Chapter Eighteen (Patreon)

Jaehaerys Targaryen tapped his fingers on Blackfyre’s hilt as he watched the duels. Forty-seven men had asked to lead a wing in the Grand Melee. Many of them were distant cousins, household knights, even a hedge knight begged permission. Yet others were powerful, or at least friendly to those who were. Truly, the High Septon’s tourney was swift becoming more of a headache than it was worth. Showing off Targaryen might and power was well and good (especially when the Faith was paying for it) but Jaehaerys would rather avoid ill feelings among half the lords of the Crownlands.

Hence, the duels. Settled in the training yards with blunted weapons, like civilized men. Opponents were drawn from lots, one lucky man getting to skip the first round, another lucky man getting to skip the second. Three or four duels were occurring at a time. Currently Ser Ernest Brune (of Dyre Den, not Brunehollow) and Ser Lawrence Hardy were trading blows, seemingly intent on finding out who could take the most damage. Lord Qarl Corbray, Jaehaery’s trusted commander of the City Watch, was toying with a hedge knight in his usual infuriating manner. Jaehaerys had trained with the man before with mixed success. A thoroughly defensive man, Ser Qarl’s blade was ever moving, his feet constantly shifting, his eyes never still. The moment you faltered, or even paused to breath? He was on you, his sword moving like a viper to take swift, sharp bites.

Yet Jaehaerys’ eyes were not on either of those duels, but on the third, where his cousin fought. Rhaena’s son, in all but name. Clad in armor, one would could hardly tell his inhuman nature. In armor or out of it, one would surely never guess his age. Yet Aenar was neither human, nor was he older than seven.

Jaehaerys watched as his cousin’s halberd blocked a sword-blow. He did not know what to make of the boy. He had neglected Aenar for years, believing that Rhaena had Maegor’s sole son under control. That the nature of his birth kept Aenar from being a threat.

Lord Velaryon’s tourney had corrected that mistake. The whispers began immediately. Of course they had. When a scaled boy of six defeats nine and twenty knights in two days it becomes more legend. It becomes witchcraft, or miracle. Jaehaerys had worked to quash the whispers. Neither served him well. House Targaryen could not afford to be connected to witchcraft, not after what Visenya, Maegor, and Tyanna had done. Nor could he afford for Aenar’s name to become a blessing. The line of Maegor could not be considered holy, they must be broken from it.

Aid in this endeavor had come from a most unlikely source: the Westerlands. Irritated by his sister’s flouting of social norms and roughshod diplomacy, it had not been hard to turn them against the idea of Aenar, the son of Jeyne Westerling, acting as some sort of miracle. Neither did the Lords of the Westerlands wish for their names to be associated with witchcraft, lest it poison marriage and trade opportunities with the rest of the realm. Instead a solution had been found. A perfect one, if Jaehaerys said so himself. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism allowed for incest among the Targaryens. It did not allow for polygamy. Ever since King Aenys, no Targaryen has been allowed to have multiple wives. Any children produced by Maegor, other than by Cyrese Hightower, were bastards, bestowed with the surname Fyre rather than Waters to denote their royal origin.

SMACK!

Jaehaerys watched as Aenar took a blow directly to the head. He winced in sympathy, knowing the force of a metal blade, even when blunted, was often enough to break bones or rattle arms. Yet Aenar pressed through. He swung his halberd, the dull grey steel of Dragonstone glowing in the mid-morning sun.

THUD.

A single blow to the chest. That was all it took. Aenar’s foe, a Harte of some kind, coughed as he stumbled back. Aenar stepped forward, leveling his halberd at the man’s face, offering a yield.

Very strong, Jaehaerys thought. And he is close to Aerea. Perhaps the Kingsguard, should my plans to wed her to my heir prove successful.

*

Things were not looking good for Aenar. First, he’d lost half his hit points to a single lucky strike, a critical hit that rattled his mind and soul as well as his body. Aenar’s reply had been enough to send Ser Marst Harte from the yard, yet the fact remained: Aenar felt far less secure in his eventual victory with sixteen hitpoints than he had at thirty-two.

Second, he’d drawn a formidable foe in the second round. Many younger knights would have dismissed Lord Edwell Celtigar. Old enough to have served as a squire in the Conquest, Lord Celtigar’s thin moustache was grey, and his hair was thinning. Yet his form retained the wiry muscularity of a sailor, his arms corded like hempen rope. The strength of youth had left Lord Celtigar’s body, so instead he wielded his axe with intellectual precision. He moved with the curious grace of a man who had seen every move you knew, and defeated the men who used them.

Aenar’s first instinct had been to get rid of the threat as swift as possible. He had rushed forward, all strength and power as he swung his halberd. Yet Lord Celtigar simply shifted. Aenar’s halberd landed axe-down in the sand, and Lord Celtigar’s axe made it’s presence known in Aenar’s flank.

Notification: 10 damage. You have 21 hit points

Aenar turned quickly. Strategies flared in his mind. He blocked a second swiped with his vambrace. Backing up, he saw the careful movements. The narrow lines. The perfect footwork.

Aenar smiled. He swung. Lord Celtigar’s shield raised, yet at the last moment the halberd dropped. He aimed not for the flank or the leg, but the boot. The halberd stuck around Lord Celtigar’s foot.

Lord Celitgar looked down.

Aenar pulled.

Lord Celtigar tumbled into the sand. Aenar moved, halberd rising to threaten him, yet Lord Celtigar was swifter still. He rolled onto his feet, standing swiftly. Aenar jabbed at him, the halberd’s spike connecting with Celtigar’s breastplate, sending the lord stumbling back. Aenar moved swiftly, trying to follow up, yet Lord Celtigar’s feet were already back in place.

So Aenar tripped him again. Again Lord Celtigar fell, and again he rose. This time his defense was not so swift, his feet not so ready. As the greybeard rose, he was greeted by a steel axehead beneath his neck.

“I yield.”

Opponent Defeated (Lord Edwell Celtigar, CR 9)

1,200 EXP Gained (15,910/15,000)

You may level up

For once Aenar decided against immediate gratification. Instead he lowered the halberd. Aenar grinned, invisible beneath the helm. “A good bout, Lord Celtigar.”

“A good reminder,” Lord Celtigar grumbled. “Been too long since I fought proper, if a boy of six can pull me off my feet!”

“Seven, my lord.”

“Bah, six, seven, at my age we count in decades!” Lord Celtigar declared. “You’ve not even seen one, and you still put me on my back. Take pride in that, though know if we fight again I’ll be better rested and twice as fierce.”

“Is that an offer to spar?” Aenar asked, eagerness unhidden. There was much to gain with a sparring partner. A steady stream of exp (though greatly diminished from actual combat). Lessons in stances and maneuvering. A potential friendship with one of the preeminent lords of the Crownlands.

Lord Celtigar hesitated a moment. “Aye,” he said. “Why not. My grandson could do with some more time in the yard. Maybe seeing someone match me will get him off his arse.”

*

It was mid-afternoon when Aenar faced off against his last opponent. He held no fear. Leveling up had once more restored his hit points. Aenar now stood at fifty-six, more than enough to fight an already-exhausted foe.

His last opponent was Ser Boros Wendwater. Though Ser Boros had two decades of experience on Aenar, Aenar stood four inches taller and a good twenty pounds heavier. Both wore plain suits of heavy steel, the dull metal turned shiny by the late day sun.

They moved, turning slowly in the arena. Ser Boros moved with smooth grace, his feet neatly sliding over the sand. He repositioned himself on moment, then in another stepped forward, his blade rising, striking out. Aenar twisted, trying to defend himself. Yet Ser Boros’ sword landed with a clang, sending a dull throb of pain through Aenar’s chest as sword collided with a small gap in his plates. Aenar groaned through gritted teeth as his hit points dropped. The hit more than stung, yet it was not enough to stop him.

Aenar slid back, his feet in perfect position, and thrust at Ser Boros’ throat. Ser Boros twisted, the halberd’s spike instead hitting the cheek of his helmet. A grievous blow nonetheless, one that sent Ser Boros back a pace as he gathered his breath.

They stepped forward at the same time, weapons meeting in the middle. Ser Boros was fast, too fast. Aenar could not deflect his blows, not all of them. But he did not need to. He blocked one, and took another on his vambrace. Then Aenar swung, taking a hit to the chest that could not pierce his scales. His halberd hit Ser Boros in the thigh, the axehead crashing into his grieves with a human scream soon joining that of metal against metal. Ser Boros stumbled back from the blow, his leg nearly giving out. Yet he still stood, even as Aenar approached.

Aenar lunged. Despite his injured leg Ser Boros dodged, feet scraping up a cloud of sand. His returning blows landed against Aenar’s back and flank, yet lacked the force and aim to do more than irritate his scaled hide. Aenar grinned as he turned, confident in victory. Desperate, Ser Boros lunged. Aenar ducked back, barely avoiding a blow to the head that would have sent him sprawling upon the ground. He retreated under the furious attack, a hailstorm of steel hammering down upon Aenar’s metal guard. At last Aenar moved back enough, longer legs granting him a spare split-second with which to swing his weapon. The halberd, low to the ground, suddenly raised. The axehead found purchase against the prescient attacker. Ser Boros, mid-swing, found himself upon the floor. His sword was a yard from his hand.

Aenar stepped forward, his halberd still at his side. Ser Boros pushed himself up. His arm collapsed.

“Yield,” Ser Boros said.

Aenar set the halberd aside. He offered Ser Boros his hand, then swung the knight’s arm around his shoulder, helping him hobble over the sandy pit to a nearby set of benches, where the Maester’s awaited.

“Good fight,” Aenar said, as the next bout began and steel rang once more.

“Better for you than me.”

Aenar snorted. Had he not leveled up, he may well have lost. “You were close.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“If not for my swift recovery–”

Ser Boros rolled his eyes. “If not for my birth, I would be a peasant. Speak not of what could be and instead of what is. I lost, and I feel no shame for it.” He grinned. “After all, I can blame my loss on your impenetrable scales. Who else will have such a good excuse with which to woo the maidens?”