Chapter Eleven (Patreon)

Aenar forced himself to take a deep breath. It’s okay, he told himself. You’re fighting someone who has a more than decade of experience on you, and is in the prime of their life. Someone who is renowned. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to win. Because you are the son of . . . ah fuck it. Aenar looked up, his eyes catching the embossed silver seahorses on Ser Victor Velaryon’s armor. He gazed upon the sea-green silk cloak, the ribbons perfectly tied into his mount’s hair. You’re going to win, he told himself again. Think of the exp. Think of the gold dragons. He glanced at the stands. Think of Aerea’s smirk.

The seneschal's trumpet played. Aenar burst forth on his borrowed stead, lance lowering in perfect order. Across from him Ser Victor did the same. They crashed at the midway point, lances bursting upon each other’s armor. Yet even amidst the hail of splinters and the cheering crowd Aenar knew the impact was lacking. Neither man had budged in his saddle. Riding back, Aenar took another lance. At the sound of the horn, he moved once more. The wind rustled, the dirt stirred, the lance lowered. The world held its breath, waiting for impact.

WHAM!

Aenar grimaced as Ser Victor’s lance found purchase upon his body, crashing into him with all the force the hollow tube allowed. It shattered upon impact, yet the blow was dealt and severely felt. Aenar hung on by his legs alone, his own swing went wild, his lance glancing off Ser Victor’s painted shield.

Once more Aenar turned his horse. He lowered himself, praying for victory. He readied. At the horn, he charged.

Wham

Another clash, another lack of impact. Neither man scored a successful blow, leaving Ser Victor clearly in the lead. Aenar turned sharply, intending to correct this cosmic mistake.

WHAM!

Aenar’s blow improved, shattering his lanced though it lacked in force. Ser Victor’s might was not lacking. It shot through Aenar, nearly sending him to the ground. Winding, wheezing, Aenar grabbed another lance.

WHAM!

This time it was Ser Victor’s turn to be caught out of turn. Aenar’s blow was mighty, crashing onto the breastplate like an ox into a wicker fence. Ser Victor was stunned by the force of the blow. His lance missed, and without opposing force to balance him, the famed knight slipped from his saddle. Aenar paused, waiting for the sign to continue combat afoot. He would not win that fight. Not with his health so badly (if temporarily, thanks to the jousting lances) damaged.

But Ser Victor did not continue the fight. He signalled his loss, and retreated from the field.

“The Dragonglass Knight!” the seneschal proclaimed, amidst a roaring crowd. “Who–”

“I will challenge!” A burly man, taller than he was wide though lacking in neither dimension, pushed his way to the front. “Ser Eustace Hightower, grandson of Lord Donnel Hightower!”

Aenar saluted the man, and withdrew. He took a lance. He breathed in. He breathed out. The trumpet sounded, and he charged.

Ser Eustace was good. Not so good as Ser Victor, but Aenar was not longer in the same shape he was when that bout began. They traded lances, dancing back and forth. Aenar struck Ser Eustace on the third pass, and Ser Eustace stayed seated despite the blow. Ser Eustace struck Aenar on the next pass, leaving him with but a single hit point before he passed out. On the fifth Aenar struck again, and Ser Eustace fell. With a heavy breath Aenar watched as Ser Eustace nodded, and pulled off the field . . . only for his brother, Ser Norman, to take his place.

Alas, Ser Norman lacked Ser Eustace’s luck. A single heavy blow, landed upon the heart, sent him flying in the first pass.

After Ser Norman was Lord Martyn Redwyne, who desired to “restore the honor of the Reach.” Attended by his three sons, the Lord of the Arbor bore armor decked in gold filagree and sat a warhorse the envy of any khal. Yet that money might have been better spent of guards, for Aenar knocked him down in a single pass as well, the middle-aged lord tumbling into the grass with practiced ease.

After Lord Redwyne’s display, it was Lord Torgen Oakheart, then Lord Uther Peake. Lord Oakheart managed five passes, despite never laying a blow on the Dragonglass Knight, while Lord Uther was felled in a single pass. Aenar was only now beginning to realize how powerful his strength was in this contest. The harder the hit, the harder it was to stay in the saddle, and no human could hit as hard as Aenar. Hells, even Vorelkorth wasn’t as physically strong!

The Stormlords in attendance had been quick to laugh at the Reach’s fall, yet Lord Morton Caron’s boasts turned his sigil’s nightingales to crows when he fell in the third pass. The only mercy was that Ser Rymond Arryn, the braggadocious brother of Lord Darnold Arryn, had chosen to take the last challenge of the day. After an inconclusive first pass he had been torn from his saddle with surprising force and tossed into the ground, much to the amusement of Lord Velaryon’s put-upon servants.