "She's not mine for someone to take her from me."

"Not yet," Loras said confidently. "But you have a magic voice, my friend. When you sing, highborn maidens swoon. I like you, Domeric Bolton, and my sister will too. We Tyrell's are shrewder than we look. Margaery is not one to be swayed by a pretty face. She has beauty enough for two, I think. You two will fall in love at Highgarden and you'll beg the queen to bring her to court so you can be closer together. It's perfect. Nobody will suspect anything."

At that moment I seriously considered riding off to the nearest port and paying for passage to White Harbor. I'd somehow gotten myself involved in plot, the kind they had people's heads off for!

Loras didn't seem to notice my self preservation instincts kicking in as he plowed on. "Margaery will be the easy part. It's my grandmother you must impress. She's wise, but overly cautious if you ask me. She won't let my sister go easily. You must convince her that she'll be safe, well, as safe as anyone is in King's Landing."

"And what of your sister? Are you fine with parading her in front of the king like some choice dish at a feast? Is that what you want for her?"

Loras chuckled. "Sometimes you really are naive, Dom. Enduring the king's lusts is a small price to pay for a crown."

What? A crown? A crown! They weren't planning to make maid Margaery the king's whore; they were planning to make her queen!

I turned the idea over in my head a few times. Yes, yes...everyone knows that there is no love between Robert and Cersei. He very well might put her aside for a younger, more beautiful wife. The danger was great, though. Tywin Lannister wouldn't suffer this insult lightly, but with Highgarden and Storm's End behind the throne there would be little he could do. The Lannisters had few friends outside the west.

It was foolish. It was mad. But what could I say? I'd come this far.

The next day I was working off some of my anxiety in the yard when I spied a huge knight. The man was making a huge scene.

"Cowards! Will nobody face me?" It was a surprisingly high pitched voice coming from such a huge fellow, but I knew that meant little. Some of the most hardened killers were soft spoken and gentle in manner. Why, mine own father was one such.

"I'll face you, ser," I challenged. "What do you say to tourney swords?"

"Agreed," the giant replied sharply.

We choose our weapons in the armory and faced off. I was clad in plain steel, my fancy stuff I saved for tourneys and the like. The knight was likewise armored in full plate. The obvious strategy would be tiring this one out, but I didn't really know who they were or what they could do.

A crowd formed round us and one yelled "fight!" That was as good a signal as any.

My opponent was easily a foot taller than me so I went low, slashing at their legs. His blade fended off mine easily. I circled, counting on the fact that I could move faster than the larger man could turn. I felt my angle of attack become advantageous and I lunged in, thumping the knight on the thigh and stepped back just as quickly to avoid his counter stroke.

This pattern repeated twice more, but on the third the knight went on the offensive, charging forward like a bull and forcing me back with heavy sweeping slashes.

I tried to establish some distance but on foot against a much taller opponent that was easier said than done.

I rolled my shoulder to catch a blow on my shield that would've struck me on the helmet. It was a hard, punishing blow, and I knew I couldn't take many of those, even with a blunted sword.

Ugh, this one's in good condition! I lamented. The storm didn't abate, not even a little, just a regular, driving rhythm of swordstrokes.

Right...right...get the timing right…

I struck on the downbeat of his rhythm, and punished him for attacking too predictably, always to the legs.

My foe yelped in pain. Yes!

He pressured forward again but I was ready, tangling my lead foot with his and tripping him just as he put his weight into his sword.

The man stumbled to his knees in the dirt.

"Do you yield, ser?" I demanded, my sword leveled at his face.

"Nay!" he shouted, rising up in fury and chasing me as if I hadn't spent the whole fight trying to take his feet out from under him.

His attack was wild now, with no particular discipline or technique, just brute force. He battered my shield until my arm was numb and shoulder checked me to the ground.

Oof, I felt the wind rush out of my lungs.

"Do you yield, ser?" he asked.

"Aye," I agreed. That was enough for one day. I didn't want to be too sore on the road to Highgarden.

Steam rose from my head as I removed my helmet. "Domeric Bolton of the Dreadfort," I held out my hand, "And you, ser?"

He removed his helmet only to reveal that he was a she! "Brienne of Tarth," she said confidently.

Some of the men about the yard laughed at my defeat but I was less concerned about maintaining an aura of menace and more interested in something genuinely novel. I didn't even know Westeros had women warriors, especially on the level of this one.

She wasn't eager to speak overmuch in the yard but I resolved sit by her at the evening meal if at all possible. A storm was brewing on the horizon and a chill blew in from the sea so I dressed in a heavily layered velvet outfit that was not exactly pink, light red if it was anything.

When I arrived in the feasting hall she was walking away from Renly, looking not at all pleased.

Mmmm, Tarth is sworn to Storm's End. Renly must've denied her family something.

Renly and Loras sat together, plotting, no doubt, with a few minor lords about them that I didn't recognize. The great lords were long gone. These might've been landed knights with tower houses half a day's ride away. I didn't particularly wish to join them just then. They expected much and more of me; let them entertain themselves tonight.

"My lady," I greeted Brienne courteously, "would you consent to sitting beside me at table?"

The girl, woman really, looked like she'd rather be any place else. She dressed like a squire with breeches and tunic with a dagger at her belt.

Her hard, broad features tightened as she examined me. "Very well," she sighed.

We sat down towards the end of the high table where we could speak more privily. She rebuffed my offer to cut her meat for her and maintained a sullen silence for a time. I meant no offense; it was only good manners!

Eventually, I was able to wheedle out of her that we were of an age, born in the year 280, seventeen, going on eighteen.

Treating her like a lady was going nowhere so I changed tack.

"You fight well," I complemented. "From whom did you learn?"

"Ser Goodwin, the master at arms of Evenfall Hall," she replied simply, but said no more.

"And well-conditioned," I added. "You didn't tire even though I was trying to wear you down."

"Why does Lord Renly like you so much?" she asked out of nowhere.

I thought for a moment. "I'm the heir to an old house. I can sing and I can fight. And I'm from far away. When I came to court I had no friends and Renly took pity on me, I suppose. He's kind like that."

"He is," she agreed. Her eyes drifted to Renly and she got a far away look on her face. "And you fight well," she said, turning back to me. "You're tricksy, and as fast as a snake in steel. You hit me clean more than any man I've ever fought."

After that she warmed up right enough. We discussed old battles like a couple of veterans.

"—you mean to tell me, you fought the man you were going to marry and broke three of his bones?" I asked incredulously.

"And why not?" she replied primly. "Why should I have to be a 'proper wife' to a man who can barely hold a sword? He was unworthy. Besides, my heart longs to another."

Her eyes drifted towards Renly again for a brief moment before she stopped herself.

No way. No way! Was she Renly's secret lover? The more I thought about it, the more absurd but somehow plausible it seemed. Were they trying to breed for size? She was big enough for sure, even a little taller than Renly himself. They'd make giant babies.

I laughed aloud at the thought, which was just about the worst thing to do, given the circumstances.

"And what would you know about love?" she asked darkly.

"Nothing, nothing," I tried to defuse the situation but got little more from her that evening.

Mercifully, the storm only stayed for a night, and we left Brienne of Tarth and the Stormlands behind in the clear light of the dawn.

On the way to Highgarden we passed by Bronzegate again (poor Ellyn!) and back through the Kingswood. The rains had swept through and the bugs of high summer ate us alive. By the time we reached the Roseroad and blessed relief every scrap of bare skin was covered in bites. The mud bogged down Renly's enormous and ungainly baggage train prolonging our torment. But once we reached the Reach proper, ah, you could really tell it was a different land.

The roads were paved, the corn ripened in the fields high and proud, and there was a decent sized town every couple of days, many with stone walls and cobblestone streets. But the people were the real difference.

Numerous and prosperous they were, clad in clean, fresh linen, often dyed bright colors, and well-fed. Some of the common fare we found in inns on the road was better than many a Northern lordling's table. Prices were shockingly low; they practically gave the food away. Actual beds were dearer, and a few times it was only Renly and Loras that the inkeeper had room for. The rest of us slept on the floor of the inn's common room or found lodging with local lordlings.

I resorted to my old trick of playing at every inn and castle we passed, building a bit of a local legend around myself. Renly looked on approvingly, as if to say, 'exactly according to plan'.

Loras talked up the beauty of his sister, which I found passing queer. After all, she wasn't for me, not ultimately, but the King. This whole "great work" of theirs bothered me more than I dared admit out loud. It was an elaborate plan for not much gain from where I stood. What did it matter replacing one queen with another? They couldn't hope to rule through her, not whilst Robert lived.

Ah. Robert wouldn't live forever. If Margaery could give Robert a son, they could very well rule through him.

I shuddered. This was probably what they really intended, even if they didn't say as much. It would be a mess with Queen Cersei and Robert's brood by her, though. What did they intend for them? I'd heard stories about what happened to Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys...no! I couldn't believe that of Renly. I wouldn't!

We followed the Roseroad at any easy pace all the way down the Mander river valley until we spied white towers in the distance.

"See, Domeric? We're close now!" Loras sounded positively giddy. A fresh breeze hit us then and we smelled Highgarden.

The castle was protected not only by walls but mazes of hedgerows and briar patches teaming with flowers. There was manicured nature as far as I could see, filling our nostrils with sweet smells and stinging my eyes a bit. I didn't think I was allergic, but gods, the pollen was heavy in the air.

Loras galloped ahead and it took a little bit of doing to get Blood to follow. My poor horse's senses were as overwhelmed as mine were.

The rosebushes forced us to approach in a narrow winding path, familiar to Loras but not so much for the rest of us.

My friend was embracing his family as I dismounted.

"Aha! Everyone, this is Domeric Bolton, a friend of mine from court!" he said cheerily. "Well don't just stand there, come here and let me introduce you, Dom!"

I approached warily, smarting slightly from where my riding leathers got caught in a rosebush on the way here.

"My lord father and lady mother," he introduced.

Lord Tyrell was a big fat man, but to my eyes he was fat in a jolly old Saint Nick way and not so much a bitter, washed up former athlete way like King Robert.

"Any friend of Loras' is welcome in my castle," he said kindly.

What about co-conspirators? I wondered.

I bowed with all the dignity I could manage. "You're most kind, my lord."

"Now, now, no need to be so formal, Dom." Loras put his arm around me, seeming more boyish by the second.

"And here is my lady mother."

She was taller than me, with long, completely silver hair that lent her a certain air of grandeur. Whether it was from Targaryen ancestry or premature graying I couldn't say.

"Charmed," she said.

"Likewise," I replied.

"And my brother Willas," Loras continued. "Where's Garlan?"

"Visiting his wife's family for the nonce," said Willas, a tall young man leaning on a cane.

For a moment he appraised me shrewdly, then he appraised my horse. "That's a fine animal," he said.

"His name is Blood," I said. "His sire was my father's favorite horse, crossed with the best of my Aunt Barbrey's herds."

"From the Barrowlands?" he questioned.

"You've heard of the Barrowlands?"

Everyone laughed.

"Aye," Willas said. "And more. Loras has mentioned you in letters. You're a tourney champion."

"And the best singer in the seven kingdoms," said a teenage girl in green silk.

I would've found Margaery Tyrell breathtakingly beautiful if she didn't look so much like Loras. I found their resemblance distracting, to tell it true.

"My sister Margaery," Loras announced superfluously.

"Not ser Domeric? You're a tourney champion. However not?" the girl questioned.

"We have no knights in the North, my lady," I explained.

"Then what are you?" Her big brown eyes betrayed nothing.

"Oh, much the same as a knight," I said. "I have a horse and armor and I ride in tourneys."

"So a knight, then," said a sharp voice. "If you ask me, you should call a thing what it is. There's enough confusion in the world."

Margaery stepped aside to let a wizened old crone come into view.

"Grandmother!" Loras embraced her gently.

"Yes, dear, give grandmother a kiss.

"Very good, that's enough. Now just what have your brought to our doorstep? A stray Northerner?"

"Domeric Bolton, at your service." I bowed again.

"Mm, Bolton, yes. I seem to remember the Bolton sigil was a tortured man."

A flayed man, my lady," I corrected.

"Call things what they are, boy," she chided me. "Flaying is torture. Have you ever flayed a man, Bolton?"

"Can't say as I have, my lady."

"Well I've never planted a rosebush, or grapes come to think of it," she mentioned offhandedly. "So I suppose we're even there, but still, I mislike that sigil. Northmen never did have any manners."

"My Aunt Barbrey would disagree," I said. "She was the one that taught me mine."

"Indeed?" the old woman raised an eyebrow.

I must've said something right because the next thing she said sounded almost kind.

"Then let us hope she beat you enough to make it stick.

"Ah, and here's Lord Renly, how excellent. We can do the introductions all over again."

"So," said grandma Tyrell, "they called you the best singer in the seven kingdoms."

We were halfway through a seven course meal. Loras had managed to get me seated next to lady Margaery but it looked like it was the old woman who was more interested.

"They did," I agreed.

"Well? Prove it!" she commanded.

Challenge accepted.

"Well, I can hardly refuse a lady. I've been saving this one for a while. I think you'll find it oddly appropriate."

I strummed the intro with well-practiced fingers. "~Where have all the flowers gone~"

"Oh, that was lovely! I've never heard that one before. Did you write it yourself?" asked Margaery.

That was the most genuine reaction I got from her all night. Never underestimate the power of music to go straight to a maiden's heart.

"Aye, my lady, and just for this occasion," I confirmed.

Renly looked hungrily at me as if to say 'go on'.

"But I have a great many more."

And so I played the night away, and played for Margaery and her cousins the next afternoon

"I've never heard anything like this!" gushed Elinor.

"Are all Northern songs this good?" asked Meg.

"I'm afraid not," I told them. "The North has few singers in truth. I was fostered with my Aunt Barbrey in Barrowton. It was her who insisted I learned music."

The grandmother looked at me oddly. "So you're not as shameless a liar as I assumed. You are good, and your songs are less tedious than most singers. How many bastards do you have?"

The girls erupted into scandalized looks and guffaws. "Grandmother, what a thing to say!" Margaery chided.

"Have some wits about you, girl. Baseborn singers have no problem seducing noble maidens. Just imagine what a singer who stands to inherit a castle could do."

I laughed aloud at her comment. This woman really got down to the point, and she wasn't wrong. If I lacked scruples when it came to laying with young ladies I probably would have a gang of bastards by now.

"I have better sense than that," I assured everyone.

"Mmm, mayhaps," Lady Olenna said as if she didn't quite believe me. "But that song you sang yesterday, about the flowers and the girls and the soldiers and so on. That was a wise song. However did a young man write it?"

"Would you believe divine inspiration?"

"No," she said flatly. "I would've assumed you learned from another, but I've never heard the like, and I've heard a lot of singers in my time, let me tell you."

She was a sharp one, I could tell. It didn't add up, of course. Why would a seventeen year old write a song lamenting 'when will they ever learn?'

"Would you believe the song was about me?"

"How so?" asked Margaery. "Have you rushed off to war lately?" she teased.

"Oh, in a way. Whatever am I doing here, really? I'm from a place called the Dreadfort. The South isn't my place. But I just couldn't resist. I wanted to see the world."

Renly and Loras spent a great deal of time alone together as they often did. Loras told me in passing that they were organizing an impromptu squire's melee, a pretext for finally knighting him, I figured. In order to have a decent field they sent riders to every keep within a couple day's journey. It would be about a week for them to gather enough people. I'd even agreed to participate, despite not being a squire. The lack of a 'ser' in front of my name would be sufficient.

In the meantime I concentrated on Margaery, who was proving to be a great deal more mature than most girls her age. She enjoyed my singing, that was plain, but she didn't lose her head as some did. An instant fangirl like Ellyn Buckler or Jena Rykker she was not. She was friendly, even warm, but I was still just an amusement, a mild diversion. I needed something more.

I was pondering just what 'something more' might be when I spied the servants wheeling an enormous pumpkin to the kitchens. Yes!

I went to Renly immediately and asked him to get permission for me to whip something up.

Renly was quick enough to praise my culinary skills to Lord Mace and just like that, I was all but commanded to show what I could do.

From there it was a simple matter. The Tyrells had cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, all the ruinously expensive ingredients that were needful to create something that had never before been seen (or tasted) in this world!

I was briefly worried that my skills had deserted me as I hadn't done much actual cooking after spending a moon's turn teaching's Renly's household staff most of what I knew. But it all came back to me quick enough as I made a small pie to warm up.

It tasted excellent, better than I remember since the ingredients were so fresh. I let the head cook and his friends finish it as payment for usurping his domain for a night and went to work.

I breathed in deep. Oh she smelled wonderful and was large enough to feed all the Tyrells and their household knights with room for seconds. I'd missed most of the evening meal to watch over my creation but that was a small price to pay. It's time.

There was actually a handy cart designed for wheeling in huge pies at feasts which I used to enter Highgarden's great hall theatrically. They stopped eating as soon as they smelled it.

"What is that, lad," Lord Mace asked. "It smells delicious."

"Only the first of the dishes I intend to make for you, my lord," I said officiously. "When I saw some servants bringing in a large pumpkin this morning I found it only fitting to bake it into a pie fit for your table. By your leave?"

"What? Oh, of course, of course," he said, looking at the pie greedily.

I didn't hesitate in serving up the pie myself. Renly actually winked at me when I served his.

"Mmmmm," Margaery hummed audibly when she tried hers.

Got you, I thought. "Do you like the pie, my lady?"

"Like it, I love it!" she exclaimed, her lady's propriety disappeared and for a moment she let the girl out.

That was the way it was. If music didn't do the job then food surely would.

The whole table was raving about my pie the rest of the night. I was half afraid Lord Mace would choke when he wolfed down seconds and then thirds! From then on I had the run of their kitchens just so long as I taught their cooks my recipes.

The next day was barbecue, which turned out to be an even bigger hit. The steward was pleased when I informed him I could make it with relatively cheap cuts of beef and didn't require a lord's ransom in nutmeg.

From then on it was Margaery that sought my company rather than the other way around. We went on a few little 'dates' (always well-chaperoned). She took me on an extensive tour of their gardens and another day when went riding and hawking.

"What's life at court like?" she asked as we rode through a field of marigolds.

"Depends on what you want," I answered honestly. "If you want something from the King, it's a lot of waiting and complaining. If you just want to be seen at court then there's plenty of people to see you, too many, really."

"And what do you want, Domeric Bolton?"

"I'd rather see people than have them see me," I said.

"Come on, that's not an answer!" she said indignantly, her brown curls whipping in the wind.

"I came to court to make friends and see the South," I said. "I suppose I've already done that. Don't know why I stay. Mayhaps I'm putting off going home."

"The Dreadfort."

"Aye, the Dreadfort. Don't make that face; I let people think it's worse than it is. It's a goodly castle. I was happy as a boy there, but my father and I had...certain disagreements. I was raised more by my Aunt Barbrey in Barrowton. That's where I learned to sing and cook."

Margaery was diplomatic enough not to inquire overmuch about my father and gladly shifted the topic to my aunt and all I learned from her.

"You'd like her," I said. "She's not unlike your grandmother." I told her about the music master, the Myrish cookbook, the lying merchants who often complained, and hunting with my cousins.

"Cousins?" she seemed intrigued.

"Aye, I have cousins too. They were my close companions just like Elinor and Meg are to you. I miss them."

"And yet you don't go back," Margaery pointed out.

"I think I know why," she said mischievously. "There's a girl! Who is she, Dom? Is she pretty? Prettier than me?"

She rode off laughing and I spurred Blood on to keep up.

The squire's melee had peculiar rules; the fighting was to be done on foot. In the Reach they reckoned that only anointed knights ought to be allowed to ride in tourneys. This wasn't so good for me. On foot physical size mattered more and you couldn't easily disengage should the combat go against you.

The field included a goodly portion of big brutes, lads of fourteen or fifteen that dwarfed Loras and I. At seventeen going on eighteen I was one of the older competitors, but not the oldest, thankfully. In a land where knighthood meant something some squires didn't earn their spurs until their early 20s.

Unlike the informal nature of our melee at Bronzegate, Lord Mace most certainly did stand on ceremony. His carpenters knocked together stands and a fenced-in enclosure to keep the action to where the spectators could see. There was a trumpeter and a herald to announce us, all the pomp and circumstance you might expect at a real tourney. Well, this was his youngest son's coming out party and Loras told me he hadn't been home for over a year. Some extravagance was only natural.

Margaery laughed aloud when she saw me in my armor.

"Not afraid, my lady?" I asked.

"It's just—" she paused to contain her giggles, "it doesn't quite match you, Dom."

"How so?"

"How so? How so! The quiet boy who plays the lute and bakes pies goes off to fight dressed like a soul burning in the seven hells!" She broke into another fit of laughter. "I fear I really don't know you at all."

"You don't, sister," said Loras, who was stunning to look at, clad from head to toe in shining silver armor, looking every inch a hero of old.

"You don't really know a man until you've fought him, and Domeric is a demon in the yard. He's a knight in all but name, and really shouldn't be fighting in a squire's melee at all, but father allowed it at my request. Pity those poor fellows who face us!"

We'd been over the plan the night before. I was insurance. Loras and I would watch each other's backs. It went unsaid, but there was a definite understanding that if it came down to just the two of us I'd give him the victory.

Loras clapped me on the shoulder and walked off to share a few last words with Renly.

"High praise from my brother," Margaery said softly.

"He's a good lad," I said.

"No, you don't understand," Margaery replied. "Loras hardly ever had anything good to say about anyone but himself or Lord Renly. He's, well, not exactly humble now, but not so full of himself as before. I think you had a hand in that."

I stopped breathing. This conversation suddenly felt real in a way no previous interaction between us did.

She clasped my gauntleted hand between the two of hers. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Do Northerners who eschew knighthood accept lady's favors?"

I nodded, not daring to speak.

She took a ribbon from her hair and tied it round my arm without saying another word.

The trumpet blared and the melee began. I tried to get a position close enough to Loras to support him but I would still have to cut through several foes.

I considered bringing Bryan along for this but he had only a coat of ringmail and was only thirteen. I didn't want to risk him getting badly hurt against grown men.

My armor was a beacon that attracted challengers. This was the rich Reach, and most older squires had at least half plate, unlike the North where many men who had lands and keeps made do with mail. The armor of these squires was pretty plain, though.

The first man who checked my progress fought as if he was swimming in molasses; he was so slow. I brushed a sloppy sword stroke aside and battered him to the ground with four or five unanswered blows.

What?

The next man only put up a bit more of a fight before submitting.

I cut through them like a buzz saw, one after the other. Was I really this good? Then I realized.

I was used to fighting men who came all the way to King's Landing for the big prizes. A local tourney for squires would be nothing in comparison. Of course they would be crushed by somebody who was used to competing against the best knights the realm had to offer.

By the time I reached Loras it was clear he didn't need any help.

"Fine day, isn't it?" he said lightly.

"Aye, shall we finish this rabble?"

"Gladly!"

And so we did, back to back and shoulder to shoulder we carved through the lot like a knife through ripe cheese. Finally, it was just the two of us.

"Is that my sister's favor on your arm?" he asked gaily.

"And what if it is?"

"Good job, Dom, but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint sweet sister this day. Try not to lose too quickly!"

Then he was on me. We were both nearly fresh and fighting as fast and furious as ever we did.

"Come on Bolton, let's give them a show!" he rammed his shield into mine and sent me backwards.

I tried to trip him as he overextended in pursuit but he recovered fast. Nothing worked. We'd fought too many times and knew too many of each other's tricks.

It came down to skill and will. At this point our knowledge of swordplay was about equal, but the fact that I was supposed to lose was always in the back of my mind. My swings lacked the little extra 'oomph' that comes with really trying to hurt your opponent.

Loras came at me like a brazen tempest, a storm of swords, and eventually enough was enough. I yielded.

Rather than gloat, Loras helped me to my feet and embraced me. The crowd erupted into cheers that carried up and down the Mander.

Renly announced that Loras would stand vigil in the sept that night and receive his knighthood in the morning.

I spent the evening with Margaery, talking of inconsequential things. The next day Loras was knighted and we received a raven from King's Landing. There would be a tourney to celebrate Prince Joffrey's name day.