296 AC
At the tourney at Goldengrove, Domeric Bolton learned that the Reach was nothing like the Riverlands (despite most of the castles and towns also being on rivers).
Ouch!
He just had to win that melee, didn't he...
The competition had more than double the entrants compared to the tourney at Fairmarket, and, conspicuously, it was annointed knights only. Things went well at first, but as soon as people realized the man with the creepy sigil was pretty good, Domeric found himself in multiple two-on-one and even three-on-one situations.
Still won, though, and his biggest purse to date. Victory in the melee was worth one thousand gold dragons, more money than he'd ever seen in his life. The joust was more; the only problem being he could barely lift his lance and his body was quite literally beaten black and blue. Even so, he made it through the first few tilts on grit alone, until he ran into the man they called the Red Viper.
On the third pass, Oberyn Martel's red lance broke clean, unhorsing him in competition for the first time. It was a little humiliating to ransom his horse and armor, but at least they still had the melee prize to take home.
That night at the feast, he noticed Mordaena was talking happily with another dark-skinned woman. They just seemed to find each other, like Alesander Frey's mother back at the Twins. Westeros was a very pale place for the most part, and people Mordaena's complexion stood out.
"What is that?" the woman in the orange silks asked admiringly.
"Oh, this? It's a Bolton Bag, what else? They're the latest fashion in the North, you know."
"Bolton? Is that a Northern house?"
Mordaena drew him close, making Domeric wince. "Hello," he grunted.
The dark lady looked between the two of them. "Your accent is from the Free Cities. Did you marry a Northern knight?"
His woman took a deep breath and braced herself for the inevitable rudeness that was likely to follow. "Concubine, actually. I have the honor to be Mordaena Solel, bound concubine and paramour to Ser Domeric Bolton, the knight of the flayed man."
They needn't have worried, for the dark lady lit up brightly. "Indeed? I'm Ellaria Sand, paramour to Oberyn Martel." She called over a handsome middle-aged man with a widow's peak. "Oberyn! Oberyn! There's someone I'd like you to meet!"
Oh, this was going to be awkward. That was the guy who beat him earlier. Oberyn Martel swaggered over, goblet of wine in one hand, the last few bites of a lemon cake in the other. "Yes, my love?" His dark eyes scanned Domeric and Mordaena closely, wrinkling in amusement.
"This is Ser Domeric Bolton and Mordaena Solel. They're like us!" Ellaria introduced them cheerfully.
Oberyn's gaze softened. "Ah, the winner of the melee. You were quite sore when you faced me in the lists, I take it?"
"Very," Domeric answered, and winced again when Mordaena leaned on him. "Still am. I'm not exactly popular in the Riverlands right now, so we thought we'd try our luck further south."
Briefly, he related the story of Ser Edmure Tully and the mischance that led to his death. Well, Domeric wasn't actually sorry, but dear old dad wasn't exactly pleased to hear he'd offended the Starks by killing Lady Stark's brother in a tourney accident.
"Tragic," Oberyn said. He slapped Domeric on the shoulder, and it made him want to scream! "But you seem a fine young lance for all that! I should like to see how well you ride fresh!"
"He's unmatched," Mordaena bragged. "He killed a score of wild men on the High Road, and won two tourneys easily. My Domeric is a deadly warrior and a lovely singer."
Ellaria latched on to that last bit. "You have songs in the North?"
"So very many lovely songs, Ellaria," Mordaena gushed.
"Might you know any Dornish songs?" Ellaria asked.
"Actually, I wrote one recently."
Domeric had taken the tune of Carrickfergus, back on Earth, and rewritten the lyrics as a Dornish lament for the lost homeland of the Rhoynar. He hadn't gotten the chance to sing it yet.
Prince Oberyn looked genuinely taken aback. "What would a Northman know to write a song about Dorne?"
"I write about all sorts of things," Domeric answered. "In fact, I can sing it for you now, if you wish. Al! Al! Fetch my harp, would you?"
Domeric's squire ran off. Ellaria looked excited while Oberyn looked unsure. When Alesander placed the harp in his hand, Prince Oberyn stamped his feet, clapped his hands, and called for silence. "Ser Domeric Bolton shall favor us with a song of Dorne!" he cried, silencing all the other musicians at the feast in Lord Rowan's castle.
After years of playing in front of crowds, Domeric was quite immune to stage fright. The unbroken gaze of so many bothered him not at all. He strummed a few chords and began softly:
"I wish I was on Mother Rhoyne
Only for nights in sweet Chroyane~"
This was a song where he could really flex his high notes. A baritone, borderline bass, in his first life, Domeric Bolton was a top tenor who could really belt. When he reached the emotional climax of the song and his voice swelled, Ellaria Sand broke down in sobs, full-blown ugly tears.
"But the sea is wide, and I cannot swim over
And neither have I wings to fly~"
Inwardly, Domeric exalted in wiping the cocksure grin off of Oberyn Martel's face. You thought my woman was just talking, huh? Nah, I really am that good.
Once he finished, Mordaena drew herself up arrogantly, puffed up like a queen. "It is as I said, no?"
Ellaria had completely lost her composure, and could hardly speak, so moved she was. Even Oberyn had misty eyes. "I never imagined to hear something like that from a man who has a corpse on his banner." He tried to comfort his paramour, but she was genuinely shook. Poor girl! That was something Domeric noticed. It was a lot easier to touch people emotionally in this world. A sad song would make them weep for real. People just weren't as cynical and worldly as he was used to. To them, the song was real.
"Mordaena, how about we give her a Bolton Bag? Maybe that would make her feel better?" Domeric thought for a moment. "Actually, you know what? You're a Prince of Dorne, right, Oberyn?"
"I am."
"We'll give you a box of them to pass out as gifts at the court of Sunspear. Just make sure to tell them all genuine Bolton Bags come from Barrowton, in the North."
He nodded gravely.
This was perfect. They needed to get the word out, and who better than a prince who travels constantly? Domeric fully planned to price the bags at something ridiculous, hundreds of gold dragons, perhaps more, but first they needed to seed the market.