Written with His Grace

The Red Keep was massive.

It had taken an hour just to get through the gates and past all the various checkpoints and Gold Cloaks and Serjeants, one of whom had been particularly brusque. Then there was the steward with the upturned nose...

Uncertain of his purpose or what was to be his fate, Domeric had decided to leave Ceryse in a comfortable inn and made the trip up to the castle alone.

He was glad of it, for the fashions in the capital had not yet reached the blighted Reach, and his wife would have been dismayed to learn that her gowns and hair were no longer the style of high courts.

As he followed his Gold Cloak escort through the castle, his nerves began to get the better of him.

“So...” he began, fidgeting again with the sealed letter, “How long have you been with the Gold Cloaks?”

They had left the yard and its flowering palms and cool breeze for the wide stone halls of the holdfast. Domeric quickly lost track of the stairs they had climbed, his gaze drawn to the paintings and tapestries on the walls.

There were many, each seemingly more beautiful than the last, all in gold wrought frames polished so well he could glimpse his reflection in the precious metal.

Battles, landscapes, ships, and the royal family.

“Nigh on five years now,” the guard replied, not in an unfriendly manner.

They passed one of a tourney melee, a spectacle on a scale much larger than Appleton’s. He had scarcely enough time to examine the details of the artwork, however he managed to catch a glimpse of a knight bearing black and white colors. It could hardly have been an Inchfield man, but the image made him think of his brother, alone in his last moments but for Calon Sloane standing before him.

You’ve been going on and on about that one-eyed freak, and yet when you have the perfect chance t-

He had cut off his brother’s last words to him, leaving him to be with Cyrenna. There was no true goodbye between them, and he would have to live with that.

“Ser?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked where you were from, Ser. If you don’t mind the question, beg your pardon.”

Now it was the guard who looked embarrassed, and Domeric was grateful that the feeling wasn’t his for once.

“Ah, my apologies, I was admiring the art,” he lied. “I’m from the Reach, House Inchfield. If you’ve never heard of us I wouldn’t be upset, we’re not a very famous house.”

“Must be of some note,” the guard replied, “to have a meeting with one of the crown.”

He was young, maybe ten and eight if Domeric had to guess by the lack of hair on his chin, but brawny all the same.

And not much younger than I.

He thought back to when he was the guard’s age, and his time imprisoned at Old Oak. It was when he had met Cyrenna, not long before the war’s end and their release. He envied the boy for being his age in a time of peace, serving in the Red Keep. It was likely he hadn’t seen much combat, and Domeric tried to push thoughts of watching his father’s men needlessly die aside.

“Mayhaps you’re right,” he answered. “Though what that note may be isn’t known to me. Unless His Grace always makes an effort to meet tournament champions.”

Domeric highly doubted that was the case.

The guard smiled.

“Not that I have seen,” he said. “But you can count yourself lucky it is the King who called you, and not the Queen. I have heard that the only thing more powerful than her beauty is her temper. Still… I’d accept a summons all the same.”

The young man blushed, and cleared his throat.

“It’s not much further,” he promised.

“I have met the Queen,” Domeric said with a grin. “In Oldtown, just after the war. It was brief, and I don’t remember much of a temper, but she was indeed beautiful.”

“Breathtaking,” the guard sighed. “But strange, in a way. Not like a beautiful woman you would see in a picture, or even dream about in your head. She’s different. Like she’s not from here. Like-”

He stopped himself, his cheeks managing to redden further.

“Forgive my bold tongue. It is crass to speak thusly of a married woman, and of the Queen. I do not mean to sound like a common soldier in the barracks. I meant no offense to Her Grace. My commander is a severe man and would not be pleased to learn I said anything at all.”

Domeric quietly chuckled. “He’ll get no such reports from me, I assure you… I don’t think I asked your name earlier, friend.”

The Gold Cloak smiled with relief.

“Walder,” he said. “Of Hayford.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Walder of Hayford. How much further do we have? I can’t say I’m accustomed to so much walking within a single castle.”

“This isn’t even a quarter of it,” Walder said with some pride. “There are secret passages within these walls that some say only the Targaryens know. The Queen was born knowing, before she ever set foot within the holdfast.”

He grinned, as though he were sharing some great secret.

“It isn’t much further, Ser, but sometimes the King is late with his appointments. The man he is with at the moment in particular seems to take more of his time than granted. I’ll warn you, His Grace’s mood may be a tired one for it.”

“I appreciate the warning, Walder.”

As they came closer to their destination, Domeric could feel his heartbeat speed up. He went back to fidgeting with the letter when he wasn’t rubbing at his wrists. The thin layer of sweat that was building up was again a nuisance, and he wiped it off on his doublet, hoping Walder didn’t take notice.

The guard’s announcement came far too soon.

“Here we are, Ser, just ahead.”