Chapter Eight (Patreon)

If ever there was an island more different from Dragonstone, it had to be Driftmark. Peering through the early morning fog Aenar could spot the herds of cattle and sheep grazing across the low-lying plains. He watched farmers tending to their fields of wheat, oats, and the walking-cabbage that was used to feed the livestock come winter. The latter was capable of yielding a either a succession of short stalks and large heads, or a single head and one long, knobby stalk that reached ten feet in height. Ser Martyn Waters, a veteran of the Conquest, had a cane made of the walking cabbage. Aenar had seen him using it to smack around guards whenever he caught them dozing off.

Aenar turned from the pleasant view and set to dressing himself. The tourney was being held over the course of seven days. The joust began on the first day, with the victor whoever remained the campion at the end of the sixth. The archery competition would be held on the fifth day, while the melee would be held on the sixth. A great feast would be held for the victors on night of the sixth day, followed by prayer services for young Corlys Velaryon’s health on the seventh. Aenar wasn’t sure how he felt about the Faith of the Seven (there were certainly members of it he didn’t like) but he wouldn’t mind praying on an infant’s behalf. Hopefully his presence wouldn’t anger the gods.

Aenar dressed in his armor. For many it would not have been practical. For others it might have been rude. But for Aenar, who rarely exhausted outside of combat and whose scales were more frightening than a closed helm to most strangers, it was the best option. His leathers, fully set and tightened, were covered with a simple hauberk. Then came the fiddly bits.

“Oh, the breast-plate is the best plate, that’s why it goes on first,” Aenar sang.

And don’t forget your back-plate, lest your kidneys burst.

Then put on your sabatons, for your sabatoes

And your greaves above, that he surely knows.

Cuisses are for curses, that why they armor thighs

For if a sword gets up in there, your end is surely nigh.

Now for your braces, both vam and remem

They go upon your arms, marked like a totem.

And gauntlets cover hands, and gorget’s for the neck

Last is the helm on your head, to keep you from getting wrecked.”

At last fully armored, Aenar looked over himself in the mirror. His plate was plain by the standards of knights. Yet what it lacked in silver coating and tinted colors it more than made up for in quality. It did not shine with polish, for it did not need to. It stood, heavy and matte like the earth itself, ready to take any blow that should fall upon it.

The tourney grounds were sprawled across the fields east of Castle Driftmark. Campfires glowed in the predawn air, an early morning breeze sending the banners waving above the tent city drawn by prestige and coin. Aenar looked for the mark of the Seahorse, and the trumpet that represented the game masters. He passed by sausages roasting on an open grill and the vendors of shields and armor slowly setting up shop as they pressed sleep from their eyes. At last he arrived, smiling as he found no line before the bleary-eyed man in warm wool robes.

“Here to sign up?”

“Yes,” Aenar answered. “The Dragonglass Knight.” Even if no one could see them yet, the title matched his scales perfectly.

Huffing to himself, the game master scratched down the name with his quill. He looked him over, eyeing the armor. “When will you challenge?”

“First thing.”

The game master stared. “You want to start by defending?” he asked incredulously. To be fair, it wasn’t something a man who could afford Aenar’s armor would normally do. The big names, those with a shot at winning, would preserve their energy until later in the cycle. Those who weren’t likely to win but wanted a shot at the big names (men like Aenar) would ordinarily challenge on the fourth or fifth day, maybe the third if you were a bastard. To enter on the first day, exhausting yourself against the hedge knights and household guards? It was unheard of.

But Aenar didn't tire unless he was well and truly struck. And while he wouldn’t turn down the money, he wasn’t after the big ransoms that came from defeating the lordlings that rode in the later days. No, he wanted experience, as much of it as he could get. Aenar was going to enter as soon as he could, and stay with it as long as possible. If that meant he lost to a hedge knight, so be it. He’d just have to take out a few of them first.

“If the starting slot is open, I’ll take it,” Aenar said.

“It’s open,” the Game Master said dryly. “Matches start an hour after dawn. Be at the fields with your squire.”

“Any chance you could recommend a good groomsman for the job?” Aenar asked, fishing out a couple silver stags.

“I’ve a cousin who’s a son, I’ll send him along. You’ll be in the tent on the north side of the field.”

Aenar smiled, passing over the coins. “One for you, one for your nephew. More for him the longer I last.”

“Fair enough,” the game master said. “Best be going now if you want to eat before the match.”

*

Aenar was polishing off the last of his honey-roasted chicken when he heard the horses (Josie and Posie) neighing. Quickly wiping off his hands and putting on his helm, Aenar stood from his camp stool, readying himself for business. Outside the tent, the early morning light had cut through the predawn fog, revealing the grass-stained trousers and simple jerkin of a lad with hints of silver-blonde fuzz on his cheeks.

“You the game master’s nephew?” Aenar asked.

“Uncle Aevan?” the lad asked. “He’s no master, just a scribe. Said you’d have work for someone good with horses.”

“And that’d be you.”

The lad smirked. He held out a hand, patting Josie on the snout. The chestnut destrier, finicky even with Dragonstone’s usual grooms, calmed in a moment. “Aye,” the lad said. “That’d be me.”

“You’ll get a stag for the day,” Aenar said, “plus a penny for each match. I want you handing me fresh lances during the joust, and looking after the horses when we’re at rest.”

“What about ransoms?”

“If it’s a good horse or the knight’s a right prick, you’ll be taking care of them too. If not, I’ll handle it swiftly.”

“I want a penny per pair of horses per match,” the lad said. “Ain’t right to get the same fare if there’s two horses as if there’s twenty.”

Aenar looked at the lad. “You think I’ll take twenty matches?”

The lad shrugged. “If it’s possible, we should talk about it. That’s what Uncle Aevan says.”

Aenar shrugged back. “Fair enough.” If he won so much a single joust, he could easily afford the rate. Aenar’s destriers–far from the most prestigious bloodlines or largest frames–were worth six gold dragons, each. Even at a discounted rate of ransom, he could afford to pay what the lad was asking.