294 AC
What a fascinating world he'd been reincarnated into.
Typically, Westerosi beauty standards tended to favor tall, slender women with pale white skin. Necks were especially favored. Songs he'd learned often made special mention of a long, white neck, likened unto a swan. This was not exactly Domeric's preference.
Mordaena Solel was the first real thick girl he'd come across, so she got special attention. Her dark curly hair that cascaded over her shoulders in ebon ringlets, her olive skin, her big brown eyes, and her curves had Domeric feeling things he hadn't in quite a while, not since the gods brought him here. After his little concert, he'd invited her and her father to dine with his foster family. Nobody objected. His foster brothers got to look at her, and his foster parents got to do him a little favor. Everybody wins!
"So you said your mother was a courtesan," he mentioned in Lyseni. Her command of the common tongue was not great, and his Braavosi was worse, but they both spoke Lyseni decently well. Domeric supposed he shouldn't be surprised. A Braavosi speaking Lyseni would be like finding an Italian who could speak Spanish, pretty common, and lots of overlap between the two languages.
"That's right," Mordaena confirmed. "The Lady of Sparrows, she is called. My father paid for the exclusive use of her for a time, and to father a child on her."
Fascinating customs you could find across the sea, Domeric thought. "He is a trader in leather goods, correct?"
The Redforts were all smiling politely at their conversation, though they clearly couldn't understand a word. So much the better.
"Your wars in the Seven Kingdoms have been terribly profitable for my father. He employs over a hundred craftsmen, saddlers mostly, but men who make boots, leather jerkins, and other oddments as well. Your soldiers wear much leather, though few notice under all the iron."
They shared a private smile, pity he couldn't marry her.
No, his bride was still a little girl back in Winterfell, or so Auntie had told him. The creepy old vampire who sired him had a plan, you see. Domeric was to be the perfect courtly knight, seasoned in the south, much like Lord Eddard Stark had been. Daddy dearest would dangle him before their overlord as part of some long-term strategy to advance the interests of their house. Plainly, Domeric Bolton was a pawn in a game his father was playing.
Well, he couldn't complain too much. From what he'd seen, the South was where the money was. If he wanted nice things, he'd have to come down eventually. Hmm, speaking of coming down south...
"Have you ever heard of lizard lions?" he asked.
Mordaena blinked cutely. "I do not believe so, Signor."
Domeric flagged down a servant who had been hovering with a flagon of wine. "Could you bring me some parchment and a quill?"
The boy rushed to obey. Maybe the flayed man on his tunic had frightened him. Being born into the "obviously evil" noble family had its benefits at times. When he returned, Domeric quickly sketched out a drawing of what he'd seen on his way down the Neck. He slid the image over to Mordaena past a platter of mashed turnips.
"See those scales? Think on what your father's men could do with the hides. They'd make excellent boots, shoes, belts, and especially bags."
"They look like baby dragons," she said in wonder. "You've seen these for true?"
"Yes, and I know just where to find them."
She frowned thoughtfully. "What do you mean by bags? Why waste good leather on such?"
Domeric took the parchment back and did his best sketch of a designer handbag from Earth. "Not bags as you imagine, my lady, but dainty bags that ladies might carry; you could inlay them with jewels and other ornamentation."
Those big brown eyes had a shrewd look in them, a merchant's daughter indeed. She slid the drawing over to her father, who examined it with a critical eye. "If what you say is true...what would you be wanting, my lord?"
No point in waiting to drop the hammer. He gambled that if Mordaena's mother was a courtesan, a man of Braavos would not take offense.
"Give your daughter to me as a concubine, and your house and mine could be partners in this. My aunt has lands not far from where lizard lions might be hunted, conveniently situated on a river."
Mordaena's head twisted so fast that Domeric was afraid she might snap her neck. She turned pleading, anxious eyes towards her father.
She wants it, he realized. Did he truly sing so well? In this world, decent entertainment was so rare, and life so boring for people who didn't have to work all day, that singers like him could write their own ticket.
"We will have to be seeing these lizard lions with our own eyes, and take a few hides to test their suitability. If what you say is true, you may have my daughter for your woman. Concubine to a highborn of the Seven Kingdoms is a finer life than I can give her back in Braavos. You will be good to her, yes?"
"I'll sing for her every night," he promised. Mordaena beamed.
***
The fair went on for a week as sheep after sheep got sheared. The merchant Alandro Solel was on hand to purchase the hides of those slaughtered for the feasting, and of the excess rams to be culled from each flock. Mordaena told Domeric her dad got pretty good prices. Everybody's mind was on the wool, so hides were an afterthought, as leather might be when you thought of knights. Something boring and not typically flashy was the wisest path to wealth, Domeric supposed.
At the end of the fair, Bronze Yohn Royce of Runestone announced he would hold a small tourney at his castle in a moon's turn. Most of the chivalry in this part of the Vale was present, and they all had fat purses after collecting their share of the wool profits. All the Redfort boys were electrified by the news.
Domeric thought on it. This might be the ideal opportunity to give Lord Horton an excuse to knight him. With that secured, he could get back home and bring the Solel's with him. Everybody at the Redfort said he had the makings of a tourney champion.
It's true horses seemed to go where Domeric wanted, almost without his conscious thought, almost supernatural. A good lance must first be a good horseman, Lord Horton Redfort liked to say. Well, Domeric was a good horseman.
It pained him to admit, but he was a much better natural athlete in this life than in his previous one. In terms of reaction time, balance, and overall coordination, it was completely different. At times, his opponents in the yard seemed so slow and clumsy that he had to hold back to avoid humiliating them too much.
Yes, time to win and go home, he decided. The old gods, the true gods, brought him here for a reason. These people, with their fake seven gods, were just here for him to take advantage of.
When he approached his foster father about competing, the man didn't have to be convinced at all.
"We'll get you some plain jousting armor made, Dom. I know you'll do me proud. There's an armorer here in Gulltown with a good reputation. You can use the red courser you ride so well. Just pay me back out of your winnings."
Domeric chuckled. No pressure.