GoMB Chapter Twenty-Six (Patreon)

“And Ser Morne receives ten gold dragons,” Aenar finished, handing over the coinpurse. At Aerea’s advice he was not deducting the fees of renting the campground, nor of feeding his men from their purses. It was a costly decision. Not even a fortnight into the tournament and Aenar had already spent twenty-two gold dragons on his companions. But the goodwill he could earn from these men was far more precious–so long as he did not fail at the joust. If he did, Aenar would be lucky to emerge from the tourney with a single silver stag to his name.

“When are you joining the joust?” Ser Brennan Brune asked. With the Crownlands officially out of the Melee, their status had inverted. Aenar was royal, but he was a bastard. Brennan Brune was poor, but he was a ruling landed knight.

“I compete on the first day,” Aenar answered honestly. “In the first lane.”

Ser Brennan nodded. “I wish you luck. We will be choosing other lanes.”

“Hoping to make a little more coin?” Aenar asked.

“I’d at least like to hang on to what I have,” Ser Brennan replied.

“I wish you luck as well,” Aenar said. “Should your joust come whilst I am in the stands, I will attend.”

“You can be certain of my own attendance for your opening match as well.”

Aenar refrained from rolling his eyes. His opening match was the opening match. Everyone would be in attendance. Even setting aside the opportunity to meet and woo other lords and ladies (something Aerea had stressed the importance of) the opening matches would feature the Faith’s champions. Seven knights, one from each of the Westeros’ largest settlements. Aenar’s match against Ser Hobert of Oldtown was only one of the opening seven, and far from the most exciting. Ser Gyles Morrigen, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was challenging Ser Marcus of King’s Landing. The fact that the Kingsguard planned to joust in the King’s Landing lane was one of the reasons Aenar had chose the Oldtown lane. Strong as he was, and as protective as his scales could be, Aenar had no illusions that either would be sufficient to overcome the wealth of experience possessed by the Kingsguard or their peers.

*

When the celebratory feast arrived, six teams sulked in quiet dismay, their thoughts upon glories passed up and opportunities gone by. The Stormlanders made up for them all. On the night after their Melee victory every man, woman, and child from the Stormlands proved loud and boisterous as the barrel-chested Baratheons. For a single evening the thunder of the Stormlands was brought to Oldtown. Jokes and cheers rang forth like battle-cries, toasts poured forth more liberally than the wine. If most of their fellow lords and knights offered only half-hearted cheers and half-raised cups in toast, the Stormlanders paid no heed. They had won!

Amidst the chaos and glee stood Aenar Fyre. His black scales gleamed beneath the oil-lit chandeliers, his silk doublet softening the otherwise sharp countenance. His violet eyes moved across the room, a faint smile pulling at his lips as his old friend, Ronnal Baratheon, gesticulated wildly.

“Princess?”

Aerea turned. It was strange how a single word could b reak so intense a reverie. Yet for Aerea, Princess was more than a word. It was the most beautiful ornament known to man, so large and heavy it bordered on unbearable when she was not distracted by the shining gems.

“Samantha,” Aerea greeted with a smile. No matter her melancholic feelings, Samantha deserved kindness. Though she was often looked down upon for her family’s relative recency and mercantile leanings, Samantha Frey was one of the few people Aerea knew who was both clever and kind. Even more importantly, she displayed both characteristics when dealing with Aerea (and Aenar).

“Lord Baratheon is coming over,” Samantha warned her. “I do believe he intends to discuss his victory.”

And my betrothal, Aerea finished. There was only one match Aerea would accept, but it was impolitic to say such things aloud. Especially where Lord Baratheon was concerned. The damnable, grasping man (as her mother often referred to him) viewed his family as a true branch of the Targaryens, nevermind their bastard origin and lack of dragons.

“Very well,” Aerea forced a smile. “Let us see how long it takes our most loyal lord to miss his step.”

“I would place my bet at six sentences, your Highness.”

*

Alysanne forced her face into a display of compassion as the bruised woman sobbed before. Her teeth clenched beneath the benign smile, her bond burning bright as Silverwing shared her wrath. But she could not show it. Visenya had left long scars in Westeros, not that the Andal lords had needed an excuse to hate strong women.

“Alyssa,” Alysanne began. “We have heard your words, as We have seen your wounds. We have seen many such wounds on many women this day, given by men not out of any lawful desire to correct, but out of personal perversion of justice. Such acts are not acceptable. Not by Our judgement, nor by the laws of Westeros which my husband has so painstakingly codified. Henceforth no man is to strike his wife lest she be caught at a crime. Should a man wrongfully strike his wife, he is to be whipped as many times as he hit her. Should the number be over ten, he is to be sentenced to the Wall. To any judge, knight, or noble who would ignore these laws: be warned. The sight of the Dragon is all-encompassing.”

There was silence in the hall. The gossiping ladies, the crowds of commonfolk petitioners, the countless guards who stood against the walls and behind her back–all fell quiet. For a moment the call of street vendors could be heard.

“Thus says her Grace the Queen, Alysanne of House Targaryen, on this the 15th day of the 7th moon, in the year 54 after Aegon’s Conquest.” The seneschal slammed his staff onto the marble floor, the dull and heavy thud breaking the silence. “The next petitioner may step forward.”