Chapter Four (Patreon)

Aenar grinned as he twirled the sword. It had taken him a long time to figure out how (his claws weren’t meant for such dextrous motions) but now that he had it down–

“Are you fighting or dancing!” Ser Borys bellowed.

Across from Aenar, Ronnal Baratheon grinned. “Pretty drakeling doesn’t want his scales scuffed,” the chubby-cheeked eight year old teased. More than twice his age and four inches taller, Ronnal the Younger was among the strongest pages in the yard, a boy who hoped to be made a squire before the year was out.

Today, Aenar was going to beat him.

Aenar rushed forward. His shield pushed, angled to wedge between Ronnal’s shield and his weapon. Ronnal swung, the wooden warhammer screaming through the air. Aenar met it with his sword head-on.

CLACK. Wood collided with wood, sending splinters into the air. The force of the blow shifted Aenar on the ground, his feet digging into the earth of the training yard. He pushed, shoving against Ronnal. Ronnal pushed back.

Aenar grinned. He moved, sliding away–

But Ronnal caught him. Damn my low Dexterity score, Aenar thought as he moved back, shield pulled tight against the advancing stag. He flicked his sword up, hoping for a feint, but Ronnal had been studying longer than him and neither disregarded nor fell for the blow. Ronnal swung again, and Aenar caught it mid-strike on his sword, deflecting the warhammer into the ground. His retreat halted, Aenar advanced swiftly, his sword rising. Ronnal swung his shield to buy space, but Aenar was not to be deterred. He met Ronnal’s shield with his own, strength meeting strength in a shower of splinters once more. Aenar pushed. Ronnal pushed back, his weight lending him what muscle alone could not.

Too close for proper attacks, Aenar swung with his pommel. Ronnal dropped his warhammer, grasping Aenar by the wrist and squeezing. It was a powerful grip, one that pressed his muscles even through the layers of black scale.

“Yield, little dragon,” Ronnal grinned.

Aenar huffed. He shoved again, and again Ronnal resisted him. More than that, he pushed back. With his arm awkwardly held out, with Ronnal’s foot in just the right place, Aenar tripped.

“Yield,” Aenar grumbled. Ronnal let go of his wrist.

“Lord of the Yard!” the other pages cheered.

Ronnal offer Aenar a hand up. Aenar took it, careful not to scratch him. “Well-fought,” Ronnal said.

“Not as well,” Aenar sighed. “Oh Lord of the Yard! How ought I pay my taxes?”

Ronnal blinked. Then, pointing his nose directly in the air, Ronnal declared in the gaudiest Oldtown accent, “I accept only the finest of tribute!”

Aenar looked at his wrist. One of the outer scales was loose. Wiggling it a bit, he pulled it free. “Here my lord,” Aenar declared. “A dragon scale, from the Far East. Strong as iron, rare as diamonds.”

Ronnal looked down at him imperiously. “Very well,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I accept your tribute, Ser Aenar of the Dragonlands. Stand by my side.” He turned to the other pages. “Who else comes to give tribute to the Lord of the Yards?”

“I do, my lord,” Jon Penrose declared. He held a twig in his hand. “I bring to you a stem of the mighty ululee plant, considered sacred in far-off Ulos.”

“Very well,” Ronnal declared. “I accept your tribute, Ser Jon of Ulos. Stand by my side.”

*

Aenar grinned as he woke up. It was his fourth birthday, and that meant changes–systemic changes. Apparently four was old enough for him to be recognized as a child, instead of a toddler. Instead of being cut in half, Aenar’s physical stats would now be subtracted by four. Granted, this meant literally nothing for his dexterity–that remained bad as ever. But his strength . . .

Aenar grinned as he faced off against Ronnal in the yard. At nine years old Lord Rogar’s nephew was already a squire, already beating opponents two or three years his elder in the training yard. It showed in his face, the smug look in his eyes, the smirk on his lips.

“You sure you want to do this little dragon?” Ronnal asked.

“Not so little any more,” Aenar smirked. He’d grown six inches in the last year.

“Still shorter than me,” Ronnal replied, and swung. Aenar did not try to avoid it. That was not, would never be, his strong suit. Instead Aenar pressed through it. He took Ronnal’s hammer swing on the shield, angling it just so to let the worst of the blow skid off. What remained still sent shockwaves through his arm, still pressed his boots into the dirt, but Aenar just grinned and moved forward. Ronnal swung again, using his long arms as an advantage. Aenar stepped forward, catching the second blow on his shield, then struck. His sword thrust forward, all power and strength. Ronnal blocked the blow, yet could not account for the might. His feet stuttered, and Aenar moved. He swung down at Ronnal’s arm, aiming for his hand. Ronnal moved, blocking his block in a parry. Aenar twisted and stepped forward, bringing his arm up to smash Ronnal in the face with an elbow.

“OW!”

Aenar shoved with his shoulder, pushing Ronnal back. Five feet of Baratheon child moved, swinging as he stumbled into a retreat. Aenar grimaced as he caught the blow on his shield, sliding in the mud. He was strong, but so was Ronnal.

“You little–”

“You gonna talk?” Aenar asked, lunging forward only for Ronnal to dance away. “Or are you gonna fight?”

“Ha!” Ronnal said, and brought the hammer down. Hard. Aenar leaned back just in time, avoiding a blow to the head. Instead it glanced his chest, still sending him reeling back across the yard. Ronnal moved swiftly to follow up, wild swings coming under control once more. “You’re good, cuz, but you’re not that good yet.”

Aenar stepped into a swing, catching the full force of the hammer on his shield. Even properly braced he slid half a foot. “We’ll see about that.” He swiped. His sword was blocked by Ronnal’s shield. Ronnal moved to bash him, but Aenar stepped to the side, attempting another blow, only to duck as Ronnal swung for his head once more.

Aenar could have stepped back. Reassessed. Asserted his calm. Instead he stepped forward, into a contest of might and strength. He charged the Baratheon, slamming headfirst into the padded chest. The two collapsed to the ground, weapons and shields forgotten as they rolled about, tussling in the dirt. Elbows and knees became the weapons of choice, fingers jabbing about. But in this fight, Aenar had a mighty advantage.

“Ow, ow! Yield, I yield!” Ronnal called out. “Seven above, your claws are sharp!”

Notification: Rival Defeated (Non-dangerous Scenario, EXP reduced) +30 exp

Aenar grinned, dismissing the notification. He stood, quickly offering Ronnal a hand. “I have them,” Aenar said. “Might as well use them.”

“Fair enough,” Ronnal huffed. “But you’ll have to best we with weapons alone if you want my title.”

“You can keep the title,” Aenar replied. “Ser Borys said I could start training with a halberd as soon as I beat you in a spar. Right, Ser Borys?” Granted, it had been said more than a year ago with the tone of ‘when pigs fly,’ but Aenar had every intention of holding the Master of Arms to his word.

“Lad,” Ser Borys sighed, “you’ll give me more grey hairs than a flock of Herdwick sheep.”

“So . . .”

“Yes, you can start learning the halberd.” Ser Borys fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare. “But you’d best not start slacking when it comes to the sword! Bad enough what you do to the bows. Downright shameful, that is.”

Aenar felt his cheeks warm as Ronnal started snickering. It wasn’t his fault he’d rolled so poorly for dexterity. At least my scales keep me from blushing.

*

Aenar carefully folded his doublet, making sure not to crease the light cotton. He placed it neatly atop the fine wool winter doublets, pressing them down just enough to be compact. He turned to the next set of items, a pair of felted trousers, only to be pulled from his task by Ronnal’s grumbling.

“I still don’t get why you have to go.”

Aenar bit back a sigh. Honesty or lies? For a second he weighed the option. Ronnal was a friend, true child or not. He deserved the truth.

“The King ordered it,” Aenar said.

“And?”

“And he’s the King,” Aenar replied. “I’m a child. A child of a hated king. A child who most people think was born with monstrous features.”

“You’re not monstrous!” Ronnal shouted. “You’re just . . .” he floundered. “Different,” he finished weakly.

“And to many that is the same thing,” Aenar replied. “They’re wrong, but they are many.”

“I’ll fight them.”

“And the King’s dragon?”

“I’ll fight him too!”

“And your Lord Uncle?”

“Sod him!”

Aenar grinned. He stepped forward, wrapping his scaled arms around the pouting Baratheon. “You,” Aenar declared, “are the best friend I could hope for. But the King commands, and I must listen. It won’t be so bad. I’ll write you.”

“You’d better,” Ronnal huffed. “I hear the smiths on Dragonstone rival those of Qohor.”

Aenar hadn’t heard of that before. “Think they’d let me apprentice to them?”

“If the smiths find out you can’t burn?” Ronnal laughed wetly. “We’ll have to pry them off you.”