Chapter Thirteen (Patreon)

True to Lord Velaryon’s word, the bath was a thing of wonders. Boiling hot water that relaxed Aenar’s muscles even through the layers of scale, Lysene oils and perfumes that wiped away the stench of sweat and blood, and a brush, made from boar’s bristles and ebony that scraped the mud from beneath his claws and scales. Attended by maids bearing the Velaryon look (a mix of dark Summer Islander skin, silver hair, and purple eyes) Aenar had truly been in heaven.

Alas, all good things come to an end. Aenar’s bath grew lukewarm, and with the cooling temperature came the reminder of his duties. Reluctantly the half-dragon rose from the copper tube, water cascading from his shining scales in a score of rivulets. He dried himself, careful not to tear the fine towels. Dressing in his best clothing (a pair of black lambswool trousers and a silk doublet) Aenar beckoned one of the maids closer.

“Milord?” the young woman asked.

“What is your name?”

“Besty, milord.”

“Do you know the man who served as my squire?”

“Aye, milord. Tis Jonar, the stableboy.”

“You see, I owe Jonar coin, yet I am expected to meet with Lord Velaryon. If you could do me the favor of bringing Jonar his coin, I would gladly pay for it. Shall we say, a silver stag now, and another when I confirm with Jonar that he got the full amount?”

Betsy’s eyes widened. She nodded quickly. Aenar handed her a bag of coins, the cloth sack sagging slightly under the weight of silver and copper. It was more than he’d agreed upon with Jonar, but the lad had done his work well, and Aenar had won far more coin than he’d expected. Even with the ransom he’d paid to Ser Ronnal and this increased sum, Aenar had made a hundred sixty-eight gold dragons in the joust.

A hundred sixty-eight gold dragons. The sum was mind-boggling. His horses, Josie and Posie, cost six gold dragons each. His armor, high quality but not fitted, had been three gold dragons–as much as a smallfolk laborer could expect to make in a year. Between the money and the experience (he’d gained two levels!), Aenar was really starting to see how people could get addicted to tourneys. Hells, he was tempted to look for another, and this one wasn’t even finished!

*

Watching the rest of the tourney was not nearly as fun as fighting in it had been. It was exciting, of course, and greatly entertaining, but not nearly to the same extent. Every part of Aenar’s body felt the itch, the urge to be on the field, to be testing himself against the great men as they rode. When he saw Ser Ronnal unhorsed by Ser Alestor Reyne, Aenar wanted to challenge him. When he saw Ser Alestor defeated by Lord Smallwood, Lord Smallwood became the man Aenar wished to fight.

Oh gods, Aenar thought, forcing himself to sit back from the railing as Lord Smallwood clashed with Ser Tom the Strummer. I’ve become an adrenaline junkie. I need to do something about that. Maybe meditate? Go hunting more with Vorelkorth? Wait, is that just another form of adrenaline–

“Psst. Aenar.”

Aenar shuddered. “Aerea?” he asked, turning. His cousin’s lilac eyes searched his own, peering into their depths as if searching long-buried treasure.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Aenar said. “I just . . . I enjoyed this a lot more than I thought I would.”

Aerea frowned. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Mostly. It just means I need to be careful not to do it too much, in case I start neglecting other things.” Aenar looked at her. “You’ll tell me if I’m not spending enough time with you, right? I want us to be friends forever.”

“Of course I will,” Aerea huffed. “If you’re not spending enough time with me I’ll just find you and grab you.”

“I don’t think you’re strong enough to pull me.”

Aerea glared. She crossed her arms, pouting. “We’ll see about that once I get a dragon.”

“You’re going to?”

“Soon,” Aerea whispered. “A year. Maybe a bit more. The lessons are going well, but there’s one dragon that’s calling to me and I really don’t want to mess thing up.”

Aenar nodded. “Study hard, and I’m sure it’ll go well,” he said. Gods, I hope it goes better than in canon.

Ser Tom tumbled into the dirt, much to the Lord’s delight and the smallfolk’s sigh.

“Are you still planning on the melee?” Aerea asked, her voice returning to a normal volume.

“Yes,” Aenar answered simply. “I was able to sign up for it yesterday.”

“The melee?” someone asked. Aenar turned. He blinked, trying to recognize the face. “That’s a dangerous sport, lad.”

“I thank you for the concern, Lord Redwyne,” Aerea smiled thinly, “but Dragonstone’s Master-of-Arms tested my cousin thoroughly before my mother allowed him to compete here.”

“Will you be competing as well, my lord?” Aenar asked.

“No,” Lord Redwyne laughed. “I know where my strengths lie, and they are firmly off the field. My sons might have, were it not for the names involved. Ser Lucamore Strong and Lord Qarl Corbray are fine knights, but neither are known for pulling their blows, even to the head, and I dislike the risk.”

Aenar fought to keep himself from nodding. Lord Redwyne was, objectively, correct. Head trauma was incredibly dangerous, and in no way worth the risk of a tourney. Were it not for his dragon scales, dragon bones, and systemic immunity to head trauma, Aenar would have avoided the melee as well. But he wasn’t, and he was only six, so Aenar couldn’t be seen to agree.

“I’m quite sturdy,” Aenar settled on saying.

“Yes,” Lord Redwyne said dryly. “I rather noticed that when we jousted.” He took a sip of wine–his own product, imported all the way across Westeros. “Quite reasonable about the ransom though.”

Aenar grinned. “The more people I beat, the less greedy I have to be to get rich.”

Lord Velaryon snorted.