Chapter Twenty-Three (Patreon)

By the time registration opened on the 7th day of the 7th moon, Aenar was fairly certain he knew what the greatest threat to the Crownlands team was. He, along with his companions, had observed the other six teams. They had sparred with the Stormlanders, the Tarlys, and the Baneforts. In brief, the issue was not the quality of men. The Crownlands, almost unique among the regions, had drawn from the best fighters available rather than the highest nobles who could fight. That was not to say the other teams were all weak–after all, noblemen were raised in the yard as much as in court–but they were often made of men with greater reputations than deeds. No, the issue was a lack of cohesion and coordination. The Crownlands team was led by Ser Gyles Morrigen, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was a superb warrior, an excellent jouster, and the best bodyguard in the world. Yet all that he possessed in fighting ability, he lacked in force of personality and creativity. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was a calm, stoic man who favored straightforward plans and direct action. He did not console the nobles who had lost their positions in the Little Tourney. He did not rally the Crownlands fighters to him by virtue of sheer charisma. Instead he commanded what there was, and did so without question or correction. He was an excellent man to follow a plan. But against the likes of Lord Rogar Baratheon, whose cunning and charisma saw him installed as regent and Hand until he overreached, against Lord Darnold Arryn, who convinced virtually his entire kingdom to attend to the tourney despite the threat of the Mountain Clans, against Ser Martyn Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden whose family position remained only by dint of royal decree and winning smiles? Aenar feared stoic straightforwardness would be insufficient. The Grand Charge that opened the melee was an act of union. Forty-nine men on each side collided into each other with the full force of a mounted charge. The closer those men were to each other, the better. Shoulder-to-shoulder one man’s shield would protect the man next to him, but a lack of coordination would see riders fall as horses collided and tripped over each other. Spread out, they were guaranteed to hit the enemy but may as well have been charging on their own.

Alas, Aenar was only commander of a single wing. This was not an issue he could fix. He supposed he could mention it to the Lord Commander, but what would that accomplish? Assuming the man even listened all Aenar would do was instill self-doubt. It wasn’t like he could change who was commanding the teams at this point. He’d done all he could, ensuring all of his men leveled up. His own level, however, remained stagnant during their five-moon sojourn.

Aenar sighed. Hopefully he would gain a level in the tournament. Even if the melee didn’t go well, there was always the joust. Seven lanes open for three weeks, each day marked by seven challenges before lunch and seven challenges after. The starting defenders of each lane were tourney knights, each one drawn from one of Westeros’ larger settlements. A none-too-subtle reminder of the influence the Faith wielded, even if their armies were recently disbanded. Aenar had managed to secure the first challenge on the first day, riding against Ser Gorm the Fair, who represented Oldtown.

*

Aenar watched as the two teams prepared themselves for battle. By dint of ‘random’ drawing, the Stormlands and the Riverlands would face each other in the first battle of the Melee. His own bout was the next day, where the Crownlands faced the Vale, followed by the Northern Reach and the Westerlands. Somehow the Hightower-led Southern Reach had gotten the only free slot in the second round. A most advantageous position, considering how many fighters the first-round victors would likely lose to healing beds and long recoveries.

Sun gleamed against ninety-eight sets of armor. Not a single one had so much as a pauldron out of place as the two teams aligned their horses. Silk banners waved overhead, staked in the ground just outside of the melee’s arena. On the south stood the banners of the Stormlands, the strident stag of House Baratheon leading the way. On the north stood the banners of the Riverlands, House Tully’s leaping fish rivalled in size by many of its vassal banners. Unity, as ever, came slowest to the Riverlands.

A horn sounded. It was a warning, a first call. The wings prepared themselves. They steadied lances, reined in horses, and forced themselves into a single line. Forty-nine men across, each mounted upon the greatest steeds their kingdom could supply. Painted shields rose, displaying the heraldry of great houses and hedge knights alike.

Then the horn sounded again, and they were off. The charge was not a force of man, but one of nature. Forty-nine horses ran in perfect synchronicity, their hoofbeats timed to the beating of the heart. The lances lowered, men urged on their steeds for the final sprint. Shoulder-to-shoulder (or close as they could get) the knights prepared for battle. Surcoats and cloaks streamed behind the charging riders. Colorful plumes and tinted armor gleamed in the early afternoon sun as the two sides grew ever closer.

The audience held its breath.

The sides collided with an earth-shattering crash. Wood splintered, steel bent, and men toppled from their saddles like ungainly sacks of grain. In an instant the beauty and pageantry was gone, replaced by dull and desperate fighting. Horns sounded again, not from the officials but from the field itself as Wing Commanders desperately tried to reorganize their men. They wheeled, pulling back from the growing melee of unseated men and disorganized riders. Aenar counted as the horses retreated to their sides, each preparing for another charge. Nineteen of the Stormlanders had managed to pull back. Only nine of the Riverlanders had done the same.

The still-organized men charged again. They did not aim for each other this time–they could not, with the chaos unfolding on the central grounds, as men grappled in the mud and rode over each other as they tried to shake away the ringing between the ears. Instead they charged down those who remained stuck in the middle, another great clash and confusion as the wings broke from each other, each pursuing a different area.

Men were leaving the arena. Some left of their own accord, too injured to fight on. A few were forced to yield, a relatively rare and rich ransom granted in the middle of the melee. Others were dragged, unconscious and often bloody, by their allies and quickly hauled to a Maester’s tent. Not all were so fortunate as to last the journey. Aenar watched in shock and horror as a Cafferen man–Lord Cafferen, he would later learn–was dragged from the field with splinters in his throat. Was this sport truly worth the risk? Aenar had the system, but he was not the best, nor most capable fighter. He had considered the risk of losing, but the risk of death was only now becoming apparent.

The mounted men wheeled again, their numbers far lower. Only four men from the Riverlands and five from the Stormlands reached the back lines to reorganize themselves. Lord Mooton’s pink salmon flew over the last organized wing of the Riverlands, while Lord Baratheon commanded the Stormlands. They charged again, thunderous hooves beating the unmistakable music of war. The scrum in the mud broke apart under the force of their charge, only for both sides to wheel back, letting the disorganized noblemen back to clobber each other once more.

More bodies were pulled from the arena. Brackens, Mallisters, Vances, and Freys from the Riverlands. Lord Penrose and Lord Selmy from the Stormlands, the latter’s breastplate concave from the impact of a lance. Aenar winced at the sight. Two dead Stormlords. The Riverlands and the Stormlands had not had rivalries and feuds before. Aenar doubted that would remain the case.

A fourth charge was prepared, yet never sounded. The scrum had been decided, mud-coated Stormlanders emerging victorious over the equally filthy Rivermen. Lord Mooton shouted an order. Behind him, the pink salmon banner was lowered.

A cheer erupted from the audience, Aenar swiftly rising to match it. Even as he applauded and yelled alongside his men, he could not keep his eyes from the dirt, where the last few unconscious men were being hauled off the field. Two men were already dead from the melee, and many more could fall in the days to come. Was that to be his fate as well?

Aenar shook himself, taking a deep breath. He would fight, because he had to. Backing down at this point would shatter any reputation Aenar had or could hope to have. What little of his future Jaehaerys hadn’t ruined by making him a bastard, a withdraw would destroy. He would survive, because Aerea would kill him otherwise.

*

Aerea watched as the two sides lined up. From the Royal Box, sat only two seats away from the King, Queen, and the High Septon, Aerea could see the entire field. The knights in their shining armor. The silk banners that waved overhead. The lances and dulled swords they wore, a restriction made law by her kingly uncle. Angry as she might be with him, Aerea could not help but be grateful for Jaehaerys today. Without his restrictions, live blades would be used for the melee, and Aenar was down there with them. She could see him, the suit of armor he’d made standing out from even this panoply of decorations. The steel was black as his scales, a dark shine to the metal that grew under the midday sun. On his chest was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, of their House, regardless of what the king claimed. Each head’s mouth was open wide, flames flying from them. The orange-red fires burned past his chest, reaching down each arm and onto his gauntleted hands. The pauldrons, the vambraces, the gauntlets themselves–each piece was part of a single decorated whole.

Then there was his helm. Though the form was recognizable and practical, it was covered in steely decorations. Slight reliefs of horns swooped back from his head. The visor was made not of plain steel with holes for breathing, but of clashing rows of dagger-like teeth. Near the top, a pair of glowing green eyes stared out at the assembly of Vale knights, daring them to come near.

A horn sounded. The warning. The knights raised their shields. They closed ranks, and Aenar became one among many, his six followers shadowing either side of him. Lances were readied.

The second horn sounded, and Aerea began to pray.