Chapter Twenty-One (Patreon)

Somehow the arrival of the Stormlands host did not slow down the march towards Oldtown. Despite adding another three hundred members of the host and outright doubling the number of lords, the men and women of the Stormland proved they had little patience for sloth and a great deal of eagerness to reach the tourney. Aenar and his men suddenly found themselves drowning in sparring partners, all of them from their future foes in the Stormlands.

Even as good roads and the Stormlords’ eagerness increased the pace of the journey, the nature of the Reach eased its burdens. The roads were clear and well-maintained. Villages were within an easy day’s travel of each other, often overlooked by small keeps and towers. True castles were harder to come by, but even they were no rarity. At least twoscore of them lay along the road between Bitterbridge and Highgarden, and each one saw use by King Jaehaerys and his high lords and ladies. As a bastard (even a royal one) Aenar was not among those invited into the smaller spaces of these minor castles, yet Aerea was quick to tell him of all that went on inside. Of the fights between the Massey and Penrose men over cattle rustling, the arguments between Lady Darry and her husband’s vassal, Lady Hawick, and the scandal of Lord Elesham being caught abed with two women, neither of them his wife! Lord Arryn had been furious, banning Lord Elesham from the melee, though he could not force the Lord back to the Vale without greater consequences.

When at last they arrived at Highgarden, nearly three moons into their journey, the Tyrells welcomed them with open arms. Yet great as the three-ringed seat of the Gardener Kings was, it could not hold the majesty of all those gathered. The lords of the Westerlands and the northern Reach were already waiting, now joined by those of the Vale, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands. The number of lords tripled, the landed knights reached into the high hundreds, and the hangers-on grew so numerous as to rival the castle town of Highgarden itself. The famous gardens, so delicately cared for by Gardener Kings and Tyrell stewards, were now home to as many camp followers and hedge knights as they were roses and daffodils.

There was a grand feast at Highgarden, to celebrate the coming tourney and the joining the of the Seven Kingdoms. Aenar was not invited. Not ‘was pushed to a lower table.’ Not ‘was ignored.’ Was not invited. His teeth clenched at the slight, and Aenar swore that he would trounce whichever Tyrell knights had the misfortune to come across him in the joust. If they would treat him like dirt, they would be less than the scuff marks upon his boot. Their ransoms would be high as they could reach, and those upjumped stewards never failed to reach for more.

*

Oldtown was a beautiful place. For days it had been on the horizon, the flame of the Hightower acting as a beacon to their continued advance. As they drew nearer, the city emerged from beneath the Hightower’s protection. The outer walls, made of yellow sandstone hauled from the Red Mountains, stood seventy feet high and the gatehouses taller still, yet numerous buildings could be seen over them. The Hightower, of course, but also the black marble dome of the Starry Sept, the interwoven domed towers of the Citadel, and a few dozen more towers besides, each climbing into the sky in pale mimicry of the Hightower. These last structures–some built of imported marble, some of local stone–belonged to the wealthiest and most foolish of local merchants and noblemen. Those with more sense displayed their wealth by building mansions and gardens inside the city wall. According to Aerea, this not only showed their wealth in acquiring so much space in a crowded city, but also allowed them to compete with each other and the Hightowers on something they could win. Prettier gardens, after all, were far easier to buy than a thousand-foot tower.

As they arrived, the parties began to split. The great lords–Lannister, Tully, Arryn, Tyrell, Baratheon–and their chief vassals accompanied the King as he rode through the Royal Gate, a hundred-foot tall gatehouse with a white marble facade. Even from his position closer to the rear, Aenar could make out faint bas-reliefs of courtly grandeur and royal processions. Above them all was a recent addition: seven crowned heads bowing to the might of a dragon. Aenar smirked, wondering how much it hurt the proud and pious Hightowers to add that image, and to restore it after Maegor’s fall.

Turning his head back to the road, Aenar gestured for the group to follow him. Though he nominally commanded only six men, all but one were members of a noble house, and one was even a ruling landed knight. His six men had ten squires and twenty-three servants between them, while both Ser Clement Cave and Ser Ernest Brune (of Dyre Den) had brought their wives and children along as well. Instead of space for seven men and their horses, Aenar needed to find space for forty-six people, twenty-one war horses, eighteen work horses, and eight wagons. Now that the journey was over, he had to find food as well. Lord Hightower was only officially hosting the high lords. Everyone else had to pay for their keep.

After a half-hour’s search (and no small amount of help from Ser Edgar, who had learned the hard way how to distinguish good camping ground from bad during his time as a hedge knight) they at last settled on spit of slightly sloped ground, twenty minute’s walk from the city and five from the river. Aenar watched as the servants began to unpack, painted tents rising in their masters’ colors.

Aenar turned back to his men. “The sooner we finish getting set up, the sooner we can practice and relax,” Aenar said.

“Pretty sure those are two different things,” Ser Lawrence Hardy smirked.

“Maybe not for him,” Ser Ernest japed. “Always a blade or a book in hand, but never doing nothing.”

Aenar blushed beneath his scales. Even after years in Westeros, bereft of the internet, the pace of medieval life felt slow. Books and practicing helped keep him busy, and busy felt good. “It’s a short practice today,” Aenar muttered. “Just some sparring. I’ll need to figure out who we can partner with that won’t give too much away for the melee.” He shook his head. “Setting up. Ser Edgar, you mentioned you’ve been to Oldtown before?”

“Aye, though it’s been a while,” Ser Edgar agreed. “Haven’t been back since the Rebellions.”

Aenar resisted the urge to frown. Edgar was still the best bet. “Do you know any reliable food merchants in the city? I’d rather not rely on guesswork.”

“Not sure if they’re still around, but I worked for a couple of merchants a while back. They own a farm not too far from here, wouldn’t be too much trouble to see what’s what.”

“If they accept, you can promise them a gold dragon per day for our group and horses, so long as all are full and none are sick.”

Ser Edgar stared at him. Ser Brennan stared at him. “Lad,” the Knight of Brunehollow said, “are you certain about this?”

Aenar nodded. “I’m paying for it,” he said. “I won’t risk us getting bad food or poisoning.”

“Still,” Ser Morne Boggs said softly. “The tourney won’t even start for eleven days, and the joust for twenty-five. Having rode and fought with you I have no doubt you can make sufficient coin at the tourney, but until then?”

“I have wealth left over from Lord Velaryon’s tourney,” Aenar said. “Fear not, I promise nothing I cannot deliver upon.” So long as he captured some people in the melee, and did well in the joust. It was a risk, but only a light one. Not a true risk, even. More of an investment.

Aenar turned to Ser Ernest. “I need you and your best groom to start looking at stables. Make sure they’re secure, and the owners–”

“Don’t favor anyone,” Ser Ernest nodded. “Ain’t my first tourney, lad.”

“Right.” Aenar took another steadying breath. “Ser Brennan, I would ask you to visit the other wings of the Crownlands, and see if any are interested in practicing with us. Ser Clement, you are in charge of setting up the camp. Ser Lawrence, is your friend the blacksmith still with us?”

“Aye.”

“Offer him camping space and food if he’ll agree to fix our armor first. I’ll pay his usual rate, I just want a guarantee ours will be worked on.” Ser Lawrence nodded firmly. Aenar turned again. “Ser Morne, you’ll be with me. We’re going to scout the competition.”