Chapter Three (Patreon)

Aenar woke slowly. He blinked, looking around him. He was in a crib again. Wooden slats, decorated with stags rather than dragons. I guess we made it, he thought bleerily, then cursed. He’d missed seeing Storm’s End from the sky. Well, no time to cry over spilled milk. Best get on with it. Aenar pressed himself against the mattress and began to stand. Surely, this time he could avoid tearing the—

–rippppp–

. . . Damn it

*

Aenar liked Storm’s End. There was a heaviness about the place, something that went beyond the weathered stone. Aenar felt it buzzing against him as he toddled through the hallways, a static electricity that brushed against his senses as his hands pressed against the stone brick walls.

He liked the library as well. It was larger than he’d expected, given how Borros, Robert, and Argiliac were depicted. But the Durrandons had reigned for eight thousand years, and one did craft such a dynasty by forgetting their history. Maester Oryk had a staff of six to care for the library and their archives, which went below the castle walls and into the cliffs themselves.

“Boy!”

Aenar snapped to attention, eyes flicking up.

“If you are going to request these lessons,” Maester Oryk glared, “you will pay attention.”

“Sorry, Maester,” Aenar agreed.

Oryk leaned back. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“House Tudbury,” Aenar said. “Their sigil is a brown turtle, on a yellow lozenge on green.”

“A tortoise, but otherwise correct,” the Maester said. “Their words?”

“Still Swimming.”

Maester Oryk nodded. “Who are their lords?”

“House Estermont?”

“You’d think that, but no. House Tudbury answers to House Tarth.”

“Are they on the Isle of Tarth?”

“Yes, near the center. Their sigil comes from an extinct species of land tortoise, a rather large one.”

“And a delicious one, if they’re extinct.”

Maester Oryk huffed, which Aenar took as a win.

“Can you name the other noble vassal of House Tarth?”

Aenar shook his head.

“House Herston,” Maester Oryk revealed. “Their banner is a yellow rooster's head with red comb, within a white escutcheon, on red. Their words are, ‘First to Fight.’ Their lands are on the northern coast of Tarth.”

Aenar nodded, committing the knowledge to memory as best he could. While he doubted he’d need to know a the names of minor Stormlands houses, it could certainly prove useful if he ever washed up on Tarth’s northern shore.

*

The castle was quieter with everyone gone. They’d left for King’s Landing, to make Jaehaerys’ claim to the throne. Maegor was dead, and they needed to secure the crown. Aenar knew that. He knew it would work. He knew why he was left behind. That didn’t make it any less boring. Or painful.

Naturally, Aenar decided to fill the void. Unfortunately, he and the maester had a very different idea of what proper reading and writing meant. Even worse, the maester always won out. After demonstrating his knowledge of what passed for local mathematics, Aenar’s education was full of noble houses, courtly manners, ancient history, and geography. Even the latter two subjects–ones Aenar enjoyed in his previous life–were made dry as the Red Wastes by the maester’s tedious nature and twice as exasperating for lack of knowledge and details. The Wendwater River, for instance, marked the southern borders of House Staedmon. Yet none could say for certain which of the Wendwater’s tributaries marked its headwaters, for some dried up in summer years and others in winter years. Naturally, wars were fought over which tributary was the true headwater, whenever a particularly ambitious lord of House Fell or House Staedmon felt they had an advantage.

Even worse than the maester was the Master of Arms. Unlike Maester Oryk, Ser Borys Swann needed no special requests to realize Aenar and his body were maturing ahead of their chronological age. Ser Borys figured that out on his own, and (after spotting Aenar trying to bake bread with his claws one time too many) grabbed him by the arm and dragged him bodily into the training yard.

“Here,” Ser Borys said, tossing a wooden sword at Aenar. “We start with the grip.”

Aenar looked at the sword. “Do I have to learn the sword?”

“Scared of it?” Ser Borys sneered.

A little. “No,” Aenar lied. “I like polearms.”

Ser Borys’ sneer died. He nodded. “Polearms are good,” the Master-of-Arms said. “Reach is good. Reach keeps you alive. But a sword keeps you alive once you lose that reach. We start with the sword for basics, then we work on the polearms.”

“Okay,” Aenar said, and began learning the proper grip for murder.

*

Of all of Aenar’s tutors, from boring Maester Oryk to brutal Ser Borys, there was one he hated the most: Septa Alys. Not because of her attitude, but because of her message. Despite her kind demeanor, despite her gentle smile, Septa Alys had only one thing to say.

“The Seven forgive all who pray to them, even those cursed by foreign gods.”

“The Seven shall grant you salvation, despite the mark of the beast.”

“The Seven are the sight of holiness, just as the dragons are the sight of death and evil.”

“The Seven–”

“Ser Borys,” Aenar said one morning as he moved between stances. It was a year and some months into his stay, and he was finally strong enough to use the proper practice swords, the one with lead cores that mimicked the weight of a steel blade. “What do you think of my scales?”

“Your scales?” the knight asked. He hummed a bit, and smacked Aenar’s side with his stick. Aenar corrected his stance. “They seem useful. Barely felt that, didn’t you.”

“It stung,” Aenar admitted.

“That would’ve bruised someone with skin,” Ser Borys replied. “Would’ve cut open a child your age. Damn useful things, those scales of yours. The Septa giving you trouble again?”

Aenar looked up suddenly. Ser Borys smacked him again, and Aenar got back into position.

“Don’t think we didn’t notice,” Ser Borys said, once he was certain Aenar was focusing. “I’ll talk with the Septon, see if he can handle your lessons instead. He’s more a man for pastoral work than accosting people’s sins, if you catch my drift.”

Aenar wasn’t entirely sure if that mean the septon was easily bribed or if he genuinely cared about the community, but either one sounded better than being told he should repent for his existence. “Thank you, Ser Borys.”

“Not a problem lad,” Ser Borys smiled. “Now, enough of those stances. You’ll need to swing right too if you’re to fight those Dornish bastards next time they come raiding.”