Chapter Twelve (Patreon)

Aerea smiled as she climbed the wooden steps. All around her was the noble seating, hundreds of lords and ladies dressed in fine wools, silks, and even velvets crushed together upon cushioned benches as the filed in to the view the early morning spectacle. The joust had been delayed to allow for their attendance, a specific request by the visiting Lord Albin Massey, Lord Justiciar and Master of Laws. Aerea did not mind. The more people who got to see her brother triumph, the better.

At last Aerea passed the last of the benches and into the high box, reserved for Lord Velaryon and his personal guests. Lord Massey was there, as was the Master of Coin, Rego Draz. Aerea did her best to stifle a giggle at his moustache, but it was just so ridiculous! It curled up at the ends like the horns of an aurochs, and the whole thing was dyed bright blue.

“Princess Aerea,” Draz smiled, bowing from his seat. His jewels–earings, belt, pendants, bracelets, anklets, and more–jingled as he moved. “It is a most wondrous thing to be in such pleasant and refined company today.”

“I must thank you as well, Lord Draz,” Aerea returned. “The air is always better with you around.” The statement had the virtue of being both true (Rego Draz always had the best perfumes, even better than the ones her mother imported from Lys) and referenced his favorite title, the Lord of Air. Originally meant to mock his lack of lands, Rego Draz had found the title delightful, a sort of reference to the majesty of the dragonlords whom he served.

“I have been asked for my secrets many times, sweet princess, but the truth is simple,” Rego Draz grinned. “Lys may be lovely, but it is the Summer Isles that have the sweetest of fruits.”

Aerea’s eyes grew wide. The Summer Isles . . .

“I don’t suppose you know of any trade routes, Lord Draz?” Lord Velaryon butted in.

“None that you do not already know. Alas, the factor is not distance, but the dangers of the open sea. Were there but a few more islands between the Arbor and the Summer Isles, trade would flow thrice as fast. But there are not, and so it remains a luxury even to men like me.”

Lord Velaryon huffed, turning to Aerea. “Welcome, Princess. Are you excited for the day’s matches?”

“Very,” Aerea said, some of her zeal slipping through the mask Mother always insisted she wear. “The Dragonglass Knight has fought very well so far, but I am told today’s opponents will all be as fierce as Ser Victor.”

“Perhaps not all,” Lord Velaryon chuckled. “But most will be fiercer, I believe. Yesterday the Lords rode for pride. Today the knights who dedicated themselves solely to battle will ride for glory, lest the Dragonglass Knight take it all for himself. The best of them will likely wait until the morrow, however.”

“Who is the best?”

“It depends on how you look at it,” Lord Oakheart cut in. Aerea recognized him from yesterday. He’d made it five passes, though his own strikes had been weaker than Ser Victor Velaryon’s. “Ser Lucamore Strong more than lives up to his name. If any can match the Dragonglass Knight’s arm, it would be him. Ser Tom the Strummer is a skilled knight as well, and came close to victory during the War of the White Cloaks. Yet I would place Lord Smallwood as the best of them all.”

“Lord Smallwood?” Aerea asked. She had seen the man before, and he did not make much of an impression. He was neither tall nor short, rather small-shouldered, and listened far more than he talked.

“He’s fought in more battles than most men see,” Lord Oakheart said. “And he’s kept his horse in every one of them.”

The heralding trumpet sounded, and conversation died. The two jousters entered the field, the Dragonglass Knight defending the North while Ser Ronnal Baratheon, brother of Lord Rogar Baratheon, attacked from the south. At the second sound of the trumpet they charged, colliding in a spray of splintering wood. Neither so much as moved upon their steed, instead turning back to grab another lance. They charged again, both crashing into each other with the sound of a thunderclap. Aerea flinched at the sound. When she turned back to look, Aenar was clinging on by the mane. Ser Ronnal shifted awkwardly, yet both rode to the ends, and took up their lances once more.

Aerea’s fingers curled into fists. Gods, please be okay. It’s fine if you lose, just be okay.

The trumpet sounded and they attacked once more. Aenar missed this time, barely a glancing blow while Ser Ronnal struck true. Yet Aenar held his seat well, and reached again for his lance.

“He’s young,” Lord Oakheart noted. “The Dragonglass Knight. It shows in his riding.”

“He’s very good for one so young,” Lord Velaryon noted.

“He’s very rich for one so young,” Rego Draz laughed. “Did you not see what Lord Redwyne wore? How much do you think he spent to reclaim his gold armor?”

The trumpet sounded again, and again the clashed. This time Aenar struck true, his lance crashing into Ser Ronnal while his shield deflected his opponent’s blow. Yet Ser Ronnal remained in his seat, and both turned for another charge.

Another charge, another hit for Aenar, yet Ser Ronnal remained seated all the same. Aerea found herself leaning forward, clutching at the rails. She looked around, and found half the men and women doing the same, regardless of their station.

The trumpet sounded. The horses charged. The crashed together, the sound of splintering wood flying through the air. Aenar fell. Ser Ronnal remained.

Aerea sat, her entire body tensed as Aenar lay on the grass. Then, slowly, he sat up. He stood, groaning, pushing himself up using the lance as a haft, and signalled his withdraw.

“Ser!” Lord Velaryon called out. “Before you leave, I would know the name of the man who has held my field for two full days.”

Aerea looked over at the lord. She looked down at the jousting lane. Slowly, the great helm came off, revealing Aenar’s scaled face.

“My Lord Velaryon,” Aenar bowed. “My name is Aenar. I understand my family name is of some dispute, so let us simply say I am of Dragonstone.”

“Aenar?” Ser Ronnal asked, hopping off his horse. “The same Aenar that played games in the godswood with my son?”

“Unless you know another Aenar covered in black scales.”

“Ha!” Ser Ronnal laughed, clapping Aenar on the shoulder, sending him stumbling a half-step forward. “My Lord Velaryon, this lad is madder than a march hare! Though he does not look it, I assure you he’s but six years old!”

“Six?”

“What?”

“My Lord Velaryon!” Aenar called out. “If I may explain, the Maesters believe me to be at the equivalent of a boy of three and ten namedays, both physically and mentally. The result of whatever black magics Tyanna of the Tower cast.”

“Does that mean you’ll only live half as long as us?” someone asked. Aerea whirled on them.

“No,” Aenar said calmly. “The rate of growth seems to be slowing down.”

“Six or three and ten, both are quite young for a tourney,” Lord Velaryon said. “And younger still to defeat nine and twenty grown men in a joust. Were you older, I’d knight you now. Yet you are not, so I cannot. In place of that I offer you a boon, one request of House Velaryon.”

“You honor me greatly my Lord,” Aenar bowed. “I would request a bath, with warm water a brush with fine but strong bristles. I believe I got some mud in my scales when Ser Ronnal tossed me from the saddle.”

Aerea stared at her brother. A boon from House Velaryon . . . he could have asked for anything. He could have asked for a major office, or a minor keep, or a ship to sail and explore! And he asked for a bath?

Aerea couldn’t help it. She broke out laughing.