Chapter Twenty-Five (Patreon)

There was little time to rest after their victory. A feast that night, large as any Aenar had seen. Congratulations on his skilled riding and leadership, as many false grins as genuine ones. Grimaces and glares from some of the Vale men, but especially the widowed wives and orphaned children. Thankfully they were distance cousins and lesser branches. No true feuds would ignite over the three dead Valemen, unlike the dead lords of the Stormlands.

Then the feast was over. Aenar had occasion only to catch a glimpse of Aerea. What he saw set his adolescent body aflame. Her silver-gold hair, a finer alloy than even her mother’s. Her purple eyes that burned with life and strength of will. Her laugh that drew people to her like moths to a flame. Aenar longed to be with her. To be worthy of her. It was more than a crush, or at least it felt like it. It was more than a crush returned, now that he could think back with clear eyes. It wasn’t love, not in that manner, not yet. But it was belonging. It was right.

And Aenar would prove his feelings right. He retired early that night, taking his men with him. Drunkenness could impair their recover, and Aenar would risk no such thing.

The following day, the Westerlands met the northern Reach in the arena. Guided by their lord, the Westerlands ran roughshod over the chivalry of the northern Reach. The next day the Stormlands trampled the southern Reach, despite the latter’s greater numbers and rest. The Stormlands would be in the final. All that remained was to see their foe: the Westerlands, or the Crownlands. Bets lay heavily in favor of the Crownlands–Lord Lannister had lost his heir in the previous bout, and was said to be more focused upon vengeance against the unlucky knight than fighting. Yet to Aenar it seemed just as likely that Lord Lannister’s vengeance would fall upon the Crownlands, as thus far King Jaehaerys had upheld the laws. Death happened in the melee, and only when malicious intent could be proven was there to be punishment. Lord Lannister was rather upset at that interpretation.

Aenar tightened his armor. He would not fail. He could not fail. Not now. Not while Aerea watched.

*

The battle began much like the others. Two sides, clad in gilded steel and fluttering silk, came together with a resounding clash and the splintering of wood. Aenar felt his lance’s impact before it shattered, the shockwaves shuddering up his black-scaled arm. He saw his foe fly from his horse. He felt a lance impact his chest and clenched onto his horse. Another lance hit, and Aenar barely stayed mounted as his hitpoints fell from 65 to 11.

“Turn!” Aenar yelled, and his men obeyed. Those still mounted pulled back their horses. They withdrew, running across the trampled dirt and mud until they received their new lances.

Aenar looked to his companions. Five of the seven still rode. He nodded to himself. “Again!” he yelled, and they charged once more. Lances lowered and couched, men crouching upon their horses. Once more they slammed into the foes, lords and knights spilling from their seats.

“Turn!” Aenar yelled, or tried to. Mud had flown up from one of the horses, hitting his visor. His gauntleted hand grasped for the visor, trying to clean it off. He spat out what he could, but it was too late. The Westermen were already advancing.

“We fight!” Aenar declared. He dropped his lance and slid his shield onto his horse. He had barely grasped his halberd when the first man attacked. Beneath his mud, the knight bore a green surcoat, a ring of flowers and a ring of thorns interlocked. Aenar parried the man’s blade, and tried to back away, guiding Josie with his knees. As he tried, he was forced to block another blade. Then a third, a fourth–

Aenar swung out with his halberd, trying to make room for himself. Then a blade struck him. It barely impacted through his armor. But another hit, then another, and another–

Aenar watched as his hit points fell once more. He had only one left. A single hit point. He thought of fighting on, and then thought better of it. No tourney was worth his life.

“I yield!” Aenar shouted. “I yield!”

The men surrounding him, parted ways. Aenar pressed his knees into Josie’s side, riding for the field’s gates. He could only hope his men would win without him.

*

Aerea sighed in relief as her brother exited the ring safely. She’d seen so many pulled out by their feet. All of them were still with their maesters (save for those who were already dead). Aerea shuddered at the thought of her brother being among them, his lustrous black scales covered by mud, slowly bleeding out as the maesters tried to save him.

No, she reminded herself. He’s alright. He’s safe.

“Is the tourney not to your liking, Princess?” an oil-slick voice asked.

Aerea turned to her host with eyes half-alight. “The tourney is perfectly entertaining, Lady Hightower. I merely am looking forward to the Joust.”

“Ah yes,” Lady Hightower smiled. “The Melee has its attractions, but only true nobility can shine in the Joust.”

Aerea fought the urge to glare. “Indeed,” she said. “Only the best and most worthy emerge victorious in the Joust.” She paused. “Is your husband competing?”

“He is.” Lady Hightower’s voice showed admirable restraint. Her husband, already in his early fifties and far from a famed tourney knight, was far from favored. His participation was more a show of continued vigor than a serious attempt at victory. “As are our grandsons.”

“I have seen them joust,” Aerea said. Specifically at the Driftmark Tourney, where both lost to her brother. “They possess impressive fortitude.” Impressively little in the case of Ser Norman, considering he was unhorsed by Aenar in a single pass. “I am certain they will honor House Hightower, so long as they choose their opponents well.”