HARRY BOLTMORE

A day, a night, and a half of the next was how long he had spent on the Oakroad, a wide path lined with the endless stares of the branches of trees of oak, that travelled from the borders of the King’s City down to the keep of Ravensgate north of the realm.

He was seated in a crowded jitney-wagon, clutching the longsword he had been handed to wield for the tourney by Gale Mormont, the man retired from the service of gold, but the steel had not been handed over to him without warning though. “Lose it and do not return, boy, Kingsknight or not,” the man had said, with a face that looked to be screwed angry. It was always that way, Harry scarcely saw anything take over his face, it was as though the man had spite for all, that was what his face said, even though his actions told him otherwise.

Harry had heard the warning, but spared little listening to it, his eyes were awed at the glimmer of the longsword as he drew it out of its leather scabbard which was made of dark-brown sable skin, while watching its edges ripple in the light of early morning, like a swaying silent river of more silver than blue. “Crescent moon is its name,” Gale Mormont put in while he watched the boy let the scabbard fall to the floor as he gripped the hilt of the sword, putting his right below the crossguard and his left just above the pommel which was forged in the likeness of a crescent moon, hence its name.

“It’s heavy,” Harry muttered with a strained voice. “I can barely keep it lifted. Will I be able to win the tourney with it?” He turned a stare to the burly man, his dark-golden eyes seeking something of assurance from the former Kingsknight.

“If it’s assurance you seek, you will find none from me, boy. You look more likely to lose than win… but if you choose to fight, then you must have the will to fight. Your faltering and assurance seeking will get you nowhere.” The man turned away then and began to make his way into the small thatched-roof shelter he called his home. He stopped when his door went halfway open though, and muttered something to Harry who still gripped the sword with all the strength he could summon, “Your muscles are weak to wield such a sword, that’s why it feels heavy. Your fight will no doubt be hard, a stick sword might even be of more service to you, only it will shatter at its slightest contact with real steel, and no doubt steel as real as this shall fill the tourney grounds, but if it’s a consolation of any sort, that sword, I have never lost a battle with it ever since His Grace, Aeron had given it to me. Now, enough talking. Be off with you, boy, only one damned wagon leaves here by day.”

And only one wagon did leave, taking him and the four others that had boarded all the way from Oldtown up to where the Oak trees stopped following them with their eyes. “The stop’s ‘ere,” the carter sassed after reining his mule to a stop. “You get off ‘ere, all of ya,” he added peevishly, his chew of the mint stick in his mouth intensifying now that there was no gallop to drown out the sound.

“Here?” Harry asked after dropping his feets covered by soleless long boots to the floor, his longsword now fastened to his waist along with a small pouch made from the same worn out leather as the knapsack that hung from his back.

He was wearing the best tunic he had, a brown one with detachable sleeves, patched at the right breast by a cloth of grey. It had been ripped there one morning when he went fruit hunting, a branch had caught his best tunic and made a large hole that would leave Harry sulking for a little over a week. Once he patched it, he had less anger, but he still wished the tree to be living so he could beat it over and over for what it had done, that wish never came true. The only other tunics that came close to the one he wore were packed in his knapsack, awaiting the time he would put them over his body.

“But the city’s still like a trek away,” Harry added to the carter while pointing to the speck of a view he could see down the road. The man turned to gaze down at him with vexed eyes, the right side of his face burnt and scarred irritatingly, so much that the eye buried on that part of his face hid itself in fear amidst it. He must have been burnt for his foul mouth, Harry thought to himself still pointing.

“A trek away like ya said. ‘Ere’s all ya coin could take ya. So shut up and trek the rest like the others are doing,” the carter spat green from his mouth to the ground beside Harry’s boot, missing it just by a finger’s length then continued chewing. “Now, fuck off, boy.” The carter grinned uglily, showing the hideous gap between his middle teeth smeared with the green of mint, before flapping his rein and taking his wagon back down the Oakroad.

It was a damned wagon alright… Harry hissed and then kicked dust over the man’s spit in a fit before turning around to look at the other passengers who were already on their way with their treks; he wondered why no one said a thing and just wandered off. Was there a reason? Maybe there was, it was his first time so far away from Oldtown after all.

What does it matter…? A small smile crept upon his face as his mind reminded him of the stories he had heard of the King’s City while eavesdropping on the old geezers at the market square. He sighed and gripped the straps of his knapsack tightly, and joined the others in their trek, his smile receding as quick as it came.

After he had walked a ways, the speck he had pointed at came to become a better view before his eyes, but the long line of people awaiting clearance for passage through the city gates, pushed him to the back of the line and impaired his eyes from gazing upon the structure of the city with utmost care.

Harry stood there for a long time, so long he was not sure the line even moved at all, it was as though it was a lengthy slithering snake that crawled forward with the speed of a snail. Moving it was, but at the same time it was not, and he had no choice but to stand, one hand on his longsword’s hilt and the other on the strap of his knapsack, stamping his feet to prevent it from cramping up as he listened to the rowdy hisses, spits, and bellows of the people that lined up before him, and the ones that had joined later at his back, making the line ever longer.

It was autumn, closing in on winter, so the sun was nowhere to be found, and that made his queuing a lot more easier.

He had queued up at Oldtown once, when a merchant from Whisper’s Reach came with his crafts to sell. He had heard of the good luck penchants they always brought and how it would cast away all the user’s bad luck; there was a lot he needed casted away, if there was any that needed the penchant the most, it was him, and of that mind he went to the stall of the merchant in the market square, standing in a long line in the sweltering heat of summer, hoping to use all the coin he had saved up to purchase one of those magic penchants; he never managed to do so as the merchant was all sold out before it could reach his turn, and now he wondered how that penchant, if he had purchased it, might have helped him on the ‘morrow during the tourney.

“Move, fool!” A shove came from behind him, pushing him forward and out of his reverie. That was when he noticed the space that had festered before him while he was drowned in his thoughts of penchants.

After covering up the space, he turned to the person who had done the shoving, a woman lean and long and pale, her eyes as ugly and haggard as her wrinkled face. She was not old, and she was not young either, she was just a peasant like he was, under-cared and underfed, and no doubt should not be given the care of a child. She held the palm of one in her hand, a boy dressed in a roughspun gown the same as her, with hair dirtied and muddied, and a bony face that told Harry he might have not eaten in days past.

“Have a problem with me, boy?” The woman hissed.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Your child,” Harry said, “he looks hungry. Might you give him something to eat?”

“Want to be his father, eh? I see you have a leather pouch there. Got some coins, I’ll sell him to you. Take him off my hands if you will.” She yanked the boy forward a bit, shuddering a frown from Harry. “Or would you rather wed me? If you got coins, yes is all I’ll say. If not, then you keep your damn mouth shut.”

Harry’s nose wrung up in disgust. He didn’t expect people this far out to be such brutes, aside from his bane of three, the people at Oldtown were much more welcoming… here, not so much as it seems. Is the King’s City filled with people such as this…? He bowed slightly in apology and turned forward, keeping his mouth to himself.

It was already past midday when he found himself front of the line, and closer to the walls of the city to feed himself with the view he had been craving. His eyes watched the majestic walls, spanning to the east and to the west with nothing of an end in sight. The width was one thing, the height another. They were tall, and to Harry they looked double the height of the Goldenstone castle at Oldtown which he had seen and heard stood nothing less than twenty feets. That one was magnificent when he saw, this one took his breath away to the point he began to wonder what would happen when he saw the king’s castle. That one would be far more magnificent, if he was allowed to imagine.

Atop the walls stood sentry guards traversing the length of the walls, all, for as much as he could see from where he stood, dressed in full body armour of silver and capes of black, just like the two that stood before the risen black portcullis gate made from iron bars the size of pine trunks, clearing some people for passage and sending some away for reasons unknown to him. He hoped they would not send him back though, he needed this tourney, he needed it.

When he was the third to the gate, a clatter of wheels and the neighs of horses came forth from his side, drawing the gazes of the lined-up peasants to it for the second time today. Lords and knights had ridden into the city while they queued, their squires following suit while flying their banners above their head as they did; freeriders did the same, those one had no banners to present over their heads, but they were of a higher class than peasants and were therefore granted a more quicker access into the city. But even though a lot of glimmering knights and lords had ridden past, only one carriage had come to pass through the gate, a one made of ebony wood, curtained on all sides with no view of the inside, on the body of the carriage was carved the sigil of an eagle on a grey and black background divided diagonally, and the guards that rode the destriers that pulled the carriage were dressed in a half-helm, leather and banded mail crested with the same sigil as the one on the carriage.

“House of Blackwood,” they had announced, and with haste they had been let through. Harry had thought them some high-held people with how swiftly the portcullis guards let them through. He wondered who sat inside.

But he wondered not the same for this second carriage. This one was made of redwood, and on it was carved the sigil of a phoenix grasping a sword with its talons. The windows of the carriage were not curtained, and from it he saw the sky-blue eyes of a silver haired young woman peeking out through it, her hand on her chin as she watched the queue with a lost-minded gaze. To others, it might have looked like she gazed upon them as though they did not seem to exist, but he knew such eyes, she was merely just lost in thought, a thought that no one could understand. Now, he wondered something else for this one: what troubles could slump a rich and beautiful lady in thought? That was what he wondered now.

“House Flamesworth,” these ones had said and passed, and passage had been granted the same for the other two before him on the line. Now it was his turn.

“What you here for?” One of the guards said with a tired voice, his plain eyes watching him through unvisored gaze. The other guard watched as well, with a spear in hand.

“Here for the tourney… Ser.” Harry did not know which honorific to appoint the guard, so he appointed him what he thought was best.

The guard looked and studied him from up to down. “Not a Ser. That’ll be five silver coins.” The guard pointed to the wooden box standing beside him after he was done studying him. “Pay and pass.”

Harry was confused, he had never heard of paying for the tourney before. “Am I to pay for the tourney? I never heard of that before.”

“Not the tourney, the gate fee. You pay to pass.”

Gate fee? That he had never heard of as well. Would they send him back? His heart started to pound. He did not have enough silver to pay for the gate fee and also for a place to sleep and eat. “But, I’ve never heard of a gate fee before as well.”

“New king, new rules, boy,” the other guard with the spear spat. “Pay and pass, or don’t pay and leave.”

Harry’s chest tightened further. He only had the five silvers left. All he had been able to gather were ten silvers. Five had been spent for the journey here, and five he was saving for his rest, he was going to win the tourney, he told himself, so he had not troubled himself further for more coins, once he won he would have enough, but how would he win now if he could not enter.

“Leave, boy, we do not have the time to dawdle all day here.” The guard hit the base of his spear on the ground. “Leave.”

Harry was distraught, his hands tightened on the straps of his knapsack while his legs had begun to shiver and he could not move a step from where he stood, he saw the guards becoming angry through their armets, and he heard the agitated shouts from behind him booming at him to get out of their way. They did not understand though, he could not move, this was all he had left, he could not return home to his father this way… his father… he could not.

“What’s going on here?” Harry had not heard the gallops come, but he turned his head to look upon the bay-silked destrier and the man saddled atop its broad back. He was a dark-skinned man with hair of pale yellow permed at one side, his green eyes watching Harry from where he sat atop his horse, the same colour as the asymmetrical leather coat he wore uncovering his hairy chest, where a golden chain hung from with the head of a tiger carved onto it.

“Who are you?” The guard with the spear turned his anger towards the mounted man.

“Maurin of House Lockeheart.” He pulled his chain out from between his coat and showed the carving to the guards, they took a quick glance at each other and bowed.

“Pardon us, Ser Maurin, we did not know who you were.”

“No worries. Tell me what’s happening here, if you please.” He dipped the chain back in between his coat as though he wanted no one to ever see it.

But Harry had seen it and he was baffled. He was a Ser but so plain looking, he and his horse. He had seen knights already, but this one mounted before him was not the same as them. Why was he only in a green coat and tan pants with nothing of a sword to his hip? His horse was no different, only a saddle, it was not enamelled like the horses of the other men that already rode past today flying their banners… he didn’t even bear a banner or a squire. A knight riding plain and alone, it was hard for Harry to swallow. What sort of knight was he?

The guards began to explain to the Ser, “He’s here for the tourney, this one, and he has no coin to make it into the city.”

Ser Maurin turned his green eyes to Harry again, watched him gripping the strap of his knapsack for a while, then his eyes squinted for a second as he caught sight of the crescent moon pommel fastened to Harry’s waist, before he returned his eyes back to the guards. “Kingsknight, eh?” He chuckled. “Let him through, I’ll pay his coins.”

Gasps and murmurs came from the line behind Harry, all of them astounded the same as Harry who stumbled on his feet as his heart skipped a beat. His lips could not part way because of the confusion of what had just transpired. He wondered if he had maybe gotten hold of that merchant’s good luck penchant somehow, what was happening was not something he could believe.

As he shook his mind free from his wandering thoughts and carried his eyes back to the man on the horse, he saw a brown pouch drop from the horse’s height and he instinctively let go of his knapsack’s strap to grab a hold of it, which he did. It was filled with coins. So heavy, he had never held such a weighty pouch before.

“Do well at the tourney,” the man said and smiled before putting his boots to his horse and riding into the city. Harry’s face brightened slightly and he quickly dropped the five coins he had in his pouch before hurrying into the city walls through the risen portcullis, with a slight mind to catch up to the horse to kneel and bow in thanks to the kind Ser.