296 AC
They smelled the city before they saw it. Domeric's nose wrinkled in disgust.
"We're not staying here longer than we have to, honey," he declared. Mordaena loved it when he called her "honey." "You need good, clean, Northern air when you're pregnant."
"You had best win then, my love."
His ghost grey eyes grew so cold they burned. "I intend to. Ten thousand gold dragons is absurd. A year going from tourney to tourney, winning more than I lose, and I've barely got two thousand pieces of gold sitting in the vault beneath the Dreadfort. King Robert must love his queen very much to offer such a huge prize." He looked over his shoulder. "Jack, bring up Skinchanger, please."
Domeric was always so courteous with his servants, Mordaena noticed. It was charming.
Big-nosed Jack, captain of Domeric's guard, led Skinchanger, Domeric's prized red courser, by the bridle to the front of their column of riders. The Kingsroad was crowded with many people, both high and low, headed south for the tournament. Some Frey knights and their tails were accompanying them, but they'd also met other parties of knights as well as peasants pulling carts of produce or riding on donkeys. Everyone was of one mind. The Tourney of the Queen would prove to be the event of the year.
"Okay, listen, buddy," Dom whispered to his horse. Just now, he was riding one of his others to keep his warhorses fresh. "We've really got to look in here, be of one mind. If we win, it'll be the perfect opportunity to present Queen Cersei with her special Bolton Bags."
Her man talked to his horse as if it were another person, which was charming too.
"I learned my lesson with the melee," he continued. "No point in getting beat up for less money, even if it's more fun."
"Can I try the melee?" Alesander asked. "You said I've been getting better."
Domeric considered his squire for a moment. "Not this time, kid. Maybe another year or two of filling out. You need to put on some size before you risk fighting grown men."
Al looked disappointed, but he didn't argue.
***
When they entered the city gates, people didn't seem to know what to make of Ser Domeric. Men in roughspun muttered as they passed. Not even the courtesans called down from their balconies. Other knights with well-known banners got cheers, but it looked like only Bolton would stand for the North in the lists. Such was typical for Westeros, Mordaena found. In such a vast realm, one side would be quite unfamiliar with the other.
"I have no idea where I'm going," Domeric said suddenly. "None of us have been to King's Landing before, have we?"
"Nay, Ser," Alesander Frey answered.
"The older of your father's men might've done, milord," big-nosed Jack spoke up, which was rare. "In the war."
"Right." Domeric scanned their immediate surroundings. "Let's go up that big hill and have a look down."
This turned out to be a bad idea, for at the top was a temple to the seven gods Domeric despised so much. Her fearless man almost seemed afraid when they got close. Even the horse beneath him grew agitated. Seven walls it had of bright white marble, with leaded glass windows depicting the gods of the south.
Mordaena reached out to comfort him. This was not his place. "My love, mayhaps we should look around and choose a different course," she suggested gently.
He appeared not to hear her for a moment. "Right...right. Apologies, dear. This place has bad vibes."
Vibes?
They could see quite a lot of the city where they were. King's Landing had many crooked wynds and narrow alleys. The king's castle sat atop another hill, and some parts looked better appointed than others. In her own city of Braavos, some islands were considered more fashionable, but the canals washed the filth away, for the most part. Here, shit quite literally rolled downhill. The more prosperous sort lived high up on King's Landing's three hills while the valleys belonged to the meaner folk.
Alesander suggested they seek an inn, but Domeric shook his head. "The city already looks full, Al. I doubt we'll find a place. Our silk pavilion will serve for bedding down, I think. Maybe close to the river where there is a breeze coming off the water would be best."
He was about to lead them out of the city to establish camp when a boy flagged him down. "Ser Knight! Ser Knight! My master would have words with you!"
"And what master is that?" Ser Domeric inquired.
"Master Tobho Mott, Ser!"
"Master of what?"
"Master armorer, Ser!"
"I've already got armor," Domeric answered. "Nice try, kid, better luck next time."
The lad was undeterred. "You have not seen such armor as my master can create, Ser! He could bring your dreadful sigil to life, cast in steel! I swear it!"
Domeric sighed. "Fine. He'll know where we can find something to eat at least. The men are hungry."
That was her man for you, always thinking about others.
***
"A cup of wine for the gentleman and his lady," the master of the shop ordered.
Mordaena sipped hers eagerly. Ah, this man was of the Free Cities himself. Mordaena could tell, and evidently knew how to treat a customer. The fineness of his garb and the many prentice boys laboring at forges to the rear of the establishment told a tale of a master doing prosperous trade. She whispered as much in Domeric's ear. One of the things he often asked her was to tell him when she sensed folk they met were fair or foul. As a merchant's daughter, Mordaena had something of a nose for such.
"Might I have a look at your shield, Ser Knight?" Master Mott asked respectfully.
"Alesander, fetch my fresh-painted one from the baggage, please," Domeric ordered.
When the boy returned, the smith studied it carefully. "Yes, yes, I see very well," he muttered. "You are of House Bolton, I take it?"
Domeric raised an eyebrow. "You know Northern sigils?"
Master Mott smiled. "I make it my business to know my customers, Ser. There have been tales of a Northern knight winning tourneys from the Vale to the Reach, but your travels have not brought you to our fair city until now. Plain steel will serve for melees in a market town, but you will be thought of small account if you enter the lists of a royal tourney so armed."
"And you can do better?"
The man's eyes lit up. "Much. You are of the Dreadfort, ser, from the cruel North. I could craft you a steel harness, terrible to behold. Imagine, if you will, a flayed man stripped of his skin, with the muscles laid bare, aye, muscle, blood, and bone. For the helm, the guise of a man, mouth open in a silent scream, a visor that resembles eyes weeping blood. Children will weep to look at it, and your foes will be unmanned. I studied at the foot of the masters of Qohor, Ser, and know the spells to imbue red and pink and bone white into the metal itself. This will be no paint or enamel that might be scraped or chipped off, but true red steel. You seem a young man, and might have grown a bit since you won your spurs. In any case, a new suit of armor would be a wise purchase. You will find the weight easy to bear, sacrificing no protection, and the joints more mobile and easier to fight in. Honor me with your custom, Ser, and you will make your mark in the tourney, I swear it!"
Her man looked interested; that was plain. He looked back at her, and Mordaena smiled slightly. Who knew how handsome he would look in dread armor? She almost shivered in anticipation!
"Will it be ready by the tourney?"
"Most assuredly, Ser."
***
When Domeric entered the lists, Mordaena could hardly breathe! He looked like death itself, a demon out of myth. His armor was all of red steel, lined and ridged like flesh, but solid. His helm and gorget almost had the same texture as the bare, bloody heads of the men he scalped back in the Vale. Gods, if she was not already with child, she surely would be this night!
As she tied her favor about his arm, as was their custom, he lifted his visor to let her look at his ghost grey eyes. How she hoped their babe would have those eyes. "Will it grieve you if I name Queen Cersei the Queen of Love and Beauty? It would be to our advantage."
"Not at all," she answered. "I well know who is queen in your heart. Forget a crown of flowers, I should prefer a crown of scalps."
"Pray for war, then," he answered. "Unfortunately, I was too young to fight the Greyjoys, but there might be others. If all else fails, we could hunt wild men in the mountains."
She smiled. "I'd like that. Now go and triumph, my dearest one."
He shut his visor with the satisfying sound of steel kissing steel gently. Every intricate joint fit together just so. Master Mott was worth every copper.
Thence, there was nought but thunder and lightning: thunder of hooves, and the lightning of the lance.
Mordaena was denied a place among the highborn ladies, but it made no matter. From here, she could get a better view of Domeric and Alesander in the field, and the king and queen. Queen Cersei was, as she had always imagined, a beauty of the Seven Kingdoms, pale, light, delicate, and airy as a confection of spun sugar. As for the king, well, he was loud.
"Knock him in the dirt!" Robert boomed. Domeric had the fortune to be matched with the one they called the Kingslayer early. That one had gilded armor, of like color with the queen's hair.
Upon the first pass, both men broke their lances clean, struggling to keep their seats. Alesander rushed to hand another lance to Domeric, who was turning Skinchanger back to the foe.
"Who is that demon knight facing the Kingslayer?" one girl asked her mother.
"They say he's from the North," another woman said.
"The gods are different there, and the land is cruel. I didn't know they had knights. Would the seven anoint a demon knight?"
Mordaena had to laugh at their prattle. The seven gods had nought to do with her man. Ah, and when he came charging back she could see new confidence in his posture. He had the measure of the golden knight.
With a great crash, the flayed man triumphed over the lion, knocking Ser Jaime cleanly out of the saddle and dashing him upon the trampled grass that was giving way to dirt. Some screamed, some stayed silent in shock, and some laughed, none louder than the king.
"Did you see that? Whoever heard of the Kingslayer losing in the first round? Did someone say Ser Demon was from the North? I'll have to ask Ned about him!"
The queen's thinned lips thinned yet more, but she kept her silence. Mordaena hoped Domeric hadn't angered her overmuch. At least Ser Jaime wasn't dead like the knight of fishes.
After that, few men lasted a single pass with Domeric. Whenever he won, he dismounted and had a brief, whispered conversation with his horse. Skinchanger seemed to listen, too. Other horses might be bigger, but none swifter or better trained. Skinchanger could reach top speed in half the strides, propelling Domeric's lance into the foe's shield before they were ready.
Judging from the armor of the men he'd unhorsed so far, the ransoms would be richer than some tourney prizes he'd won in the past. He faced men in gold, men all in white, and a knight in cobalt blue. Every knight had his colors. She found herself grateful to the boy who found them on the temple hill. Mayhaps none would remember her man if he rode in plain steel. But the flayed armor? They would surely remember.
At last, it came down to another knight in white.
"Ser Barristan!" the people cheered. "Bold! Bold! Barristan the bold! Defeat the demon knight for the honor of the queen!"
It made Mordaena frown. They were all against Domeric. It made no sense at all. Who was fiercer? What lady misliked a bloody man?
The fat king, who sagged in his seat, leaned forward in interest, at least. "Ride!" he commanded before the trumpets blew.
Both men shut the visors and lowered their lances.
Strike! An even exchange. The white knight did well to trade with her beloved. The cheers quieted down as the squires armed their sers for another go.
When once again they rode, it was even yet again, two clean breaks, though Domeric seemed to get the worst of it, struggling to stay upright as even Skinchanger stumbled a bit.
"Stop playing, Ser Barristan!" the queen screeched. That was the first time Mordaena heard her voice. It was not a nice sound, and was queerly discordant with her beautiful face. "Put the demon down!"
The white knight on the white steed raised another lance in salute, looking towards the royal box. That was when Mordaena knew Domeric would win. His eyes hadn't left his opponent.
Skinchanger's iron-shod hooves struck the ground like hammers on anvils, kicking up a great cloud of dust in his wake. Mordaena almost expected to see sparks. She'd never seen the beast run so fast. She'd never seen Domeric's lance so straight and unchanged. It wobbled not a jot, perfectly on target, tracking the pristine white shield, even as Ser Barristan shifted slightly in the saddle.
Mordaena held her breath when the point of Domeric's lance made contact. It was almost like the force was delayed for half a breath. Her man's broken lance went flying, but Ser Barristan leaned but slowly, until he couldn't hold his balance any longer and tumbled from the saddle.
When it happened, no one cheered but the king. "Hah! Did you see that? Kingslayer and Barristan both! Pity he missed the Mountain, eh? Mayhaps next time!" He beckoned Ser Domeric forward. "Come here, lad. Let me look at you."
What words they exchanged privily, Mordaena did not know. When Domeric rode forward, King Robert seemed to remember not to shout every word for all the crowd to hear.
The queen did not smile when Domeric presented her a crown of golden roses dangling from the tip of his lance, but that was just the "foot in the door," as he liked to say. Her man was always clever with a turn of phrase. His songs were evidence of that.
Alesander came trailing behind, bearing a gilded chest. With a flourish, Domeric opened it, revealing two Bolton bags of dyed leather, one in red, the other gold. This time, the queen did smile.
***
Ramsay Snow's armor from the 2027 ASOIAF calendar. Imagine something like this.
Mordaena Solel