Chapter 112 — Rise, Ser Arlan

The steps to the royal dais were shorter than they had looked from the lists. Arlan climbed them in tournament armor marked by sand, shallow dents, and sweat, aware of every eye following him toward Robert Baratheon. The King waited at the top with a grin broad enough to make his opinion obvious. "Seven hells. Renly told me you were useful; he neglected to mention you could fight."

Renly smiled from his chair. "I thought showing you would be more convincing."

"For once, little brother, you were right."

Cersei watched with considerably less enthusiasm. Jaime stood behind the royal seating with his arms folded, while Ser Barristan regarded Arlan with the measuring expression of a veteran evaluating technique rather than a courtier evaluating rank.

Robert stepped closer. "Three contests and three victories. You unhorsed Caron's boy, disarmed a Redwyne, and made a Trant look as if he'd misplaced his shield. What did you do before you became a lord?" Survive another world, Arlan thought.

"Guarded a poor road in the marches, Your Grace."

That answer amused Robert almost as much as the victories. The prizes came forward next. Three event purses were counted separately before the five-hundred-dragon grand prize was added, enough gold to fund months of ordinary FireStorm expenditure even after FireStorm's recent growth. Arlan appreciated the money, but the witnesses mattered more; hundreds had watched the King praise him in front of the assembled court.

Robert barely glanced at the coin. "There's another matter. You entered these lists as Lord Arlan Ashenblade, not Ser Arlan." A small change passed through the people nearest the dais. Arlan inclined his head. "That is correct, Your Grace."

"Seems wrong after what I watched. Kneel."

The command came from the King of the Seven Kingdoms, whose authority to confer knighthood was beyond dispute. Arlan knelt. Ser Barristan offered his sword to Robert, and the King touched the flat first to Arlan's right shoulder, then the left. Robert was not inclined toward long sermons, so the words were blunt enough to suit him.

"In the Warrior's name, be brave. In the Father's, be just when you remember how. In the Mother's, defend those who need it. Rise, Ser Arlan Ashenblade."

Arlan stood. The title settled more strangely than the lordship had. Lordship came from inheritance and Renly's recognition of House Ashenblade as directly sworn to Storm's End; knighthood came from a royal sword touching his shoulders before king, court, septons, and half the Stormlands. Whatever Arlan thought about the institution, nobody could dispute the legal fact now.

This chapter was lifted from the NovelPhoenix site without the author's permission; reading their posted version supports the writer.

Robert clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to test the bruises beneath his armor. "Any man who gives me three fights like that can visit my court without begging at the gate."

"Your Grace honors me."

"Don't become boring and make me regret it."

Laughter moved across the dais, and Arlan allowed himself a brief smile before bowing again.

***

Far west beneath the Red Mountains, something answered the bloodline carried through Vaelora Belaerys. The incubation chamber at Blackstone Creek had remained sealed and guarded since Arlan departed. Cade's men knew only that the inner gallery was restricted by their lord's direct order, and none stood inside when the change began.

The volcanic bed held steady warmth beneath the black egg. For days the crimson veins across the shell had brightened and dimmed in a slow rhythm, even though Arlan's blood-awakening rites had stopped before his journey. As Robert's sword touched Arlan's shoulder, the shell cracked.

The first fracture followed a crimson seam. A second crossed it, and the old egg rocked once in its stone cradle before striking the volcanic blocks with a sound too small to pass through the thick inner door. Something pushed from within.

A triangular piece of shell broke inward, followed by a wet crimson claw. Another crack split the shell wider and a hatchling dragged itself onto the heated stones, scarcely larger than a kitten. Fine red scales covered it from narrow snout to whipping tail, darkening almost to black along the spine. Folded wings looked too large for the small body, while golden eyes opened beneath the chamber lamps.

The hatchling drew its first breath and shrieked. Compared with the roar of an adult dragon, the sound was thin, but it carried a metallic harshness no ordinary animal possessed. One guard at the outer station looked toward the sealed passage.

"Did you hear that?"

The second man had already risen. Before either could move, a brief red glow flashed beneath the inner door. The hatchling coughed a narrow tongue of crimson flame across the volcanic stones and ignited a scrap of oilcloth beside the wall.

The guards obeyed Cade's standing order. Unusual sound meant summon him, not break the seal, so one runner left for FireStorm while the second remained at the checkpoint and listened to scraping from beyond the stone. Inside, the hatchling recoiled from its own flame and hissed at it as if offended.

***

At Storm's End, Vaelora's ring suddenly burned against Arlan's finger beneath his glove. He looked down as the heat vanished almost immediately, replaced by a quick pulse that did not belong to his own heartbeat. The sensation was distant but unmistakable, and his gaze turned west before he stopped himself.

Brienne noticed from below the dais. "My lord?"

Arlan looked back toward Robert before anyone else followed his attention. "Nothing." That was a lie. Something had changed at Blackstone Creek. Robert was still laughing, the herald was still proclaiming Ser Arlan Ashenblade, and Elton Caron sat below the dais watching months of slander collapse beneath applause.

None of them knew that beneath a guarded mountain chamber in FireStorm, the first dragon born from Vaelora Belaerys's legacy had just opened its eyes.