Chapter Six (Patreon)

Aenar hummed as he severed the last of the sinews binding the rabbit’s hide to its meat. He carefully examined the hide. It was better than his last attempt. Much better. Gaining ranks in Survival had not been his goal with these hunting expeditions, but he would not turn down the unexpected bonus.

Setting the rabbit fur aside, Aenar added the newly-skinned corpse to his stake. Three rabbits now adorned the yard-long spit of green wood. Aenar placed it carefully above the fire, where it joined the other roasts. Two more spits bore rabbits, while a little ways away the grand prize of the day rested. A marlin, weighing some eighty pounds, lay on a woven lattice of green wood above a bed of coals.

Aenar smirked at the memory. Vorelkorth had looked more than a little silly carrying the great fish, his wings flapping wildly as he flew barely twenty feet off the ground. Yet determination had seen the green-eyed dragon through, and true to his word Aenar would prepare and cook whatever his friend managed to hunt.

A whoosh of wind brushed the fires, sending sparks flying. Speak of the devil, Aenar thought. He watched as the black-scaled dragon leaned in for a landing. Dramatic as ever, Vorelkorth skidded to a halt in the grass next to him, claws tearing through the dirt as he came to a stop.

 . . . food ready? Vorelkorth asked. Despite months of companionship Aenar still struggled to understand every word of the dragon’s language.

“Nearly,” Aenar answered. “Some of the rabbits will be ready within half an hour.” And, thanks to the pinwheel he’d set up, he didn’t even have to turn the spit by hand.

Vorelkorth grumbled. . . . weren’t . . . better.

Aenar grinned. Dragon breath could cook, but it always burned. Only human (or half-dragon) hands knew how to caramelize. “Patience will be rewarded.”

Vorekorth grumbled. He jutted his mouth into Aenar’s knee, sending him stumbling forward.

“Oi!” Aenar said, catching himself on the coals. “I could’ve hurt myself, I could.”

Fire.

“Besides the point!” Aenar grinned. Vorelkorth had given him the perfect way to keep them both busy while the rabbits finished cooking. “I demand satisfaction!”

Huh? Vorelkorth’s confusion turned to glee as Aenar leapt at him, the two falling into a pile of dust, scales, and torn cloth. Not for the first time, Aenar was glad he wore only his worst clothing on these outings.

*

Aenar stared at the manuscript. Two weeks ago, on his fifth birthday, he’d been rewarded with his first true class. It wasn’t the class he’d have chosen for himself (or even one he’d known was an option) but the Noble class made sense, considering the education he’d gotten. True, Aenar was planning to focus on his more marital education, but having a skill-rich first-level class never hurt. Especially if he was trying to help his big/little sister understand magic.

Unfortunately, it seemed dumping a few of his skill points into Knowledge (Arcana) had done jack all for understanding what the Valyrians meant in their mystical ramblings.

“I’m sorry cousin,” Aenar sighed. “I can’t make crowns or dragons of this.”

Aerea huffed, sitting back in her chair with a thud. “I can’t either,” she admitted after a while. “Do you think there’s something we’re missing?”

“Yeah. Probably some sort of primer. An introductory book. We’re looking at a Maester’s work without having read the basic history.”

“Because the basic history got burned up in the doom.” Aerea grumbled, but her eyes watered.

Aenar leaned forward, throwing a scaled arm around his cousin. “Or,” he whispered. “Visenya hid them.”

Aerea frowned. “Why would she do that?”

“She didn’t trust Tyanna.”

Aerea shuddered. “I barely remember her,” Aerea whispered. “But what I do . . . I wish I didn’t.”

Right, Aenar thought. Bad subject. “If she didn’t trust Tyanna, she wouldn’t have trusted her with the family magic,” Aenar continued. “She would have hidden them somewhere. Somewhere safe.”

Aerea perked up. “Somewhere on Dragonstone.”

Aenar grinned. “Think any of the servants know about secret passages or hidden doors?”

Aerea grinned back. “I think it’s time we ask.”

*

Aenar gripped his halberd, clawed fingers wrapping around the haft. The squire, fourteen years old, approached cautiously. His shield was up, his sword at the ready. Aenar swung, and the caution turned worthless as the squire planted himself square in the ground. The blow was mighty, strong as a man’s. The shield buckled. The squire groaned under the weight. As he recovered Aenar swung his halberd again, hooking it around the squire’s armored ankle. He pulled. The squire fell. A swift movement, and the halberd’s blade was at the squire’s throat.

Notification: Squire Defeated (Non-Dangerous Scenario, exp reduced). +5 exp.

Aenar dismissed the notification. He offered the squire a hand up. The squire, sighing, took the hand.

“Scales!” Ser Jaeceryn bellowed. “Know what you did wrong?”

“Stood there like an idiot?” Jeremy Scales asked.

Ser Jaeceryn paused. “Aye,” he said, losing a bit of his bluster. “You know your foe’s stronger than you. Don’t try to face him head-on. Deflect the blow, don’t try to match it.”

Jeremy nodded seriously.

Ser Jaeceryn turned to Aenar. “Got another in you?”

Aenar nodded. The matches didn’t really affect him, unless he got hit. A blessing from whatever granted him this system, he supposed.

“Rambton, get in here!”

Aenar bit back a groan. Of all his training yard foes, Rambton was by far the most annoying to face. Also the most rewarding, experience-wise. Twelve years old, Rambton was of average height and built like a whipcord. What set him apart was not his strength but his speed. As he entered the ring, Rambton flourished his sword.

“Begin!”

Aenar swung. Rambton ducked beneath the halberd, rushing forward. Aenar pushed him back with the haft, but Rambton danced away from even that blow. Another swing, another miss. Rambton launched himself at Aenar, and Aenar twisted to avoid it. He was too slow, and Rambton’s sword landed upon his cheek. The blow felt more like a tickle, yet Aenar growled at it nonetheless and lashed out, swinging his hand only for Rambton to duck back once more.

Aenar breathed in. He breathed out. Fight smart, not angry, he told himself as Rambton circled again. He waited. He waited. Rambton moved. Aenar swung suddenly, raising his halberd. A sudden thrust. Rambton moved aside. Aenar dropped the head, then pulled. The halberd caught Rambton’s ankle, and threw him to the ground. Yet Rambton rolled to the side, springing to his feet before Aenar could finish him.

Exhaustion, not skill determined the match. Aenar could keep Rambton at bay when he focused. Rambton could dodge Aenar’s blows when he was not attacking. Yet Rambton tired within twenty minutes, and Aenar was nearly inexhaustible. At last Rambton erred. A thrust, a swing, and Rambton yielded.

Notification: Minor Rival Defeated (Non-Dangerous Scenario, exp reduced). +10 exp.

Aenar looked at his experience bar. He was close. Between the years of toddling, the matches at Storm’s End, the quests to find secret passages, the wrestling matches and hunting with Vorelkorth, the squire’s duels . . . he was barely a hundred points from a level. An actual level. One that he had earned, rather than been given.

He turned to Ser Jaeceryn. “Another?” he asked.