Chapter Seven (Patreon)

Notification: Welcome to Adolescence!

“What?” Aenar asked. The half-dragon stared up at the letters in the moonlit room, blinking away his sleep.

Half-Dragons reach Adolescence at the age of six, and adulthood at the age of ten

“And this couldn’t wait until morning?”

Aenar felt a noise in his head, a not quite human whine.

“Fine. What does this mean?”

As an Adolescent you are allowed to have more than one (1) level

As an Adolescent you may reroll any one (1) physical ability score with an Epic Roll (5d6, take 3 highest)

Aenar couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing. Yes. Yes. YES! Finally, after all this time, he would be the legend he intended. Opening his character sheet, Aenar clicked on the Level Up button, finally glowing blue instead of greyed out. It popped open and . . .

“That’s a lot of classes.” Aenar scrolled through them. There were the classics (Barbarian, Cleric, Bard, Fighter), some weird ones (Warlock, Swashbuckler, Favored Soul), and ones he’d never heard of (Dragon Adept, Wu-jen, Duskblade). Aenar did not choose quickly. He forced himself to be slow. To be methodical. To read through not only every class, but every prestige class. To see not only today and tomorrow, but the options of the years that lay ahead.

Many of the classes—even the base classes—were greyed out. Aenar was not surprised. How could one take a level in Wizardry if they had never been to a college? How could they become a Sorcerer if they had never awoken their magic? Others, while allowed to him, were of little interest. Aenar knew himself and Westeros better than to commit to a narrow, rigid path. That got people killed, and Aenar didn’t feel like dying. No Paladins, Clerics, or higher causes that could impose their will upon him.

Ultimately it was a prestige class that solidified Aenar’s choice. He was already leaning towards the Fighter (Knight Variant) when he spotted the Dragon Rider Class. The demands were surprisingly low. Four ranks in Diplomacy, check. Four ranks in Handle Animal, check. Eight ranks in Ride, halfway there. Special Bond with a Dragon, on his way. Two Feats and a Base Attack Bonus of +5? No better class for getting that than a Fighter.

Aenar made his choice. With his human racial feat now available as an adolescent and a first level fighter bonus feat, he managed to get both of the required feats (Mounted Combat and Skill Focus: Ride). As for the Epic Roll? Tempting as it was to use it on his worst stat, Aenar knew dexterity would always be hampered by his armor. Better to play to his strengths, quite literally.

Rolling 5d6 . . .

Come on, big money no whammy . . .

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Strength: 16 + 8 = 24

“Fuck yeah!” Aenar punched his pillow in delight, accidentally tearing through the cloth covering, sending a puff of feathers up around his scaled face.

“Uh, oops?”

*

Much as he detested the twenty-six flights of stairs needed to climb the Sea Dragon’s horn, Aenar could not contest the view. Looking out the windows he could see the gray sails of Dragonstone’s fishermen prowling the brackish waters of the Blackwater Bay. From the opposite side he could see dolphins leaping through the stormy waters of the Narrow Sea. He could even catch a glimpse of the wild dragons as they hunted for Dragonstone’s elusive game or flew around the smoking caldera of the Dragonmont.

Yet Aenar’s eyes remained fixed not upon the great vista, but upon his aunt. His mother in all but name. Not a perfect one (she had all but abandoned him in Storm’s End for several years) but more than he had been born with. Her silver-gold hair and purple eyes had him viewing her as an angel when Aenar first awoke in this world, yet he knew better now. No angel would be as ruthless, practical, or effective as Rhaena Targaryen.

“You requested this meeting,” Rhaena said. “You requested it formally. Why?”

“Mother,” Aerea said. “As your heir, I should have good relationships with our neighbors.”

Rhaena nodded cautiously.

“I wish to start that process,” Aerea said carefully, “with Driftmark.”

Rhaena’s eyes flared, purple fire burning. “The Velaryons?” In the distance, Dreamfyre roared. Aenar’s teeth shuddered.

“N-not only them,” Aerea said with only a minimal stutter. “They’re hosting a gathering. A tourney, for the birth of their heir.”

“And you wish to go.”

“Yes mother.”

Rhaena rounded on Aenar, her eyes still aflame. Aenar met them, hoping his fireproof ability lent itself to the verbal as well as the physical. “And you wish to compete.”

“I . . . yes, I do,” Aenar admitted.

“You are young,” Rhaena said. “Both of you are young. Even from what the Maester tells me of your growth, you are barely equivalent to three-and-ten, Aenar.”

“I am stronger than most men, and more durable,” Aenar replied.

“Which is why I allow your play sessions with that drakeling to continue.”

Aenar grit his teeth. It was considered improper to name a dragon unless it was bonded to you. Vorelkorth had not bonded to him, nor was he likely to anytime soon. Vorelkorth had rather high standards and Aenar had not yet proven himself worthy of lifelong companionship. Still, it sat wrong to have his friend’s name so easily discarded.

Rhaena sighed. “When is the tourney?”

“The 18th day of next moon,” Aerea revealed.

“I will allow you to attend,” Rhaena decided. “If you attend all of Maester Vaelyn’s lessons.”

Aerea nodded quickly.

“And–”

“I will allow you to compete,” Rhaena said, “if Ser Jaeceryn thinks you ready.”

Ah, Aenar thought. Well then. No pressure.

*

“There are three main events of any true tourney,” Ser Jaeceryn Celtigar revealed. “The joust, the melee, and the archery competition. The joust is always the most prestigious, except in the North and the Iron Islands, where the Melee is more valued. The archery competition is always the least prestigious.” Ser Jaeceryn looked down–across, rather–at Aenar. “Rather fortunate for you, that part.”

Aenar grimaced and nodded. His archery skills weren’t completely lacking. They were just . . . well, mediocrity was a complement.

“We shall begin by testing your readiness for the joust,” Ser Jaeceryn decided. “We start with the mount. A mount for a joust and a mount for war are two different animals. Do you know why?”

“Because you don’t need to worry about supply lines in a tourney?” Aenar guessed.

“Correct,” Ser Jaeceryn said. “That is why we use the larger destrier for jousts, but coursers for offensive campaigns. Now, get on the horse and show me how you hold your lance.” Ser Jaeceryn frowned. “Good, but not quite. You want to couch it more, allow for power of the ride to carry through.”

After a few adjustments, Aenar was sent off towards the pells. With a shield in one hand and a lance in the other, there was nothing to guide the horse–one he had never met before–but his legs. Despite this they made it swiftly across the training field, the trot turning to a gallop, his dummy lance landing a hefty blow on the bag of sand.

“Good,” Ser Jaeceryn said, his word of praise absent any similar emotion. “Again.”

Aenar ran it again. And again. And again. And again, until his thighs bruised and his mounted heaved for breath. At last he was told to dismount . . . and to get on the next horse to ride again.

“The Velaryons are holding a Passage Joust,” Ser Jaeceryn explained. “Whoever holds the field must accept their challengers. All of them, should they bear arms of sufficient standing. If you can’t fight against a dummy for a day, how can you hope to hold the field?”

Lacking an answer Aenar sighed and climbed back into the saddle.

*

Aenar smiled as he sat on the sun-drenched rocks, a stack of herb-rubbed fish to one side and a bucket full of guts to the other.

“Alright,” Aenar said, finished the last of the mackerel. “You ready?”

Food? Vorelkorth asked.

“Better,” Aenar said. “Big hunting.” He hoisted the bucket of fish guts. “From what the sailors said, we can get the really big fish by dropping these in the deep water and mixing it around.”

Vorelkorth perked up. If there was one thing the wild dragon loved more than well-cooked food, it was a hunt. Or maybe it was the fight. Aenar wasn’t sure yet. How big? Vorelkorth asked.

“I don’t know,” Aenar admitted, walking over to the rowboat. “Let’s find out.”

Rowing the boat far enough into the waters that Dragonstone’s shore became blurry, Aenar tossed the fish guts into the water. He quickly stirred the water with his oar.

Now? Vorelkorth, taking up the majority of the large rowboat, asked.

“Now we wait. And talk.”

Vorelkorth nodded. What talk?

“I am going somewhere.”

Where?

“Driftmark,” Aenar said. “It is a flat green island, not far from here. There is a competition, a chance to pit my strength against others without the risk of death.”

Vorelkorth made a sound of understanding. If I could fight Mother-Vhagar without being killed, I would too, he agreed. You will return stronger.

“I will,” Aenar promised. “I’ll miss your company.”

Vorelkorth looked at him, and nodded slowly. They sat in silence for a while, drinking in the midday sun cutting through the pale clouds, the azure sky against the green swells. Aenar smiled as they gently rocked the boat, Vorelkorth shuffling back and forth as he tried to get comfortable without tipping them over. Then, at last, movement. The water bubbled. It fizzed.

Do–

“I see it,” Aenar agreed, grabbing the harpoon. “It–” He stopped talking. His breath gave way. That was not a tuna, nor a swordfish as he had hoped. It was not a shark as he had feared. That was a fucking orca.

“Vorel–”

DRACARYS! Vorelkorth screamed as he leapt from the rowboat, wings flapping as he rose into the sky. His breath boiled the sea, sending steam into the air. The orca screamed in pain. Yet it dove, protected by the water despite its surprise.

Aenar steadied himself. He grasped the harpoon and drew his breath.

The orca rose, a true sea monster four times the height of a man. Aenar blew fire into it, yet the orca slipped to the side just in time, catching only the outermost layer of his flames. It slammed towards him, seeking to cut him in half with its teeth, yet Aenar dodged. He lived. The rowboat was not so lucky, splintering beneath the whale’s weight.

Vorelkorth dove as the boat began to sink, breathing fire once more. The whale, rendered immoble by its own attack, caught the full force of dragonflame. It screamed as fire tore through flesh, writhing in pain. It attacked Aenar again, slamming into him with the weight of a semi-truck and sending him flying into the ocean.

Notification: 16 points of damage

Remaining Hit Points: 2

Fuck! Aenar thought, his whole body screaming in pain as he kicked his way to the surface. His hand grasping the harpoon, his mouth opened once more. Heaving himself forward, he hurled the harpoon. It twirled through the air, barbed metal flashing beneath the sunlight before it landed squarely in the orca’s eye. The animal cried but briefly before falling still on the sinking rowboat.

Notification: Orca (CR 5) Slain! 1,200 exp (Party Level 6)

Aenar wanted to be thrilled. 1,200 experience points was massive. It brought him nearly halfway to level three. But right now, with his whole body bruised and his boat sunk, with an entire corpse to pull back to shore using only his and Vorelkorth’s (and mostly his) strength? Aenar just wanted to groan.

Gods, he hoped the orca at least tasted good.