Chapter Fourteen (Patreon)

Aenar took a steadying breath. He rolled his shoulders, letting the weight of the armor settled onto his back. His halberd, dulled in accordance with Lord Velaryon’s demands, lay at the ready. His lance was prepared as well.

Sixty-seven men had volunteered for the melee. Through bouts, duels, and feats of strength they had been whittled down to forty. Aenar’s success in the early days of the joust bought him entry. His neighbors, Ser Karyl and Ser Aiden, had defeated another hopeful in a duels. Others–Ser Ronnal Baratheon, Ser Lucamore Strong, Lord Myles Smallwood–had entered on their name alone.

Aenar wondered what it looked like from the stands. Forty men, perched upon their steeds like birds of prey, weapons still sheathed yet hands eagerly grasping for the weight to come. Surcoats and capes fluttered in the wind, Aenar himself no long an exception following his reveal. Though he refused to wear it himself, a great black cape with the Targaryen dragon had been thrown across Posie’s back. How Aerea had snuck it aboard when she’d brought so many different dresses, Aenar would never know.

The horn sounded, and chaos emerged. Colorful banners gave way to the cries of steel. Aenar’s smile split his face as he watched the scrum begin, forty men all attacking their fellows. Then there was a rush of wind, a lance pointed towards him, and Aenar could no longer observe. His knees brought Posie to the side, his body twisting just in time. Ser Rymond Arryn bore all the speed of his sigil, raised up in the stirrups with his lance couched. His blue and white cape fluttered in the wind, his lance an iron beak pointed before him. Yet Aenar shifted just so, and the point caught upon the curve of his plate rather than its flat, sending the lance skidding away. Aenar turned swiftly, halberd raised as he followed. He swung it as Ser Rymond turned, a great blow that caught upon Ser Rymond’s shield. The axe-head of the halberd caught upon the metal rim and with a twist, Aenar pulled it from his grasp. Ser Rymond thrust his lance, hoping to gain distance, yet Posie danced upon Aenar’s command, dodging to the side. Instead it was Aenar’s attack that hit, a vicious swing of the halberd that tore Ser Rymond from his saddle, sending him tumbling into the mud.

Aenar grinned, and turned back to the scrum, watching with wide eyes as Ser Lucamore Strong tore through a three hedge knights with as many swings of his greatsword and Lord Qarl Corbray deflected every blow from the four men surrounding him. Aenar scanned the crowd, looking for another fight. He spotted one, Ser Karyl, unattended and vulnerable. Aenar moved to attack, yet in the chaos of the melee the hunter was often the hunted. As Posie began to trot, Aenar heard the signs of a gallop coming near. At the last moment Aenar swerved, avoiding the lance of Lord Uther Peake. Aenar turned, abandoning Ser Karyl, and chased after the richer prize, both in experience and wealth. Lord Uther, was no fool, and soon turned, counter-charging. Aenar dodged again, and again they turned. Aenar was swifter this time, and did not dodge Lord Uther’s third charge. Instead he let the lance crash into his plate, the armor and his scales absorbing the blow with no damage done. At the same time Aenar swung his halberd, the polearm smashing into Lord Uther’s orange surcoat and denting the steel beneath. Yet Lord Uther remained seated, and drew his blade. He moved forward. Aenar moved back, stabbing with his halberd’s pike to keep his distance. Yet Lord Uther deflected it, knocking the halberd aside and moving closer. He slashed, his blade crashing into Aenar. Were it not for a last minute shift in posture, Lord Uther’s would would have hit into the chain-covered elbows, loosening Aenar’s grip over his weapon. Yet so close, he gave Aenar an opportunity. Sliding the weapon back, Aenar grasped the halberd’s haft close the axe as he dared, and swung again. The dull blade hit Lord Uther’s helm, sending the Lord of Dunstonbury, Starpike, and Whitegrove into the mud.

Aenar rode forth in victory, and swung again. His next blow caught Karyl, and tore the knight from his seat. Ser Tom the Strummer rode up to him next, and Aenar knew precisely what to do. Ser Tom may have been a rival for the Kingsguard, a semi-finalist in the War of the White Cloaks, but he could not match Aenar for sheer strength. Aenar swung his halberd, not with the axe but with the back. Aenar hooked it around Ser Tom’s thigh as he passed and pulled, swinging the legendary knight’s body free from his saddle. Time slowed as the Strummer tumbled, pulled backwards by momentum and strength alike. He landed in the mud with a soft thud, out of the melee and filling Aenar’s sheet with twice as more experience as the Orca. He leveled up again, reaching new heights as power shifted into his body.

Gods, there was nothing that could stop him now! Aenar turned, his halberd at the ready. He would face Ser Lucamore next, and then–

The world tilted. Posie was growing taller. The mud grew closer.

Thud.

Aenar blinked. He stared. Slowly he stood. He looked up at the man who had unseated him. He bore a simple crest, a green shield on blue. His armor was lacking half the pieces of a proper set of plate. He nodded once to Aenar and rode off.

That . . . that’s it? Aenar wondered. Wait, is that how Tom felt when I pulled him down? No wonder sat in the mud for so long.

*

Word came slowly to Aenar as he washed himself. Ser Lucamore Strong had been defeated around the same time as Aenar, by another knight of no renown with a lucky charge, but not before defeating Ser Alestor Reyne and Lord Qarl Corbray.

By the time Aenar was cleaned and ready to join the stands, the melee had been winnowed to ten competitors, who granted a short break before combat resumed. Of the famed competitors, only two remained; Ser Ronnal Bartheon and Lord Myles Smallwood.

“My lord,” Aenar bowed as he entered Lord Velaryon’s box. “My thanks for the invitation.”

“I’d be doing us both a disservice if I had you sit elsewhere,” Daemon Velaryon replied. “It is not often that a boy of six namedays makes a name for himself, much less that he does so against grown men and battle-hardened knights.”

“Your words honor me, my lord,” Aenar replied.

Lord Velaryon hummed. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to a chair beside him. “Who do you think will emerge the victor?”

“I would like it to be Ser Ronnal Baratheon,” Aenar answered. “His son was a good friend of mine in Storm’s End, and we still write. Though I confess this style of melee has made things rather unpredictable.”

Lord Velaryon grinned, his human teeth feeling oddly out of place in the shark’s expression. “It does, doesn’t it. Tis why I enjoy the scrum, it keeps things entertaining. Keeps knights humble too. Reminds you that no matter how good you are, several men together can do what one alone cannot.”

“That or surprise,” Aenar commented, rubbing his side.

“Aye,” Lord Velaryon chuckled. “You and Ser Lucamore discovered that lesson today.” His eyes remained on the melee, where Ser Ronnal and Lord Smallwood traded blows, the two men weakening as the rest of the field looked on. “Tell me, have you begun planning for your future?”

“How do you mean, my lord?”

“Your goals, boy. Your aims in life.”

“I . . .” Aenar hesitated. “No,” he answered honestly, and cringed to admit it. He’d lived life once before, yet so far had no greater goal that to survive? To get stronger? Well, and hopefully keeping Aerea from her disastrous voyage.

“Have you ever considered squiring?”

Aenar looked up at Lord Velaryon. “I do not think Princess Rhaena would appreciate me discussing this without her.”

“Bah,” Lord Velaryon waved his hand. “Tis but a conversation. A squiring is an important thing, both to these Westerosi and to us Valyrians. It is a chance to learn not just combat, but what makes the Westerosi value their knights so much. A chance to learn their mannerisms, but also an opportunity for their corruption to seep in.” In the field Ser Ronnal’s hammer smashed into Lord Smallwood’s chest, sending the Riverlord into the mud. “It is important that we remnants of Valyria remain connected. That we remain true.”

“Of course,” Aenar agreed blandly. A sudden charge from a knight in dented armor tore Ser Ronnal from his saddle, leaving only two contestants left.

Another charge. The last two contested met. Exhausted, they crashed into each other. Only one remained seated.

“The victor of the melee!” the seneschal declared. “Ser Harys Hogg!”

The audience burst into applause, catcalls, and cheers, all for a knight whose family owned at most half a hundred acres of poor farmland a few leagues north of King’s landing.