294 AC
Mychel Redfort lived in the shadow of his brothers, and they lived in the shadow of Domeric Bolton.
Ever since the Northman had come to squire for their father, it seemed all the castle danced to his tune.
He spat. Danced to his tune. Mychel felt a fool for putting it that way. Though Domeric was of an age with Mychel's brother Jon, fifteen on his last name day, their lord father was already talking of knighting him when he came of age. They named Domeric squire, though it seemed to Mychel he didn't do much squire's work. Hardly had he ever come across Bolton scouring Father's mail.
"I've never seen a better young lance!" Lord Horton declared. Mayhaps it was true. Not a one of the brothers Redfort, even Jasper the eldest, could match him, not with swords, nor axes neither.
He wasn't a big lad, nor uncommon strong, though stronger than he looked. The problem was that Bolton moved too bloody fast. You couldn't get past his guard for nothing. Mychel had tried half a hundred times. Those creepy white eyes saw everything, and his blade was always in your way. Soon enough, you'd get a nasty little swat for trying. Fighting that songbird was maddening!
When it came to lances, best not even mention it. He rode like nothing normal, horse and man as one. He could put his lance wherever he pleased, crashing against quintains like thunder booming off the Mountains of the Moon.
As for the other lance, well, half the maidens in the Vale seemed to be mooning over him. Though Mychel couldn't prove it, he suspected Bolton had half a hundred bastards, or would. Just wait for babes to start being born with ghost grey eyes!
Every inn on the way to Gulltown, the common room would be so crowded you'd start sweating from the heat of all the bodies. Folk from miles abroad came to hear Bolton's songs, which were bloody good. Mychel knew very well he was jealous, but in this he had to give the lad his due.
Only, thank the gods, Mya seemed immune to his charms. The bastard girl Mya Stone was of an age with Mychel. Since he was a fourth son and not like to inherit much, might be who he wed wouldn't matter. Mya was tall and slim with raven hair, and bolder than a girl had any right to be. It must be the bastard blood, making her wild. But Mychel loved her for the wildness. They'd already kissed a bit, though she refused to go further until they were wed, which seemed sensible enough.
Of course, none of that mattered just now. They were headed to the fair in Gulltown. Their party consisted of Lord Horton, their father, along with the brothers Jasper, Creighton, Jon, and Mychel, the youngest. Domeric came too, along with their lady mother, guards, and servants.
"So what's this fair about?" Domeric asked nobody in particular. His fine palfrey stepped easily on the rocky road without much direction from him.
"Wool, what else?" replied Creighton, who was almost a man grown. "Every shepherd for long leagues is driving their flock to Gultown. It's midsummer, so the coats should not be too thick, I think. They'll shear them, then you'll have merchants and weavers and traders buying it all up. There'll be mummers, jugglers, lads selling pies, and singers!"
"Singers?" Domeric fingered his wood harp and strummed a chord. He also had a high harp with silver strings and a lute, though those were in their baggage. "Well, we'll see if any can match me. I've got some new songs just for this."
"None with such a fair voice," Mother said. She rode beside their lord father towards the rear. "To tell it true, I feared when your voice changed, but it's still high and sweet, though stronger and richer now, I deem."
Mychel wanted to retch. His parents treated Domeric like another son and praised him to seven heavens. Mother had received songs at supper every night for these past few years and was not like to refuse Domeric anything. Domeric sang not for pay, as with other singers, but gifts? Aye. Gold chains, jewels, silk, and velvet, Domeric Bolton dressed better than a prince, often in the garish pink of his house. Even that grotesque flayed man upon his breast seemed fashionable when Domeric bore it on his doublet. Though not a man grown, his boots were on the finest, most supple leather, and he rode the best-bred horses.
Domeric Bolton shined, and the brothers Redfort lived in the shadows. He couldn't win his spurs soon enough!
***
Mychel had never seen so many people in one place before! The wharves were packed with ships: purple-sailed galleys out of Braavos, fat-bellied cogs from Oldtown or Lannisport, even a whaler or two from the port of Ibben. They all stood tall and proud, drawing the eye to the sea beyond. A pleasant breeze came in, blowing off the water, somewhat offsetting the midsummer heat.
As packed as the docks were, the cobbled streets of Gulltown were even more crowded. Highborn lords and ladies made their way into the city on silk-caparisoned steeds, and peasants drove their flocks before them, riding on donkeys and carts or not at all. Just with a single casual glance, Mychel was able to spot the silver arrows of Hunter, the bells of Belmore, the studs and runes of Royce, and the burning tower of Grafton. Diverse people could be heard speaking in a dozen languages. He asked Domeric if he recognized any.
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"Some Valyrian dialect," he answered. "My music master was Lyseni, and they say that tongue is closer to the High Valyrian of old, but the further you go from the doom, the further the language has drifted. Considering where we are, I bet many of them are from Braavos or Pentos. Those cities are just across the Narrow Sea. I can make out snatches of it, here and there, but I'm definitely not fluent."
Something Domeric wasn't instantly good at, Mychel thought happily. Even he couldn't master all the tongues of the world.
The central plaza was lined with half a hundred stalls, selling everything from pies to peaches. All the haggling of the grown and the screams of the children running by was like to give him a headache.
"I wonder where I should play," Domeric wondered aloud. "I don't want to start a riot."
From anyone else, that might sound like arrogance, but with Domeric, it was simple prudence.
"We have rooms at an inn, dear, the finest in the city. There will be guards, so you may play in the common room and need not worry," Mother told him.
Dear Domeric. Darling Domeric. It would never end. Women loved a singer. Never mind Bolton wasn't particularly tall or handsome. He had a plain, common face and might be mistaken for a baker or a carpenter if he wasn't all in silk and carrying a harp.
They rode past the market to a broad building of hewn granite with a slate roof. There was a sign hanging over the door with a silver stag painted in exquisite detail, big as a platter. "Here we are," Father said. "The Stag is new. They say the old inn that stood here burnt down when King Robert stormed the walls of Gulltown in the war against the Targaryens. The new owner named the establishment in His Grace's honor."
Grooms were waiting to take their horses to the stables and servants to take their baggage up to their rooms. He was to share a bedchamber with Domeric. Joy.
There was a basin filled with water already provided to wash the dust from the road, but Bolton, always precious about being clean, asked for a hot bath. Gods, that boy bathed more than anyone he'd ever heard of. The window of their room faced south, catching the sea breeze and cooling his sweaty body. While Domeric departed for his copper tub, Mychel decided to head down to the common room and see what was what.
It turned out they were sharing the inn with rich merchants, mostly foreigners by their dress and talk. Mychel couldn't understand them. It was mostly men in somber black and dark blue, but richly cut. There was one very pretty girl wearing a purple dress trimmed with Myrish lace. Mychel asked the innkeeper for a cup of wine while he tried to work up the courage to talk to her.
While his sweetheart Mya was tall and thin, this girl was short and voluptuously well-formed with breasts that nearly spilled out of her bodice. Mayhaps she was a daughter of one of the rich merchants. Her garb bore no heraldic device, but he could see a silver chain about her neck and jewels hanging from her ears and on her fingers.
One cup of wine became two, then three, and his brothers joined him. Creighton and Jon were looking at the girl too.
Now or never, he decided. Once his older brothers approached, he'd have no chance at all.
"Hello," he said, feeling a fool. "I'm Mychel Redfort."
The girl stared at him for what seemed an age, and Mychel feared she could not understand him.
"I have the honor to be Mordaena Solel, daughter to Alandro Solel, merchant of Braavos. I understand House Redfort is a significant landholder in these parts, yes?"
Her accent was heavy but quite understandable.
"Yes! Er, I mean, that's right. Redfort lands are west of here, in the hill country."
You're a fool, Mychel, a damned fool. Is Mya not enough for you?
She smiled at him, and it was a fine smile, too, with two rows of straight, white teeth like polished ivory set in a dainty, luscious mouth. He did his best not to look down her dress.
They exchanged courtesies while his family and hers looked on. He dared not look back to see the mocking smiles his brothers no doubt had on their faces. The youngest had to work twice as hard to obtain half the honor. Then it all went to seven hells.
Domeric came back from his bath, wearing a new clean doublet and toting his high harp with silver strings. He played a sad song about Romeo and Juliet. Mychel had never heard of Romeo and Juliet. Was it just something he made up? Mayhaps he should read more histories.
Every woman and girl in that inn had tears in her eyes by the end, and Mordaena never looked at Mychel again.