GoMB Chapter Twenty-Nine (Patreon)

Aenar winced as the Maester pressed a poultice against his bruised chest. Were it not for the fact that he could see and feel his hit points trickling back, Aenar would have dismissed the Maester long ago. Unfortunately, the man’s treatments worked.

“Truly knights are a different breed,” the Maester muttered. “Able to take a lance to the chest, yet even a simple poultice will make them flinch.”

Aenar glared up at the man. Then the poultice was reapplied. True to the Maester’s words, Aenar flinched at contact.

A horn sounded. The Maester sighed and pulled away his compress. “Be careful,” he warned. “Your scales may protect your skin, but internal bleeding can still kill you.”

Aenar nodded, though he disagreed. Slow death was an unlikely fate for him. His Hit Points returned swiftly. Even the grievous injuries he had suffered hunting whales and orcas only took a few days to heal.

“Jon,” Aenar called as the Maester made his way out. The hired squire jumped to. His hands pulled the luxurious plate from its hiding spots as Aenar put his gambeson back on. The armor was strapped in piece by piece, until not so much as a speck of scale-covered skin remained visible. Aenar twisted and stretched, testing out the fit.

“Well done,” Aenar praised, and stepped out of the tent. It was time to break his record, and the first victim had just volunteered.

*

Not for the first time in his life Willam Wylde cursed his father in his mind. Lord Morgan Wylde demanded perfection from his offspring, and with only three children he had been present enough to make his demands in person. The daughters were to be intelligent, demure, obedient, wise, and charming. The sole son was to be ambitious, humble, cautious, aggressive, quick-witted, and an able knight.

Needless to say, none of the three siblings managed to meet their father’s expectations. Coryanne had failed the most. After losing her maidenhead to a stableboy, she had eloped with the commander of Dragonstone’s garrison and fled to Essos. Willam wasn’t quite sure what happened after that. Her husband was dead and Coryanne was missing. Hopefully she simply dropped her name and took up a profession. She always was good at embroidery.

The elder daughter, Joanna, was the most successful of the three siblings. She had married into the Selmys and found a loving match. Lord Morgan’s only complaint was that she had well and truly become a Selmy and was utterly unwilling to advocate for him or his house.

Then there was Willam. He was charming, popular among the nobles and the commonfolk, and quite able in court, be it the royal court or his own. He managed the accounts well and had made a few wise investments, most notably the grove of cinnamon trees he’d planted in the warmest and rainiest part of House Wylde’s domain. The trees had cost a fortune. A decade later, they had more than paid it back.

Unfortunately, Willam was far from his father’s ideal heir, something Lord Morgan never failed to point out. His martial ability was limited. He had no great strength or talent, nor any true interest in military affairs. Why would he, when any conflict he was likely to see involved poorly armed bandits? Anything greater than that would attract the notice of House Targaryen and their dragons. In truth it was only by his father’s demands that Willam practice his martial abilities at all. He had tried to quit his training once, only for Lord Morgan to order him beaten, then threaten him with disinheritance.

Why was Willam thinking of this now? There was a simple reason for that. He was in the joust. In the first lane. His foe was Ser Aenar Fyre. Willam had heard rumors of the drakeling for years. The commonfolk thought him monstrous, the cursed descendant of King Maegor. The whispers that reached Willam’s ear were far more discerning. They spoke of the young boy’s growing martial prowess, but Willam had considered it a problem far-off in the making.

The Tourney at Driftmark had been a turning point. The Commonfolk were split, either keeping their view of the boy as monstrous or considering him a ‘dragon-blessed warrior’ sent by the Seven to protect the royal family. Willam simply considered him exceptionally skilled and unnaturally strong. So long as the boy never got a dragon, that was all he would be. Willam would never have thought of Ser Fyre again, were it not for his father’s intervention. Apparently it would be “a great show of prowess” to face off against the not yet ten-namedays drakeling. And, Lord Morgan had muttered, if Willam lost against the drakeling, at least it would be expected rather than embarrassing.

The first horn sounded. Reluctantly Willam put his spurs to Emmer’s side. The proud stallion launched from his resting point at the same time as the drakeling’s chestnut mare. Thank the Seven the mare was not in heat, or his father would find embarrassment far swifter than he expected. Willam couched his lance and leaned in.

WHAM

Much to his own surprise, Willam felt his lance make contact. Not just a brush against plate or shield, but well and true contact. Unfortunately his happy surprise was short lived. Just a moment later the expected (and much stronger) blow landed. Willam felt himself being rocked back in the saddle. His legs clenched, his feet gripping firm in the saddle. Quickly he pulled himself back up, cursing as he did. That blow hurt far too much. How did anyone find jousting enjoyable?

Willam traded out his lance for a new one and prepared himself once more. Far more attention was paid to his shield than his lance. As the second pass began, the result was one Willam much preferred. His lance failed to land a meaningful blow, but so did the drakeling’s. The pain of his unnatural strength was avoided. Willam prepared his shield again for the third pass. He watched in horror as the drakeling’s lance maneuvered around it. The lance found purchase square upon the chest of his breastplate. Willam clenched his legs, but it was far too late. They gripped nothing but air as he tumbled from the saddle, landing harshly on the well-trodden ground. As he fell Willam had but one concern: he hoped his father considered the performance good enough to pay his ransom.