Chapter Nine (Patreon)

There were few people in the noble stands when Aenar received his first challenge. With the sun still cresting the waters of the Narrow Sea, most would only now be breaking their fast. Only those with rambunctious children, overeager to see their first tournament, would be in attendance.

The area for the common folk, by contrast, was far fuller. While the fishermen were out to get the first of the day’s catch, there were still plenty of sailors and women of the night still up, craftsmen willing to delay the day’s work, or peasants eager to take a break from their fields. Small bets were already passing hands, the majority of them weighted towards the knightly figure in dark grey armor who sat, still as a statue, upon a horse of brownish red on the northern side of the field. Against this Dragonglass Knight stood Ser Hugh of Mon, a tiny village few had heard of. Decked in green and red, Ser Hugh’s colorful tabard hid a pitiful suit of half-rusted armor that bore more chain than plate.

A horn blasted, and the two knights were off. With nothing more than their knees the brought forth their mounts into a fearsome charge, tearing across the grassy fields of Driftmark. Lances lowered as they neared, shields steadied beneath the golden light of the early morn. Both lances hit true, their hollow construction shattering beneath the force of the two knights. Yet while the Dragonglass Knight moved forth, unaffected by the force of Ser Hugh’s lance upon his chest, the same could not be said of the reverse. Ser Hugh was launched from his horse as if by a catapult, flying forth from his trusted steed and landing safely on the grass below. He caught his breath before pushing himself upward, waving an arm to show he would not contest the bout at arms.

“The Dragonglass Knight!” the seneschal declared as Ser Hugh walked from the grounds. “Who will be the next to challenge?”

“I will!” a voice cried out. “Ser Artyn of Vorpyn, of the Vale.”

Again the knights mounted. They saluted each other, one baring steel, the other dressing it in white and blue cloth. They rode swiftly. At once it was plain to see Ser Artyn was a better rider than Ser Hugh. He caught the Dragonglass knight’s lance upon his shield, deflecting the blow while landing one of his own. Yet once again the Dragonglass Knight rode through, utterly unaffected by the lance. They rode a second time, and the Dragonlass Knight’s aim proved far better. He drove his lance home, thrust into Ser Artyn’s chest with such force he at once tumbled from his steed, falling into the dirt.

After Ser Artyn came Ser Melville of Acushnet, a skilled rider who made it two passes before falling into the dirt. Ser Melville was followed by Alyn of Hull, a member of Lord Velaryon’s guard. A veteran of a dozen skirmishes, Alyn was the first to be struck by the Dragonglass Knight without falling, and the first to lay a true blow upon the Dragonglass Knight, though it did not bring him victory.

By this time many had gathered to watch the Dragonglass Knight, a name that was spreading slowly through the tent-city and the keep, and swiftly through Hull. Alas for the smallfolk who gathered in coarse yellow and brown wools, or the lords and ladies who sat in their richly dyed and felted cloth, the next four to challenge the rising name had little to give them credit. Between the four of them a single hit was managed, a glancing blow to the side of the Dragonglass Knight’s breastplate.

By now noon was swift approaching, and the games were called to a halt for lunch. As lords and knights ate gossip flowed like wine, and the upper classes raced to reach the servant’s gossip. There was a knight in the field. Eight challengers, already defeated.

The stands were far busier when it came time to return. The commoners of the city had piled into their section, eager for another match. The lords, ladies, and landed knights had turned out in force as well–those not important enough to be negotiating secret deals, at least. They watched as a man in grey plate sat atop a palomino destrier, waiting for his challenger.

He did not need to wait for long.

“I shall challenge,” a man declared. “Ser Ortyn, Master-of-Arms of Brunehollow!”

There were a few gasps, but only a few. Though hardly traditional for a Master-of-Arms to challenge upon the first day, Brunehollow was in Crackclaw Point, and Ser Ortyn lacked a family name. When even their noblemen failed to act civilized, one could hardly expect the servants to be better.

The Dragonglass Knight saluted. Ser Ortyn saluted. The trumpet played, and they were off. Horses flew towards each other, lances were lowered, and they collided with an almighty crash. The Dragonglass Knight shuddered, but stayed put. Ser Ortyn tumbled from his seat, landing harshly on the grass below.

“I call for arms!” Ser Ortyn demanded. He held out his arm. Moments later, a squire came forth with a scabbard. He pulled forth his sword with a soft sound the pierced the air.

“Bring my halberd!” the Dragonglass Knight called, sliding easily from his saddle. His squire, a lankly boy of local features, obeyed.

A trumpet blew. The two men moved. Ser Ortyn struck first, his sword clashing onto the Dragonglass Knight’s plate. The Dragonglass Knight slipped back but a hair. He choked up on the halberd and jabbed it forth. Ser Ortyn raised his shield–to late. The halberd smacked his helm, with noise enough to rival the Bells of Norvos.

Ser Ortyn fell into the grass once more.

“The Dragonglass Knight!” the seneschal declared, and the crowd erupted into cheers as Ser Ortyn’s limp body was hauled from the grounds.

Six more men challenged the Dragonglass Knight that day. One managed to slip from his horse without the aid of his opponent’s lance. Of them only two, Ser Martyn of the Gorge and Ser Gene of the Rotten Berries, managed to land a forceful blow.