Chapter Nineteen (Patreon)

The High Septon’s Grand Melee was, as all things about his faith, made of sevens. Seven teams would face each other over the course of seven days. Each team would have seven wings, each made of seven men. To give this structure, King Jaehaerys had determined the wings to have commanders–a spot Aenar had won in the Little Tourney. Commander of the 7th Wing, Aenar was in charge of organizing, relaying orders, and coordinating the charge of six men, each of them full-grown adults with egos and knighthoods.

Fortunately, the 7th wing was drawn from the men of Crackclaw Point. The least habitable place south of the Neck, Cracklaw Point was a lad of bogs, hills, and caverns with frequent floods, mudslides, and disease–not to mention the venomous snakes. For thousands of years the Point had been a source of conflict, primarily between the Houses that lived there over hunting, grazing, and fishing rights. The only times they joined together were to kick out foreigners, be they the Darklyn Kings who tried to conquer them in the Pre-Andal age or the Celtigars who tried to tax them after the Conquest. They were among the last of the untouched, unblemished First Men cultures left in the South, heeding clans, families, and oaths far more than the word of some far-off noble dressed in silks.

They were, in short, not interested in being ordered around by an outsider. So Aenar had challenged them. Each day, he would fight one of them, either on foot or in the joust. If he defeated them all, they had to listen.

Ser Brennan Brune was the first to take the challenge. The Knight of Brunehollow was the only ruling noble present. Dressed in gleaming plate with silver accents, the Knight of Brunehollow openly bragged that the plate was reforged from a Celtigar tax man who sought to impose his claimed rights upon the people of the Point. He challenged Aenar in the joust, and Aenar accepted.

Riding Posie, Aenar took a solid hit to the chest. Ser Brennan took something much worse. A critical hit. As if opposed by the might of gods the Knight of Brunehollow was flung from his horse, landing a half-dozen yards away, back firmly planted in the mud.

Aenar, sat upon Posie, loomed over him. “Need a hand?”

Ser Brennan stared up at him. “I think I’ve had too much of one,” Ser Brennan replied. “Though if you’ve some wine, I’d not say no.”

Aenar smirked. “Wine, Ser, is for winners. I’ll get you some ale.” His ride back to his tent was chased by Ser Brennan’s laughter.

*

The next to challenge Aenar was Ser Clement Cave. Another participant in the Little Tourney, Ser Clement had wielded a greatsword with ferocity, his single hit nearly caving in Ser Edgar Rosby’s chest. Yet against Aenar not even the giant Ser Clement (standing at 6’4”) could prevail. His greatsword was knocked aside, his armor dented, and Ser Clement himself was found unconscious on the ground. Aenar sent him to the Maester’s, offering to pay for everything.

After two defeats, the others were less eager for their own. But the Clawmen did not back down. Ser Ernest Brune of Dyre Den challenged him to a joust, as did Ser Edgar the Bold, a tourney knight of moderate renown. Ser Morne Boggs and Ser Lawrence Hardy, on the other hand, challenged Aenar on foot, much to their belated regret. Of all of them Ser Edgar had come closest to defeating him, Aenar only emerging the victor as he spurred Posie on the eight pass, that last moment momentum adding extra oomph to their attack.

The Clawmen had warmed up to Aenar after that. He liked to think it had something to do with proving himself, though it likely was just as much about the bribes. Despite his words to Ser Brennan Aenar had bought them all wine, and bought the grieves, guards, and joint protectors that Ser Edgar and Ser Morne had been yet unable to afford.

With his men now willing to heed orders, true practice began. They jousted, not against each other but as a single group riding against a line of pells. They practiced bringing their horses together, riding in a single line. They practiced wheeling, the art of pulling their cavalry away from the enemy without giving their foe an opportunity to strike. This, as Aenar understood it, would decide the Grand Melee. There were two primary parts of that fight: the Great Clash, and what came after. In the Great Clash both teams–all forty-nine of them–rode together against the foe. In a tremendous shattering of wood and limb they would meet. Those that remained would seek to wheel their wings, and ready for another charge. Those who failed to do so would be overrun by those who succeeded.

Aenar refused to meet with failure, and not just because he, as Wing Commander, was awarded a larger portion of the Melee’s prize.

*

Aerea had been excited for today. Much as she enjoyed the games of barbs and and tail-pulling, she was ready for a break. In the three weeks since their arrival Aerea had been to eighteen tea parties, six dances, and nine dinners, each of them an intricate tapestry of silver tongues and silk thread. Her presence at court, effectively abandoned thanks to her mother’s interference, was slowly being restored. Her and Aenar’s wealth, built from her cunning as much as his tourney winnings and whale-hunting, helped to reward those who stayed loyal and bribe those susceptible to such tactics.

But today was meant to be different. Her cousin, her brother, and her best friend was to be knighted by the King. The youngest to ever be knighted, from what she heard, and Aerea did not doubt it. Aenar was only seven, though he rarely acted it. When they were younger it had been Aenar who convinced Aerea to keep at embroidery even though it hurt her fingers, and Aenar who taught her to read the interwoven lines of arcane High Valyrian (though she did so far better than him these days). Seeing him knighted before the realm, finally acknowledged as the Targaryen he was . . . Aerea had been smiling all day.

And then the King happened. Clad in black velvet with a red, three headed dragon embroidered upon his chest and Blackfyre hanging from his belt, he stood before the lords and ladies of three Kingdoms (the Riverlands and the Vale having come to King’s Landing en route to the High Septon’s tourney) and denounced his cousin even as he knelt in armor crafted in the emblem of their House.

“ . . . yet, ever since the acknowledgement of the Faith of the Seven and the Old Gods as the Native Faiths of Westeros, polygamy has been prohibited to the members of House Targaryen. I cannot, therefore, acknowledge you as a trueborn son of House Targaryen. Yet neither are you the son of some common man, nor some minor lord. Cruel and vain though your father was, he carried with him the blood of Old Valyria, blood that sings strongly in your veins. Henceforth, all bastards of the House Targaryen will be known by the surname Fyre, in accordance with the privilege of their birth, and their raising will be entrusted to House Targaryen of King’s Landing. Therefore arise, Ser Aenar Fyre, son of Old Valyria.”

Aenar stood. His armor was a thing of beauty, black metal giving the illusion of rainbows under the sunlight. Aerea, standing near the King, could see the three-headed dragon upon his chest, bright red with wildfire eyes. The mark of their blood, now so callously denied to him. Aenar met her gaze. She tried to tell him with her eyes. That she had not know. That she did not approve. That she did not care, that she still loved him–

Aenar closed his eyes. He took in a breath. He bowed his head to King Jaehaerys Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” Aenar said. “I am your loyal servant.”