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Early 295 AC
In the yard of the Dreadfort
The young bolton lord stepped into the ring bareheaded, no helm over his brow, wearing a simple black gambeson over his chain mail.
No plate, no helm , nor thigh padding, and instead of his steel gauntlets to protect his fingers and wrist, he simply wore tight brown leather gloves, for todays spar.
In his right hand rested a longsword forged by the best smiths within his land, it was well balanced, and carved into the pommel his hilt was a cross. In his left, a curved sabre of Essosi design but it too was made within the Dreadfort, the ripple pattern of the high quality steel was present well, this one edged blade was lighter, faster, its edge keen enough to shave hair.
Across from him stood six men.
These were not boys or green levies. These were the best the Dreadfort had produced: veterans of skirmishes, disciplined killers, hunters, men of martial prowess not brutes that knew only to fight in a tavern or back alleys.
Ser Harlon Stoutsteel was also among them, armored and heavier than the rest, shield strapped to his arm. Stoutsteel was another of five the Lieutenants under Steelshanks, he was a cunning and dangerous man , another of Roose's old guard.
The others spread out naturally, instinctively forming a loose crescent.
It was Six against one.
Someone swallowed audibly, exchanging glances between his neighbor. He saw the lord bolton fight more than one men at once but never six especially with stout steel in the mix.
Caro leaned close to Maester Coleman and Rigmond at the edge of the wooded plaza.
"Twenty stags says none of them touch him." He smirked.
"You're an idiot," the maester coleman muttered. "Make it thirty." He added knowing well enough that Domeric would defeat all six men.
Caro chuckled before turning his attention to Rigmond.
"And you Rigmond,"
The expelled maester stared at the ring intently.
Coleman also gazed at the man expecting waiting for his reply.
"40 silver stags that he does get a scratch this time, Stoutsteel is fighting after all", he said not even sparing them a look.
"Well prepare to pay up then," Caro says coyly.
Back in the ring, Domeric raised both blades slightly before twirling the swords simultaneously with a graceful ease.
"Fight as though you would in war, hold nothing not even for me", He spoke evenly though some of them looked towards stoutsteel who merely nodded his helm at his lord's order.
And before one knew it , Ser Harlon came in fast, shield-first, sword angled for a crushing follow-up. At the same time, two others split wide, boots kicking dirt as they tried to flank.
The remaining three advanced slower, measuring distance, waiting for an opening
Domeric stepped forward quickly.
Not back.
The longsword snapped up, catching Harlon's blade with a sharp crack, while the sabre flashed low and fast. Domeric twisted his hips, redirected the shield, and hooked the sabre behind Harlon's knee. A sharp pull, a shove with the shoulder had pushed Harlon back almost hitting the dirt but the man had caught himself quickly.
Harlon was a tall man, measuring around 6 ft 2 inches, heavy in contrast especially in armor. And to have his lord who was younger and shorter standing at 5 ft 11 inches him in strength the man to almost disorient him Harlon was caught off guard. This was the first time he fought Lord Domeric and now he saw why he didn't lose any of his previous spars.
Before the man beside him could capitalize, Domeric spun in an instant like a wheel. The longsword came around in a tight arc, striking the flat against a helm with a ringing clang. The man stumbled, dazed, and Domeric kicked his ankle out from under him.
'One Down', he counted mentally.
Steel sang as the others closed in. A spear thrust darted in from the left , Domeric slid inside it, batting the shaft aside with his sabre while driving the longsword's pommel into the spearman's jaw. Teeth clicked. The man folded like parchment.
'Two.'
Ser Harlon roared and charged once more, shield raised high. Domeric met him head-on.
The shield bash came like a battering ram—but Domeric rolled with it, letting it glance, then chopped down hard with the longsword. Not at the shield. At the rim.
The wood split and the sabre followed instantly, glancing Harlon's wrist the man twisting to avoid the trap the bolton lord set and cascading backwards.
He observed his lord for a second, he said nothing as quiet as a mouse before pressing his attack again.
Sword and shield worked in ruthless tandem now, cut, bash, cut again. Domeric parried the first with his longsword, caught the second on the sabre, and twisted aside from the third.
The sabre flicked out, seeking Harlon's exposed thigh, but Harlon anticipated it and turned his knee inward, the curved blade scraping harmlessly off leather and mail.
The two men circled each other, neither side rushing the other.
Harlon feinted high and slammed his shield low, trying to trap Domeric's leg. Domeric leapt back just in time, the shield grazing his boot. Before Harlon could recover, Domeric snapped the sabre toward Harlon's face. Harlon raised his shield instinctively and Domeric's longsword struck the shield rim again.
Not to break it this time. But to take control of the man's defensive weapon.
Domeric hooked the longsword's crossguard over the shield's edge and wrenched it sideways. Harlon grunted, muscles straining, boots digging furrows in the dirt as he resisted.
For a heartbeat they were locked together, strength against strength.
Harlon twisted sharply, disengaging, and brought his sword down in a brutal overhand chop that forced Domeric to cross both blades to catch it. The impact shuddered through Domeric's arms.
The crowd held its breath.
Harlon followed with a knee strike, armor slamming into Domeric's thigh. Domeric absorbed it, rolled his weight, and answered with a short, vicious pommel strike to the lieutenant's helm that rang like a bell. Harlon stubbled but the larger did not fall.
Stubborn bastard.
Harlon recovered with a spinning shield sweep meant to knock Domeric off balance. Domeric ducked under it, sabre slicing in a tight arc toward Harlon's exposed ribs. Harlon twisted at the last moment, the blade biting only cloth.
They broke apart, both breathing harder now, with sweat running down their brows. Though it was more evident on the man at arms, than his liege who seemed to be enjoying himself.
Domeric had a subtle almost hidden playful look that said he wasn't giving it his all.
Harlon saw it clearly and he endeavored to make the young lord exert himself, his pride and honor was on the line he couldn't lose here.
And so he attacked again, committing fully this time. Shield bash, sword thrust, shield bash again each blow meant to batter Domeric into submission. Domeric gave ground deliberately, parrying and redirecting, waiting for an opportunity.
Which then presented itself, Harlon had overreached.
It was a small thing, a fraction of too much weight on his front foot during a shield rush. Domeric stepped inside the charge, slammed his shoulder into Harlon's chest, and twisted. The sabre hooked Harlon's sword arm at the elbow while the longsword pressed against his shield, levering it down.
With a sharp twist and a stomp on Harlon's boot.
Harlon lost his balance and he was slammed into the ground.
Domeric did not waste the moment.
The longsword snapped up, its flat resting against Harlon's throat, while the sabre pressed lightly into the gap beneath his arm.
"Yield," Domeric said calmly.
Harlon froze.
Then he exhaled, slowly yet steadily , before letting his sword hilt go. He grimaced for a second, before releasing a sigh.
No one liked losing and neither did a man of his stature but he would accept this loss fairly.
"I yield," he said, voice hoarse.
Domeric stepped back at once, lowering both blades.
The last three circled even more warily now, sweat streaking their faces. Their unease was apparent. But they attacked together, one high, one low. Domeric retreated a step, just one, then surged forward. The longsword parried high, locking blades. The sabre came up underneath, raking across a thigh, controlled but decisive.
The man cried out and fell back.
Four.
The final fighters hesitated.And that was their mistake.
Domeric closed the distance in three quick strides. The sabre disarmed one with a flick of the wrist; the longsword did the same to the other merely halting an inch from his throat.
Silence fell over the yard before it erupted in cheers.
Domeric stepped back and stabbed both blades into the dirt
"Damn it!" Caro and Colman blurted out simultaneously.
"My good lords It seems I'm owed some money", Rigmond grinned ear to ear.
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