GoMB Chapter Twenty-Four (Patreon)

Aenar’s jaw clenched at the sound of the horn. His men were confident. Ser Brennan Brune, a landed knight closer in wealth to a minor lord, had clapped him on the shoulder as they made their way to the field, as if victory had already occurred. Ser Clement Cave was no eager, his hands playing at the hilt of his greatsword before taking up his lance.

“Ready,” Aenar ordered. “Into formation.” The moved their horses into line with his own. Josie carried him that day, the more experienced steed less likely to throw him in the chaos. He pressed Josie to move to the side, and she did. His pauldrons brushed against those of Ser Morne Boggs. Shields were lifted into place. Lances were raised to the shoulder.

The second horn sounded. “Now!” the order came not from Aenar, but from Ser Gyles Morrigen, their leader and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Aenar could only imagine the sight the man made as every knight spurred their horse, white cloak flapping back to reveal gold-tinted armor.

They rushed forward. Against the glory of the Crownlands came the might of the Vale, their armor just as ornate, their cloaks and horses matching every inch of gilding and embroidery.

The lines drew closer. “Now!” Aenar ordered, and his wing couched their lances, tips lowering as they readied for impact. He spied his target, the leader of the Vale’s Seventh Wing. Lord Symon Sunderland sat well on the horse despite his rocky home. His armor was silvered, his shield rose with the Three Sisters, black locks dangling around pale faces. Aenar aimed, and struck hard as he could manage.

WHAM. The two sides collided. Aenar felt his lance impact Sunderland, saw the man slip from his saddle. Yet he had no time to celebrate, as another lance impacted his chest. Aenar hung on, feet clenched in the stirrups. Another lance struck, nearly pulling him down. Aenar winced, nearly crying out at the pain.

17 hit points left

“Turn!” Aenar shouted. His knees pressed against Josie, ordering her back and around. “Turn now, pull back to the fence!” His voice was but one among many as men shouted from the saddle or the ground. Aenar turned, heeding his own advice. He moved back, riding towards the fence at the end, where a fresh lance would be waiting for him. He looked to the sides as he rode, and breathe in relief. His men were still with him. Not all, but enough. Four men with fresh lances and galloping horses could overwhelm a few disorganized men on the ground.

At last they reached the fences. Aenar grabbed the offered lance, turning Josie back around. Ser Lawrence Hardy rode next to him, followed by Ser Edgar the Bold and Ser Clement Cave. “Ready yourselves,” Aenar ordered as the men moved back into formation. His eyes were already looking ahead, towards the scrum developing on the field. He looked to the Vale side, shocked to find none had pulled back to their fences. They remained stuck in the mire of combat, seeking ransoms and glory rather than an ordered win. To his left Aenar looked to the Crownlands side. Lord Qarl Corbray had managed to lead his men back, alongside a pair of Velaryon riders. All others remained in the field, fallen into the mud or their own greed and disorganization.

Aenar looked to Lord Corbray. He nodded. Aenar nodded back.

“Now!” Again they spurred forward the horses. Aenar aimed at the Vale’s left flank, the other five riders aiming for their right. Curving around the mess of men in the center, Aenar led his own on their charge, lances couched as their mounts churned dirt and sweat beneath their hooves. Aenar aimed for closest mounted man he could see. The man turned as Aenar approached, revealing a shield covered by waves. His momentary alertness did not save him. With the strength of dragons, Aenar’s lance shattered the man’s hold on his seat.

“Turn!” Aenar cried again as he pulled past the targets. “Turn, back to the ends!” Once more his men followed him, pulling back before they could be mired in the muck and confusion of the scrum. They were alone this time, four riders the last organized men in the Crownland’s side. The rest remained in the center, swords and axes colliding with shields. Five of men surrounded a Kingsguard knight (who, Aenar could not tell) yet failed to take him down. Ser Morne Boggs, Aenar’s own companion, stood on his own against three foes. He bested one, forcing the man from the field, refusing to wince beneath the blows of those who surrounded him.

The horses aligned once more. Aenar saw his men, their faces plain and ready. “Again!” he cried, and the horses moved. Yards passed as inches beneath hooves, lances couched once more, and once more they impacted. Aenar’s lance collided with the chest of another Sunderland. A second Torrent toppled soon after, felled by Ser Lawrence. Felled too hard, Aenar realized, as he saw blood welling from the man’s neck. Yet there was nothing that could be done for such a wound, and Aenar had a task to complete. He pulled back again. Their horses were tired as they reached the fences, worn by three full-force charges and retreats. Their arms were weary as they looked out to the field. Yet as Aenar gave orders once more, his men acted with speed. They charged again, one last time into the fray. Their lances were couched beneath steady arms, their horses hooves thundered against the well-trod ground. The came from the right once more, crashing into the remnants of the Vale’s left flank. Aenar’s lance tore a Lynderly man from his seat. He dropped the lance, moving forward as he grasped his halberd. He swung for another foe, yet found no purchase as the axe head slid off the man’s armor. He moved again, swinging, and the man dodged out of the way–and directly into the path of another’s blade. There was a thwack as the sword hit true, the chain links and lighter armor around the knees unable to protect the Valeman. He stumbled. Aenar moved forward, as did a half-dozen men besides. The Valeman dropped his blade, declaring his yield loudly.

Aenar turned, seeking another fight. But there were none to be had. Of all the Vale’s knights, only two remained on the field, both fully surrounded. Within moments the two had surrendered to the onslaught. A horn sounded.

Melee Victory!

Experience Points Gained: 1,890 exp

From Own Damage/Victories: 1,220 exp

From Subordinates Damage/Victories (10%): 670 exp

Current Level: 5

EXP Progress: 21,610/21,000

You may level up

Party Progress

Ser Eustace Brune has leveled up. Fighter 4 → Fighter 5

“We won.” Aenar turned to the speaker, a grinning Morne Boggs. Despite losing his seat in the first clash, Ser Morne had held his ground throughout the battle.

“We did,” Aenar grinned. He slid from his saddle, landing to clasp Ser Morne in a warrior’s embrace. “Glory is ours, and the gold doesn’t hurt.”

“Aye!” Ser Morne laughed. “I’d say it doesn’t indeed.” In addition to the grand prize for the melee, each battle granted the victorious parties seven hundred gold dragons. The Crownlands had already decided how they would divide the prize. Each of the seven wings would receive one hundred gold dragons. Ten would go to the Crown, who organized the team. Thirty would go to the Wing Commander, who led his men. And ten each would go to the men who fought. To Aenar it was neither outrageous nor negligible, but enough wealth to keep him in good stead, recouping some of his expenses on the men and their food. To the men he led? It was a life-changing sum. The bogs of Crackclaw Point did not, despite the occasional rumor, hide any great wealth. What little their was was only given up reluctantly, to the back-breaking labor of bog farming and the dangers of foresting and foraging in a land filled with venomous snakes. Coin was scarce in Crackclaw Point. In King’s Landing, ten gold dragons would keep a hedge knight in his usual accommodations for a year. In Crackclaw Point, it would buy modest luxury for three or four.

“We’ll earn more when we win it all,” Aenar reminded his man. The grand prize of the melee was ten times that of the battles. If ten gold dragons meant stability and a new horse, a hundred meant a man could buy land and a title. At his words Ser Morne’s eye gleamed with hope.

“Think we can do it?”

Aenar looked over the field. “I know we can.”