294 AC
Lord Horton Redfort's hall had been filled with music and laughter since Domeric Bolton had come down from the cold North.
His grandsire's sister had been wed to Lord Roose's father, so they were kin, though distant. The bird from the Dreadfort had requested he take young Domeric as his squire, but Horton had received so much more. Truly, the lad was another son to him, filling their days with mirth and merriment. Edwynna, his lady wife, liked the boy even better. She was always mad for singers, his Edwynna. Young Domeric was better than them all, and highborn besides. Small wonder that merchant's daughter from Braavos was moist-eyed whenever she joined their family at table. It spoke well of young Domeric's restraint that he didn't have half a hundred bastards already. Nay, the boy was courtly, a son any man would be proud to own to.
Buying the boy a set of plain grey jousting armor troubled Horton not a whit. Gorget, greaves, lobstered gauntlets, breastplate and helm came to about five dragons, give or take twenty silver stags. He'd win it all back in the first tilt after ransoming his foe's horse and armor. The prize for the champion at the tourney of Runestone was a full hundred dragons, as well as a warhorn, banded in bronze, with runes of the first men carved into it. Horton had every confidence that Domeric would go far, if not win outright. The boy was half a horse already. Save those ghost grey eyes, he was mostly Ryswell, it seemed. They had a horse for their sigil, he recalled. Ah, and how those ghost grey eyes burned with covetousness when he saw the warhorn prize. Domeric was a pious boy, faithful to the old gods, and proud of his heritage. That horn would be his.
His older sons Jasper and Creighton would also try their lances in the lists. As for Horton himself, he was past forty, and had the sense to leave the glory to younger men. Every lord and landed knight whose smallfolk kept sheep had a fat purse after the fair. Why not enjoy it? They were in the midst of high summer, Good King Robert sat the Iron Throne, and save for that short disturbance in the Iron Islands, the realm had enjoyed peace and plenty.
Lord Royce's carpenters erected fair stands in the field beyond his ancient seat of Runestone, covered by a silk overhang to keep the worst of the sun off the spectators. There were boys selling meat pies, fruit tarts, bowls of roasted nuts, and cups of wine or ale to any with coin. Lord Horton erected a silk pavilion in the grounds beyond where shields bearing the red castle of his house and the flayed man of the Dreadfort hung outside. There was a feast the night before, and he was starting to regret drinking so much, judging from the pounding beneath his brow. He was not a young man anymore, and his constitution was not what it once was. His boys had no such worries, sharing wine and song with all. Mostly song. Domeric never stinted to share his high, sweet voice at any social gathering.
Jon had begged him to enter the lists as well, but plainly he was too young. "I'm fifteen, Father!" he declared petulantly. "You are letting Domeric ride! We're the same age!"
"Domeric is a match for men grown," Horton pointed out, not unkindly. "You should know it better than most. You train in the same yard. I worry not over him in this company, but my younger sons? Aye. You may squire for your older brothers if you wish."
Poor Jon was bitterly disappointed, but he knew his boy. There were puissant knights here, Royces, Hunters, and Waynwoods. Being unhorsed by the likes of them might cripple his young ones.
"Oh, look!" Edwynna pointed to the field below. "Domeric is receiving his lady's favor! She ties a strip of purple silk around his arm. He can't fail now, Horton. Dom knows what it means to fight for his lady love. He sings of it so often."
Domeric's pink cloak was draped over the hindquarters of the spirited red courser he loved so well. The Bolton boy tended to favor speed and skill over brute strength, like those big, monstrous destriers other knights were wont to ride. That mount would serve him well, Horton knew.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
"Domeric Bolton shall face Ser Halder of Seabrook!" cried a herald. A big knight in plain armor with two white swans twinning in embrace painted on his shield entered the lists. Horton had never heard of Seabrook.
"A hedge knight," Lady Waynwood snorted in disdain, and took a dainty sip from her goblet.
Others might be disappointed at that, but Horton Redfort was thrilled! A no-name hedge knight was ideal for Domeric's entry into the lists!
In lieu of Trumpets, the master of the games blew a blast of the warhorn prize to signal the combatants to the lists. It sounded dark and deep, calling men to war and valor. Domeric and this Ser Halder lowered their lances and spurred their horses forward.
His young ward had a queer way of riding. It seemed he glided over the tourney field, almost falling forward, as a hunting falcon in a dive. He never once looked away from his quarry, homing in with furious style, lance never wavering from its mark. Before Horton could take a breath, there was a great crash and crack as Domeric's lance split clean and Ser Halder was lifted bodily off his saddle and sent flying into the air! His poor horse kept running, hardly noticing it had lost its rider.
"YES!" he stood and cheered. "WELL STRUCK, MY BOY, WELL STRUCK!"
The lords and ladies of the Vale knew not what to make of his Domeric. They had heard his lovely songs at the feast yestereve, but little did they imagine he was a puissant warrior in the bargain! The boy acknowledged the cheering crowd with a wave of his hand before dismounting and chivalrously checking after the well-being of his fallen foe.
Ere Ser Halder rose, it seemed harsh words were exchanged. "Forgo the ransom!" he demanded loudly. "I have no horse and armor but these!"
"Then you shouldn't have entered the lists at all, Ser. Don't ride what you can't afford to lose," Domeric replied reasonably. Victory wasn't guaranteed. He would need that horse and armor to pay his foster father back if he fell in the next tilt.
Ser Halder would not hear sense, though. Before the master of the games could intervene, the hedge knight drew a sword.
"Domeric doesn't have a sword!" Edwynna cried in dismay.
It was true. There was no longsword on Domeric's belt. He must not have thought he would have need of it, since this tourney was only a plain joust.
The hedge knight chased Domeric with wild slashes, but the boy danced nimbly out of the way. "Guards! Guards!" Lord Horton shouted, but none could hear him over the tumult. Ladies screamed. Men shouted useless advice. The soldiers who should've stopped this folly looked on like dumb mules.
When Ser Halder tried to split the boy's helm with a downcut, Domeric moved out of the way and grabbed his wrist before he could withdraw it. Then, quick as a shadow cat, Domeric lunged for the dagger on the right side of Ser Halder's belt. With one smooth motion, he ripped it from the scabbard and drove the blade deep underneath the hedge knight's arm.
With a quick spring, Domeric evaded the backslash. Once his ward was out of the way, Horton could see blood spreading, dripping down Ser Halder's arm. The bleeding would be worse inside the breastplate, Horton knew. The wound was mortal for sure. Ser Halder staggered to one knee, then collapsed as Royce men flooded onto the field with naked steel, but one could hardly arrest a dead man.
Horton and Edwynna rushed down to see to their young ward. "Domeric, are you all right?" his wife asked, her voice shrill and half-hysterical with fear.
"Just fine," he answered, cool as the evening. Horton thought he was putting on a brave face, but would not shame him in public. He knew very well Domeric had never killed a man before. Such a thing would shake any knight, let alone a lad of fifteen. "You might want to cover up that bloody spot with sawdust," Dom suggested to the master of the games who came to check on him. "A horse might slip and break a leg."
After that, the tourney proceeded with no entrant shaming themselves. Creighton, his second son, always eager to prove himself and competitive with Jasper the heir, won two tilts before being unhorsed by a son of Lord Royce, which was no dishonor. Jasper proved less fortunate, facing that same Royce in the first round and being eliminated straight away.
Domeric, though, proved unbeatable, overthrowing every knight set against him on but a single pass. His skill exceeded Lord Horton's every expectation. In the final, he faced Ser Lyn Corbray and saw to him just as easily as he did that vagabond hedge knight. His Braavosi sweetheart kissed him when he raised the bronze-banded warhorn high for the crowd to admire. Horton resolved to knight him when they returned to the Redfort. It was only just.
Pious as always, Domeric insisted on keeping his night-long vigil in the godswood. That was where he found the boy the next morning, gazing at the white weirwood, ancient and gnarled. Domeric Bolton said the words before its eyes that bled red sap, and rose a knight.