Chapter Ten (Patreon)

Daemon Velaryon wasn’t sure what to make of this mystery knight. On the one hand, it was a legend in the waiting. Sixteen bouts in a single day, not one of them lasting longer than two passes. If it continued it would spread like wildfire, and his grandson’s name would spread with it.

On the other hand, this was his tourney. For his grandson. That some mystery knight had come to steal all the fame and glory that his hard work and coin created sat ill with the Lord of the Tides.

Daemon hummed lightly as he ate the beef, a tender cut of roast veal. The celebrations were ongoing, the Dragonglass Knight upon the lips of every sword-obsessed lunatic (which covered more than half the Westerosi nobility). As Daemon saw it, he had but two options. He could lean into the legend, or he could quash it. Fortunately, he could do both at once.

Daemon turned to his third son, the warrior amongst them. “You will joust tomorrow.”

Victor stared. “Tomorrow? Against a mystery knight?”

“Yes. After lunch.” Daemon did not elaborate. Victor was not as smart as Corwyn, but he was not a fool. He would figure it out, once the wine-fog cleared from his head. Instead Daemon turned back to his meal. The veal really was delicious.

*

Aerea grinned as she watched from the stands. She’d wanted to attend yesterday, but apparently it was in bad form for princesses to watch the first day of the joust. She’d prayed (not really knowing to who) that Aenar would make it through the day, and he did! Now she got to watch as he tore through the crab-covered knight, tossing him to the ground like a sack of turnips.

“Do you know who he is, Princess?” Lady Lyssa Sunglass asked as she politely applauded. Despite the name she was one of Lord Velayron’s daughters, and therefore someone to watch out for. Aerea’s mother said there had yet to be born a stupid Velaryon. Mean, yes, but never stupid.

“Who?” Aerea asked.

“The Dragonglass Knight,” Lady Lyssa said. “It strikes me that Dragonstone is the only place that produces both such fine steel and dragonglass.”

“I’m afraid not,” Aerea lied. “I spend my days in the castle, not with mystery knights.”

“A shame,” said Lady Vaela Darklyn, another of Lord Velaryon’s daughters. “I find mysteries to be so intriguing, and mystery knights all the moreso.”

“A city as old as Duskendale must have a few mysteries of its own,” Aerea noted. “I have spent many a day seeking out Dragonstone’s.”

“Oh?” Lady Vaela asked as another knight, this one bearing the sheep’s head of House Rambton, entered the lanes. “Anything interesting?”

“A few secret rooms filled with dusty flowers,” Aerea admitted. She said nothing of the hidden library with the books in High Valyrian that neither she nor Aenar could fully understand. If she wasn’t telling her mother, she certainly wasn’t telling the Velaryons.

*

Aenar huffed as he took off the heavy helm. His sides were bruised. His arms were bruised. His legs were bruised. His face was bruised. But inside? He was screaming with joy. Safely inside his tent, he opened he character sheet, and immediately clicked the glowing level up button.

It had taken less than two days of fighting–non-lethal fighting–to match the experience points he’d gained from the Orca. Gods above, how Aenar loved tourneys!

Level three, Aenar grinned. A second level in Fighter (knight variant) as well, so he got two feats. There were numerous options, all of them tempting, but Aenar stuck with the basics: Power Attack and Cleave. After all, the joust wasn’t the only competition he planned to compete in.

His feats decided, Aenar allocated his skills. Diplomacy, Handle Animal, and Ride all crept up by one, while Craft (Armorsmithing) jumped by two. Alas, his new class meant he couldn’t keep advancing his knowledge skills, not without wasting skill points. At least he’d be able to make his own armor soon enough. Aenar wondered what properties he could infuse it with, considering he was fireproof. Assuming he could get Vorelkorth to go along, of course.

“Ser?”

Aenar quickly donned his helm. “Aye?”

“The knights wish to discuss their ransoms.”

“Send them in.”

The six knights he’d faced that morn were soon gathered into the small tent, crowding it rather swiftly. Two were hedge knights, their armor cobbled together from spare parts. Aenar planned to let them go for a gold dragon each. Another two were Lord Velaryon’s household knights, bearing noble steeds and castle-forged steel, though lacking in adornment. The last were a knight in service to Lord Celtigar and a distant member of House Rambton.

“One dragon each for you two,” Aenar decided, nodding to the hedge knights. “Two each for Lord Velaryon’s men. Your equipment’s worth five, but your lord is the host and he’d bear the cost if I decided to keep it.”

“Either that or he’d dock our pay,” one of them grumbled.

“In which case you know all the servants, and I prefer my porridge without spittle,” Aenar replied. “Two dragons each, no more, no less. Celtigar’s as quality, but not at home, so five dragons for you. Rambton . . . two dragons only if you let me borrow your steed. It’s a good mount and mine are getting weary.”

“A fair deal,” Rambton agreed, and the pair shook on it. One by one the coins appeared, stacks of silver stags and moons dropped onto the small table. Only Rambton and Celtigar’s payments included any actual gold.

With the knights dismissed, Aenar once more took of his helm. This time for the noble business of eating. He began with the pork, spare ribs glazed with honey, vinegar, and Dornish peppers in a combination that reminded him of home before Dragonstone. He added to it with scraps of boiled cabbage, mixing the vegetable into the sauce until the taste of boiled green hardly remained. Lastly he mopped up the scraps with his bread, before finally scrubbing his hands free of detritus. Now only if he could find someone to make a good key lime pie.

“Ser!”

Aenar bit back a groan, and put on his helm once more. “What is it lad?”

“They’ve announced your next opponent.”

“Already?” Had he truly lost himself in the meal so readily?

“There’s a half-hour before the match begins,” his squire explained. “They mean to garner attention, I think, and they’ve done it.”

“Oh? Who am I facing?”

“Ser Victor Velaryon.”

Aenar felt himself pale. Victor Velaryon. Quarter-finalist of the Golden Wedding joust, scourge of the Blackwater Bay Pirates, third son of Lord Velaryon himself. Well, he thought, easy mode had to end sometime.