Chapter Twenty (Patreon)

Bastard. Loosely, Aenar had known it was an option. Vaguely, he knew it was a smart play. It kept Aenar from threatening Jaehaerys or his children. It kept him lower. Kept him away from the family.

Knowing why didn’t make it hurt less. In a rage befitting his physical age, Aenar had  stalked into the training yard after the ceremony. His halberd had torn through the dummies, shattering wooden pylons and decapitating oak stands that had withstood the Conquerer’s practicing blows. He brutalized the yard until nothing remained whole.

Then, finally, he began to think. He could not fight this. The King’s word was law, especially when the King had a dragon. And it was not as if Rhaena and Aerea would stop treating him like family. Aenar had seen the look in Aerea’s eyes, the shock-horror-pity mixed with something else as she stared at him during the ceremony. She was loyal. She cared. So Aenar sought her out.

In the end, beneath the dragon’s rage at hurt family and the pre-teen’s ire at adults, Aerea’s advice had been simple: “Win. I’ll handle the rest.” If there was one thing Westeros respected, even in bastards, it was force of arms. Now Aenar just needed to prove his own.

So he began training with his men. He could see their character sheets now, the hidden numbers behind their actions. He saw the movement of their horses, and the extra strength in their lance that was lacking in the sword, and knew exactly which feats had been unconsciously chosen, and which had not. Aenar sparred with them every day. He rode with them every day. Maneuvers, formations, and practice charges combined with fighting each other on foot or horseback, in a yard, an open plain, or even a copse of trees. He saw the experience points slowly going up, and grinned to himself when he tracked the planned route to Oldtown. With the tourney beginning on the 7th day of the 7th moon, Aenar had plenty of time.

*

Twenty-seven high lords, a hundred eleven landed knights, and nearly two thousand hangers on exited King’s Landing in a triumph of rainbow banners more befitting a parade than a march.

It took them two days to reach the Kingswood. Getting through it would take the rest of the month.

The roads of the Kingswood were more mud than track, gumming the wheels of every wagon and tearing free the axles of those who lacked caution. The knights grew restless as the sullen pace, and the ladies were hardly any better. There were few castles in the Kingswood, and many of those were barely better than watchtowers. Each day they made a few miles progress, each night they camped in the woods. Aenar focused himself on sparring, spending half the day with his men and the other half with Aerea and her friends. He knew little of those she’d gathered to her, save that they seemed a powerful bunch. There was Samantha Frey, the sole daughter of Lord Frey, whose dowry was worth more than most lordships and whose mind, Aerea smirked, would easily govern most of the fools who sought her hand. Alyssa Belmore and Yanna Royce were nieces of their ruling lords, raised like daughters though lacking in the prestige. Other than that the two Vale girls could not be more different, with Alyssa running off the join the hawking expeditions while Yanna remained in the lute-laden tents, fixated on her embroidered creations. Aenar knew little of the art, save that when Yanna showed him her works he spent half an hour staring at a thread eagle, convinced it would swoop down from the mountain. Last was Adella Rosby, a nice, cheery, and simple girl who seemingly stumbled into gossip like most children did bruises. Lord Rosby’s daughter had been the one to inform Aerea of Lord Chyttering’s bastard and Lady Vypren’s affair, to say nothing of the ongoing embezzlement in the Darklyn household.

Aenar had also tried to hunt while in the Kingswood. He had obtained royal permission (it was the King’s wood) and set off with his wing, only to find that, while all of them knew how to hunt, none of them knew how to do it in a forest. Aenar was used to hunting small game on Dragonstone, or giant fish with Vorelkorth. The Clawmen were used to hunting small and mid-sized game in their bogs.

It was by luck rather than skill that they stumbled across a deer, a young stag likely run off from its herd. The rack was six points, nothing impressive, but it saved them the grave embarrassment of coming back empty handed after spending two whole days in the woods.

*

Bitterbridge was a beautiful town, located on the western bank of the Mander’s upper reaches. Farms sprawled around the high stone walls in vast golden fields, while orchards gathered nearby, their boughs weighed down with the first fruits of the year. A stone bridge crossed the Mander’s bounds, forty feet across and two hundred feet long, its base arched and ancient in design. The town’s gates opened directly upon the bridge’s end, revealing rows of neat wood and plaster merchant houses painted all the bright colors of the rainbow.

Once, this place had a different name. Sweetwater Bridge, for the taste of the pure Mander that flowed through, unharmed by the town’s filth. Its name had changed only a decade ago, when thousands died in King Maegor’s war, as the Faith and the Crown fought for supremacy.

How Maegor would have rebelled at the sight, House Targaryen journeying south for the High Septon’s tourney. How the Warrior’s Sons would have joined him at seeing the High Septon honor the deeds of House Targaryen and preach their Doctrine of Exceptionalism. After more than a moon on the road, the thought greatly improved Aenar’s morale. Nearly as much as seeing his old friends again.

“Aenar?”

“Ronnal!” Aenar grinned. He embraced his friend. “I’m finally taller than you.”

“I—this won’t last!” Ronnal swore. He grinned as well. “What’s this I hear about you leading a wing, eh? Participating wasn’t enough for you?”

“You know me.”

“Aye, and I’m half surprised you didn’t wind up leading the side,” Ronnal laughed. “Your knights, they’re good?”

“Very good,” Aenar smiled. “Are you—“

Ronnal shook his head. “Father says I’m too young. I’ll be in the joust.”

“Best of luck to you.” Aenar paused. “So long as you don’t challenge me.”

“My father beat you.”

“He beat me last year. I’ve gotten better.”

“So have I.”

Aenar smiled. “Then I guess we’ll just have to find out. I’ll be challenging on the first day of the joust. I want to see how long I can keep it.”

Ronnal’s eyebrows rose. “Bold.”

“Being bold gets you gold.”

“If you win. Otherwise it’s just being an idiot.”

Aenar frowned. “I beat nine and twenty riders at Driftmark. I want to do better this time.”

Ronnal grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Guess I’d better sign up as number thirty-one then! Wouldn’t want to ruin your streak.”