Domeric VII

298 AC

He knew it disappointed Al, but he forbade the boy to ride in the melee. Today had bad vibes. Gregor Clegane had a brother who might want revenge, for one. That guy lost early and went off to get drunk, but he could be back. Frankly, Domeric was still incredibly pissed about the attempted murder of his squires. Didn't people fear him? Somebody thinking they could lay hands on his people felt like a personal failure. Domeric didn't trust himself not to take out his frustrations on a stranger and kill somebody in the melee. And, well, he didn't want to press his luck. Al and Elia were okay, but it was fucking close. No point in tempting fate.

The fat king wanted to be Dom's friend, invited him to drink together at the feast and everything. Maybe he'd take Robert up on the offer after the melee. Mainly, he was thinking about what to do about their winnings. Elia had twenty thousand gold dragons as the winner of the joust, and he ten thousand as the second place. They talked of it while they waited to watch the melee, which had been strangely delayed. What were they waiting for? Bad vibes. Something was up. You fight enough battles, and you develop a sixth sense for these things.

"We'll have twin castles, of course," Elia said happily. She clung to Al. They were clinging together, honestly, and kept stealing kisses. Well, Domeric should've seen it coming. They went to war together, and they were a teenage boy and girl. Nature took its course.

"Twin castles?" Al sounded terribly confused but completely on board with whatever she wanted.

"Yes!" Lady Lance nodded firmly. "One castle in Dorne and a second castle just like it in the North. They will be our Twins. We'll spend summer in the North and winter in Dorne, just like Ser suggested. We can live off my tourney winnings. This is my first victory of many. The Freys of North and South, they'll call us."

Alesander gulped. "Freys?"

Elia kissed him again. Was she drunk? Maybe drunk on love. "Of course, silly. When we marry, I'll be a Frey."

In this world, first love turned into "let's get married" real damn quick, it seemed to Domeric. He knew from experience that stonemasons' wages were shockingly low, so Elia probably did have enough money to build two small castles from scratch.

"Why me, though?" Al asked in a small voice. He was a big boy, almost a man grown, but sometimes his squire had confidence issues. It was the same with music. He didn't want to project his voice and draw attention to himself. Al should've been more confident. He had a lovely voice, a good, strong baritone.

"Well," Elia held up five fingers and started counting off, "you're big and strong and handsome. You're reliable. You sing well. I trust you. You protect me. You saved me."

"That's more than five," he pointed out.

She went quiet and frowned in thought.

"What?" he asked.

Elia looked away shyly. "You're the only boy in the world who understands me and accepts me for who I am. We've been through so much together. It's obvious the gods meant for us to be married."

Then they started kissing again. Domeric had to pry them apart; people were staring.

The sun was getting low when the riders took the field. Would they be able to finish before it got too dark to see? Fat King Robert could easily be spotted with his antlered helm and bulging breastplate. He looked like an overstuffed sausage about to burst. As for the others, not so much. At this distance, the devices on the shields and surcoats could hardly be made out, and it would get worse as it got darker. Fighting now was madness.

"Funny story," Domeric told his squires. The darker it got, the more handsy they got. Best to distract them. "King Robert told me my fight with the Mountain inspired him to fight in the melee personally. He hasn't in several years, he said."

And no wonder, he was fat as fuck. Maybe the melee was delayed so long because they couldn't find armor that would fit him.

When the melee started, all eyes were on the king, and why not? Fat as he was, their sovereign was big and impressive. Lesser men shied away, avoiding furious swings of his warhammer. Domeric had no idea how a warhammer of all things could be made safe enough for melees. Of course, a melee was never safe. Men died all the time, and many a horse had to be put down after being crippled.

"Look there, see how his hammer is already getting slow? He's tired, huffing and puffing, can barely lift his weapon. That's why I'm so evil to you two with drills. The fighter who tires first loses, oft as not."

"Yes, Ser," the two answered him in dull monotone. They clearly would rather be making out. He could sympathize. Mordaena had an infant, Nymeria was too pregnant to travel, and Alyx was very busy with the 298 Bolton Bag launch. No woman for him on this trip.

The sun dipped lower, and they heard more of the melee than they saw. Still, the king's horns were visible. In the distance, servants were setting up feasting tables by the river. Maybe it would be smart to just ditch the dim melee and get a head start.

There were sounds of steel on steel, men and horses screaming, and the king haranguing his foes breathlessly. "Come on and hit me, you cravens!" he thundered. Still, men avoided him as if he were diseased.

Good voice, though, Domeric thought. With training, he'd be a hell of a bass.

Finally, the king got stuck in, battering the shield of a man with a flaming sword. Those flames made everything clear as day. They exchanged blows on one another's shields, but to Domeric, it looked more like play. They weren't really trying to hurt each other.

I guess they're humoring him, he thought. Then Domeric saw a black shape galloping up behind. When the figure got close, it was clear from the light of the flaming sword that this stranger didn't have a sigil at all. His shield was plain iron-banded oak. Hedge knight who just bought the shield without having it painted, maybe? Smiths did a lot of business right before tourneys, as competitors needed quick replacements for old gear.

He heard a heavy metallic crack. The hedge knight just brained the king with a mace! Technically legal, but it was a hell of a cheap shot, and on the king besides. One of the antlers went flying.

At first, Robert didn't react, almost like the blow was a mosquito bite beneath his notice; then his movement grew lethargic, almost drunken. The little tennis game of hammer and fire sword on shield ceased, and His Grace sagged in the saddle, slumped, then tumbled over the side. There was another sickening crack when the second antler snapped off. At least, Domeric hoped it was the antler.

Many people in the crowd didn't notice. It was getting dark, and a lot of them had the same idea as Domeric: to get down to the feasting area. That all changed when a woman shrieked.

"Someone fetch a maester!" screamed the beautiful queen. She sounded like she was in mortal agony. "I told him not to fight! I told him!" she babbled for anyone who was there to listen. Soon, full-blown panic had spread through the stands. Some ran away, and some ran onto the tourney field to try and help the concussed king. Yeah, this day was fucking cursed.

"Let's get out of here, kids. We can eat in camp. At first light, we're headed north and staying for a while." With all the chaos around, his squires didn't argue.

***

That night, Domeric dreamed of his time in the Neck and what Lord Reed's son said in the weirwood grove. Only, the exact wording was jumbled. There was a giant, and a field of flowers, but he couldn't recall much more than that. The only thing that was crystal clear was the last line: "then, the deluge."

Then, the deluge. Deluge of what? War? It sounded like war. Probably not war as he saw in the Mountains of the Moon, either. Real war, war between the kingdoms with thousands of pikes and longbows butchering each other and mounted lances poised to charge. The kind of war where the battles had names.

Stolen from NovelPhoenix, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The dream felt strangely real. It was like being back there, in front of the gods. Those bad vibes he'd been feeling all day were stronger than ever. Of course, Domeric always got bad vibes south of the neck. Maybe this meant playtime was over. The events seemed to fit, more or less. Gregor Clegane and Loras Tyrell were dead. But that wasn't enough to start a war, was it?

They were breaking camp and loading their gold and provisions on carts when a man approached. "Ser Knight, I beg a word!" he cried urgently. Fuck! Domeric just knew some bullshit was about to go down.

Dawn was only just breaking, and there was a good breeze off the bay, but even from here, he could smell the man: sweat, leather, and sour wine. He wore rusted ringmail over a greasy leather jerkin and walked with a limp, sellsword, or maybe a sworn man to a less prosperous house.

Domeric sighed and dismounted. He'd almost got away. Then, the deluge. "Speak your piece, friend. There's a long journey ahead of us."

"I shall not waste your time," he promised. His pronunciation was strange, too refined for what he was wearing. The dissonance put Domeric on edge. "The king is dead, and Lord Jon Arryn is in peril of his life. I beg you to go to his aid, as quick as may be," he stated in precise, clipped sentences.

"Dead?" Domeric seemed to recall another royal who died in a tourney, or was that a trial? "In peril from whom?"

The man looked over his shoulder uneasily. "From the Lannisters."

That surprised Domeric. "I thought the queen was a Lannister."

"Just so. King Robert's body has not yet gone cold. Baratheon and Lannister already fight over the regency, or mayhaps the throne. The Hand and all his household are besieged in their tower apartments by a force of Lannister men."

Wait, this sounded political. "Listen, I'm not trying to start a war."

Not that he had a choice. Then, the deluge. The gods brought him here for a reason. It was time to pay up.

"War is already upon you, Ser! One of King Robert's brothers is already dead, and all the men who followed him. There was a pitched battle in the Red Keep. Many are slain, and there is much confusion. There is a small chance you might be able to relieve Jon Arryn and extricate his people from that abbotoir. The Hand is a sensible man. If he can win clear, a peace might be made, but first, you must deliver him from his enemies. You and your soldiers might make all the difference!"

Domeric realized he hadn't even asked this guy's name. "First, tell me who you are."

The man raised his head and let Domeric have a good look. He had plump stubbly cheeks, but those eyes were intelligent. "I am called Varys, or the Spider, if you like. I have the honor to be King Robert's Master of Whisperers." From his educated manner of speech, Domeric could well believe he was an important man at court.

The knight sighed. Then, the deluge. What choice did he have? The dream practically warned him something like this would happen. It was all part of the gods' plan, hopefully. "Arm me," he told his squires. Then he instructed them to get a ship.

"That will not be necessary, Ser," Varys interjected while Al and Elia were buckling him into his armor. "A ship is prepared. There is a knight captain sworn to Lord Stannis who is ready to depart ere you return with Lord Arryn."

"Great!" Domeric looked at Alesander and Elia. "I want you two on it, right now. Load everything up and wait for me, Jack, and the men."

"But Ser!" they complained.

"But nothing! You've got enough gold to live out the rest of your grandchildren's lifetimes in luxury. I want you both safely in the North surrounded by friends and relatives. I'm about to make some powerful enemies." Once he and his men, plus Obara, who was basically soldier twenty-one since she married Jack, were tooled up, he turned to Varys. "I hope you have a way into the castle. If there was fighting inside, I bet the Red Keep is sealed tight."

The pale man smiled. "It is, but spiders know secret ways."

They followed Varys. This early, the docks were pretty deserted, just fisherfolk heading out into the bay and little else. A few did a double-take when they saw his armor, but that couldn't be helped. It was a long walk until they reached the cliff with the Red Keep jutting out above. "Sling your shields; we must climb from here, my good men."

Handholds were carved into the rock, and sure enough, at the top of the ridge there was a tunnel, which presumably led into the castle.

"The Tower of the Hand is this way. Ser Domeric, with your permission, I could lead half your men by another way to take your foes in the rear."

Domeric considered the offer, then nodded. "How many are we fighting?"

"Forty or fifty Lannister guardsmen, but no knights. Every knight remaining attends the queen. She has shut herself up in Maegor's Holdfast and raised the drawbridge. They shall not be there to oppose you. Your men are far more seasoned; you may depend on it. If your soldiers take them by surprise on two sides, you will surely conquer."

That made sense. "Right, noise discipline, everyone. Move as quietly as you can and communicate by hand signals only." It was just like they did it in the mountain campaign. "Find them, close the distance, and kill them all."

They stepped lightly down the castle corridor, mail clinking and boots shuffling, but quiet enough. When they reached the mass of Lannister redcloaks at the base of the Tower of the Hand, an unarmed man was with them.

"The queen says she is ready to negotiate!" he called up. "Safe conduct is guaranteed. Lysa, my lady, tell your lord husband! Just come down, and we can end this unpleasantness!"

He was short and had a goatee. Domeric didn't like his face. If the battle brought them together, woe to the little man. Dom made the signal to attack, and they charged with no battle cries.

The Lannisters did not know they were under attack until Domeric split the skull of his third man. Poor Al had spent hours last night honing his axe again. As soon as they seemed to realize their peril, the second group led by Jack and Obara took them in the rear. From there, it was all too easy.

Two minutes later, the biggest danger was slipping on all the blood. Shock, surprise, and experience in real desperate fights between two small groups carried the day. Obara stuck her spear in the guts of that little man who was trying to lure Jon Arryn down into the teeth of the lions. Good for her. Domeric made sure to get the scalp, though. It was a good scalp, full head of hair on a middle-aged man. He'd hang it on the heart tree in Barrowton, or maybe at the Dreadfort. The Mountain's scalp belonged to Oberyn, though. What a wedding gift! Just a little late.

"Lord Arryn, there is a ship waiting!" Domeric yelled. If there were more Lannisters about, he'd kill them too. An Arryn knight who'd been holding the barricade at the base of the tower ran up to get his master. It took a minute for him to come down and have a look at all the dead redcloaks.

"Ser Domeric?" The old man looked like he couldn't believe his eyes. "You've done me good service yet again. Lord Eddard will hear of it, I promise. Aye, and the king as well."

"The king?"

Lord Jon sighed. "King Stannis. It is a long story, better had once we are safe at sea."

Domeric could only agree. They needed to get the hell out of dodge. Arryn still had a decent number of guardsmen with him, and one of the king's brothers, the bald one. They started to leave when Lady Arryn threw a fit.

"PETYR!" she wailed. "THEY KILLED PETYR!" The woman ran to the scalped corpse and slipped on a puddle of blood.

"Who the hell is Petyr?" Domeric asked. The group had to get moving, so he never received an adequate answer. Lord Jon's much younger wife lost her mind and had to be carried down to the docks, where they took ship. Not a single person tried to stop them.