GoMB Chapter Twenty-Eight (Patreon)

Aenar hummed quietly, a faint tune to his mind as he and Jon (his recently and temporarily hired squire) put on his armor. It was a far better suit than the one he wore in Driftmark. Even after the quick repairs of the past week neither looks nor function had been impaired. The steel was blacker than night, absorbing any hint of light that passed nearby. The helm threatened violence with its toothed visor and swooped back horns. The breastplate’s design, a three-headed dragon breathing fire that swirled down Aenar’s arms, remained entirely intact.

The last piece of armor, an orange-tinted couter, was stripped into place. Aenar shifted. Even with the heavy weight of tourney armor he found movement easy. The metal plates shifted upon the gambeson as he turned and twisted, performing his basic stretches.

“Ahem.”

Aenar turned, a smile already carving its way across his face. “Princess,” he greeted.

“Aenar,” Aerea huffed.

“Aerea,” Aenar grinned.

“Er,” Jon said, eyes looking from Aenar’s suit of plate to Aerea’s black and crimson silk dress. “I’ll . . . wait outside.” He bowed to Aerea. He took a step back. He bowed again. And again, until he finally exited the tent.

“Where did you find him?” Aerea asked. “I’ve never seen a grown man so nervous.”

“Ser Brune’s associate recommended him,” Aenar replied. “He’s quite reliable.”

Aerea looked him over, her amethyst eyes searching. “Clearly not reliable enough,” she said quietly, her hand tracing over his plate. Aenar swallowed. “You are missing something most important.”

“What is that?” Aenar managed to ask, heart beating louder than any drum.

“A favor.” Aerea unwound a piece of black fabric from her wrist. A crimson three-headed dragon sat upon it, fierceness embroidered in even stitches.

“Aerea,” Aenar warned, “you know–”

“I know,” Aerea said. “I don’t care.”

A thousand thoughts flew through Aenar’s mind. The opinions of the court. The anger of the King. The scandal, the fury, even Rhaena’s concern. Yet compared to the strip of cloth in Aerea’s hand, the condemnation of the world felt light indeed.

Aenar silently extended his arm. Aerea stepped closer. Her gentle hands wove the ribbon around his upper arm twice, then tied it off. As Aenar tried to steady himself he caught the scent of her perfume, a heady thing of citrus and dragons.

Beneath his scales, flesh warmed.

Aerea reluctantly took a step back. “I must attend the stands,” she said. She looked to his arm. “Honor it well.”

“I will,” Aenar vowed.

*

It was early in the morning when the joust started. Fog had rolled in from the bay, a thick mist covering the grounds. Nobles and commoners alike tried to peer through it.

Then they emerged. Seven men, each mounted upon a white horse and covered in shining silvered armor. The symbols of the Faith lay upon them. A rainbow to cover their shield. Seven-pointed stars upon their breastplate. Lances held at the ready, the Faith’s defenders stood firm.

Then the challengers emerged. Though lacking in the Faith’s unity, their splendor was no lesser. Aenar rode in on his chestnut mare, black matte armor emerging from the fog in demonic visage. Beside him was Ser Gyles Morrigan. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was in his full regalia, white burnished plate displaying the crimson three-headed dragon. Others joined them. The Lannister whose steel plate was gilded at every corner. The Selmy in plain steel, his lance already prepared. A Royce in bronze armor carved with ancient heathen runes. A Hightower, armor glowing beneath the sun. A Mallister rounded them off, his purple shield braced against silvered plate.

A horn sounded and the contestants rode off. Two by two they entered their lanes. The Faith readied themselves against the Realm. Horses were drawn in. Lances were couched.

The horn blew a second time. Spurs touched the mounts’ side and the joust began.

*

Aenar leaned forward, crouching on in his stirrups. His shield shifted, angling Ser Hobert of Oldtown’s lance away. Aenar’s lance moved as well, slipping around Ser Hobert’s shield and landing on his breastplate with a perfectly-timed thrust. Blessed by Aenar’s strength, his mount’s momentum, and the judicious use of Power Attack, the blow was a heavy one. Yet when Aenar reached the end of the lane he was offered another lance. He took it and turned, readying himself for a second ride.

The horn sounded. Aenar touched his spurs to Josie’s sides and the destrier flew from the starting point. Steady upon the saddles Aenar leaned forward again, striking fast and hard. Ser Hobert was rocked back in his seat, his lance skidding off Aenar’s plate. Alas, he recovered again. Yet he looked unsteady in the saddle.

Aenar grinned.

The horn sounded and their charge began. Aenar leaned forward once more, confident in his strike. He had reason to be. The blow connected with Ser Hobert’s chest, the lance shattering under the force. But Ser Hobert did not fall, nor did his aim shift. His own lance crashed into Aenar’s chest. It was not a hefty blow, only six points of non-lethal damage. It served as a reminder all the same. Aenar had gotten too confident. It would not happen again.

Aenar turned at the end of the lane, lance in hand. He prepared himself for another charge. It never came.

“Ser Hobert has yielded!” the Master of Ceremonies announced. “Ser Aenar Fyre is victorious.”

*

Left unsatisfied by the end of the joust, Aenar nonetheless had no choice but to wait until the second challenge. The Faith, in order to fit everything into a multiple of seven, had declared that only fourteen challenges could be made per lane, per day. Seven in the morning, seven in the afternoon, with a half-hour break between each one and an hour-long break for luncheon (the latter likely for the benefit of the various merchants and vendors who flocked to the tourney grounds to hawk their wares).

By the time the second challenge was ready, Aenar’s blood was still pumping. The moment the horn sounded he and Posie sprang forth, an arrow launched by the Warrior himself. But Aenar was destined to be disappointed. While Ser Garth Oldflower proved himself a capable rider, his aim and strength left much to be desired. It took Aenar six passes to knock Ser Garth down. At no point did Ser Garth achieve more than a glancing blow, and at one point his lance missed Aenar altogether. At least he made up for his lackluster performance with a generous compensation in experience, something that could not be said for either of Aenar’s subsequent foes. Ser Jamie Serry took only three passes to defeat while the young Ser Merrick fell in the first pass. At least Ser Jamie’s ransom was worth his while.

As time came for the fifth joust of the morning, Aenar found himself disappointed. His foe was another hedge knight, the simply named Ser Oryn. Ser Oryn certainly looked his role. His armor was dented, his shield chipped, his lance left unpainted.

Then the horn sounded. At once Ser Oryn’s demeanor changed. He crouched in the stirrups, couched his lance, and urged forward his steed in a split-second. Aenar, taken aback by the sudden show of competence, shifted his shield. Ser Oryn’s lanced weaved around it. The wooden tip crashed into Aenar’s armor, breaking on impact, while Aenar’s own lance skittered off Ser Oryn’s dented plate.

12 non-lethal damage (50 hp)

Aenar grimaced. He had gotten arrogant. He would not do so again. Swiftly taking a lance from his squire, Aenar turned at the end of the lance. The horn sounded and he raced forward again, his lance perfectly aimed. Ser Oryn shifted in his saddle, and Aenar’s aim was ruined. Ser Oryn’s lance crashed into him again, though it failed to find purchase against his armor.

They turned again. They charged. Iron-shod hooves trampled over the packed earth. Upon their backs, steel-clad riders readied themselves. Aenar watched as Ser Oryn shifted. This time he moved with the man. With a deafening CRUNCH the two collided. Both lances shattered, a spray of splinters flying through the air.

15 non-lethal damage (35 hp)

Damn it, Aenar thought, teeth grinding. He took the next lance. He looked at Ser Oryn as they both prepared for the fourth charge. The man looked a little worse off than Aenar. His gaze met Aenar’s through the visors. Then the horn sounded and they were off again.

Ser Oryn’s tactics changed on the fourth charge. His aim was no longer to land a powerful blow, but to avoid receiving one. He shifted his armor, slanted his shield, and urged his horse to dance aside. Aenar knew the reason why. Should the joust exceed ten bouts, whoever landed more solid hits became the winner. A contest Ser Oryn currently led, three to one.

Aenar redoubled his efforts. He needed only a single solid hit, one strong enough to send his foe hurtling across the grass. It did not come on the fifth pass, nor the sixth, nor the seventh. The eighth missed as well, then the ninth.

Aenar’s hands shook as he readied himself for the tenth pass. Everything rested upon this charge. If he won, he could continue to the tourney. He could find both prestige and wealth in amounts denied to him by the King’s enforced status. But if he lost . . . Aenar shuddered. If he lost, Aenar would no longer be the gallant young knight who emerged victorious against his elders. And without that shield, there was nothing to keep the people of Westeros, both noble and common, from viewing him as Maegor’s monstrous offspring once more.

Aenar took a breath. He readied himself as much as he could. His lance wavered for a second, then steadied.

The horn sounded. Once more they rushed together. After ten passes Ser Oryn was tired. His shield was no longer perfectly in place. His lance wobbled on the charge. He shifted, and Aenar spotted the opening. A small gap, no larger than an infant songbird, between the shield and the lance. Aenar shifted. His lance moved, then landed.

WHAM.

Ser Oryn flew backwards. He crashed to the ground, carving a path through the packed earth. Aenar paused at the end of the lane, turning to offer his aid. But Ser Oryn came to his feet. Slowly, unsteadily, he moved to the end of the lane. He made no sign to continue the challenge on foot. When Ser Oryn finally reached his tent, the Master of Ceremonies announced Aenar’s victory.