Chapter Fifteen (Patreon)

Officially speaking, there was no eighth day of celebrations. It would be disrespectful, unlucky, and gauche to extend past the holy number seven (unless one fully committed to the even holier number of forty-nine).

Yet the lords and ladies were still there. The kitchens still served breakfast for hundreds, and the tent city remained in full. Vendors lined the space between Castle Driftmark and Hull while in the city itself every street was crowded with merchants hawking their wares. This was the last event, the one that paid for all the others: the Great Shop.

Driftmark was an island of trade. Silk from Yi-Ti, spices from Qarth and the Summer Islands, glass from Myr, perfumes from Lys, whale oil from Ibben, furs from the far North, tapestries from Norvos—all naturally came to Driftmark as they passed through the Narrow Sea, currents and winds alike blowing ships into the island’s harbors. Even with prices rising from the presence of so many Westerosi notables, they remained far cheaper than the standard in King’s Landing and Dragonstone.

Or so Aerea insisted as she dragged Aenar through the market.

“Coin hoarded is coin wasted,” Aerea told him. “You will need silks for formal outfits, why not buy them where they are cheaper? The spices and perfumes we can sell back to Mother for Dragonstone’s use—I already know which ones she prefers. If we keep the price below what the merchants charge her, she won’t even care that we’re making a profit.”

“Are you going to tell me I should buy a farm next?” Aenar asked. “Invest in some cattle?”

“No, silly,” Aerea laughed. “The dragons would just eat your cattle, and neither of us knows enough about farming to avoid being robbed. A ship might now be a good idea though, especially with what you told me.”

Aenar hummed. “Do you know what they cost?”

“Nope!” Aerea grinned. “But I know a Velaryon cousin who’d be happy to help if we can guarantee his son a full education.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Ser Merrick—the commander’s son—has been complaining about his lack of a squire. Since the boy is a Velaryon . . .”

“He’d get Maester’s lessons as well,” Aenar finished. He stared at his cousin. “You’re a genius.”

Aerea preened, flipping her golden hair. “It took you this long to learn?”

*

Rhaena wasn’t sure what she expected when she allowed Aerea’s latest whim, but a economic boom certainly wasn’t it. When her nephew had come back from Lord Velaryon’s tourney cloaked in glory, Rhaena had been tempted to knight him on the spot. A feeling that only grew when she saw how he deferred to her daughter on matters of coin, rather than ignoring the wisdom of women as so many true men were wont to do. Yet as her accursed Velaryon uncle had pointed out, Aenar remained too young in the eyes of many. More would be needed for his knighting, and so Rhaena had committed to testing him. She had not granted him a household, but rather granted him the right to one, should he be able to afford it.

To afford a household was no small thing. Even the lowest of hedge knights, who needed to keep nothing but themselves, their horse, and their armor, often failed in this regard. Horses could eat straight through silver and into gold, armor needed to be regularly seen by proper smiths, and knights themselves were no small eaters. Aenar would still sup at her table, but he had two horses and a full suit of armor, and would need to regularly see his plates and chains exchanged or extended as he grew. Well within the ability of the amounts he had won at the Velaryon tourney, should he not prove foolish.

Aerea, thick as thieves with her cousin, had asked to help. Rhaena agreed. It would be practice for her as well, as Aerea would one day inherit Dragonstone. Aerea was already good with coin–her little trick with the Driftmark spices and perfumes proved that–but being good with coin in the moment and being good with budgets did not always align.

Their first actions had left Rhaena thinking the pair of Targaryen younglings insane. Who, when working on a budget, spends nearly all their money on a small sailing ship? An admittedly well-built one, but hardly of sufficient size to trade. Their task had gone from easy to nigh impossible. Rhaena had steeled herself. She did not want to reduce Aenar to a household knight, a servant rather than family, but if his actions made it inevitable she would do what she must. It was a better fate than that of a hedge knight.

Then Aenar had come back with the charred, partially eaten corpse of a whale. Not just a whale, a cachalot nearly the size of Dreamfyre. The flesh had gone to the victorious dragon, the wild creature Aenar had played with for years. The blubber was rendered into oil by wayward Ibb-men Aerea had somehow procured, and the bones cut and washed for sale.

While that had been the only whale Aenar had caught so far, word of its presence had spread. The Ibbenese, always looking for new grounds to fish, had come. So too had Velaryon and Valemen, more interested in the marlins and swordfish than the great whales. Soon Rhaena’s ports were busy, taverns and brothels were swiftly emerging, fights were breaking out, and she had to deal with all of them! Gods, but brilliant daughters were a curse and a boon.

*

Dinner at Dragonstone was a strange affair for Aenar. After the Velaryon’s tourney, both he and Aerea had been judged old enough to join the High Table, where Rhaena sat with her ladies, husband, and guests. Aerea knew the ladies–Elissa Farman, Samantha Stokeworth, and Alayne Royce–well from her time in the sewing circles and gathering gossip in the castle, but Aenar had no such relationship with the women. He simply did not have time for it. Between hunting sea life with Vorelkorth on even days, and sparring and spending time with Aerea or in lessons on odd days, Aenar’s schedule was full.

Likewise Aenar lacked any knowledge of Androw Farman, nor did he wish to change this matter. A failed squire of insufficient intellect for the Citadel, Androw’s sole virtue was his sibling, the charismatic and energetic Elissa Farman, much beloved by Princess Rhaena. Were Aenar’s aunt (mother, in all but name) any less devoted to Lady Elissa or any less hounded by the unwed knights of the Kingdoms, Aenar rather suspected Androw Farman would never have stood a chance as her suitor. Instead he sat as her husband, Prince in all but name, fully ignored from all of Dragonstone’s operations.

Aenar instead turned to the guests. There were no visiting nobles that night, which meant his aunt had invited a few of the guildmasters to dine with them. Today it was Byorn of the Whalecarvers and Melissa of the Seamstresses.

“Any luck?” Aenar asked Byorn. “I’ve seen a few around, but none so close that I can make a move.”

“That be because of yer partner,” Byorn grinned. “Ye be driving them to us, methinks. A baleen and two killers are what came in last sennight, but I’m eager for another cachelot yet.”

“I’d wager you’re hardly alone in that,” Aenar replied. Why the Ibbenese would be cursed with pirate dialect instead of the Stepstones, he had no idea. “I made more money from that whale than I did Lord Redwyne’s armor.”

“Aye, cachelot’s a fine prize,” Byorn agreed. “Though from what I be hearing, ye be having a chance t’get many more.” He leaned forward. “That big priest o’ yours what died, his successor been chosen. Needs to have a big festival, what I heard. Inviting all them knights.”

Aenar grinned. “Any idea what size of tourney it is?”

“A big one, from what I be hearin’,” Byorn said. “Whole bunch of sevens, and seven-times-sevens.”