Chapter 1: Ah shit, here we go again
"Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."
Marq Rivers is daydreaming, letting wild thoughts of home run through his mind, when he is roughly shoved on the shoulder by his friend next to him. He turns to face the young boy who did so.
Torrhen Waters is an oddity, the son of a wandering Northman bard and a young lady from House Rosby. Once the child was born, the bard took in the bastard at the behest of the lady's family. Eventually, settling in Kings Landing, where he was often brought in to play for the amusement of King Aegon IV. Torrhen thinks it's because Aegon favors his father, but Marq doesn't have the heart to tell him he is just as likely to cut out his father's tongue as to keep inviting him to the keep.
"Look, Marq, it's Daemon!" The boy screams into Marq's ear, stamping his feet on the wooden stands and pointing out onto the tourney field where the squire's melee is just beginning. Drawing glances from nearby spectators. Marq rolls his eyes but smiles when Daemon steps into the tourney grounds.
"I can recognize my brother Torrhen. No need to try and make my ears bleed." Marq gently pushes the other boy further away, and his more robust frame quickly makes the scrawnier step a few steps back, nearly bumping into the person seated near the pair.
"You don't seem excited, though…." Torrhen says with a cartoonish frown
"I just know he'll win." Marq gives an easy grin and shrugs. It wasn't just confidence in his brother. He knows Daemon will win. It was his twelfth name day not long ago. Suppose his faded memory from his past life serves him correctly. In that case, Daemon wins this tournament and is given Blackfyre and a knighthood. Something that helps set into motion nearly one hundred years of rebellions and strife.
A horn blows, derailing his train of thought and signaling that the melee has begun. His eyes try to follow Daemon, but the young boy is a blur despite only being four years older than Marq, quickly taking down squires that stand head and shoulders over him. It's not hard for him to imagine why half the realm would follow him into battle fourteen years later.
Watching the spectacle, part of him wonders why he is here. Daemon grows to be one of the best warriors in the realm and is well respected. Aegor becomes a skilled commander and one of the Blackfyre's most ardent supporters. The less said about Brynden, the better.
By contrast, he is just average. A robust frame and plain face. Neither wise and scholarly nor well respected martially. The least great of the Great Bastards.
"You're brooding again." Torrhen's voice tears him out of his thoughts. "My father says people shouldn't brood. Says it makes them look stupid."
Marq snorts, "Your father also says that Aegon is a great king and tries to use ale as a cure-all."
"Doesn't mean he was wrong. You did look stupid just then." Torrhen shrugs, turning back towards the melee. Where Daemon is still handily tearing his way through the competition.
Marq turns his attention to the Royal box. Where his father, the King, sits with a rare smile. Jeering and laughing when he isn't stuffing his face with food and wine. The rare joy undoubtedly fuels rumors of Aegon favoring his eldest bastard before giving him the sword.
Two years till the fat lard dies. Two years until Marq and his siblings are legitimized, and fourteen years until the realm is plunged into civil war. Fourteen years to try and prevent it or survive.
Aegon looks down at the stands for a brief second. He is staring at Marq, his smile falling from his fat face. Then the fat royal turns away as Daemon is proclaimed the victor of the squire tourney. Marq pulls his cloak tighter around him, feeling chill despite the warm and sunny day.
"Come on. I want to talk to Daemon." Marq grabs Torrhen and drags him towards Ser Quentyn's tent, as Daemon is squiring under the man currently.
The pair rush inside only to find Daemon and Ser Quentyn already inside, seemingly in the middle of a conversation.
"Brother!" Marq shouts with a genuine smile, one returned by his elder half-brother.
"Marq, come in. Ser Quentyn and I were discussing how I need to improve in the future."
Torrhen peaks his head out from behind Marq, "But you won? What do you need to do better on?"
Ser Quentyn gives the group a severe look. "You can always improve yourself. Especially in combat, only a fool thinks he knows everything."
Daemon nods. "Ser Quentyn speaks true. A pair of squires nearly brought me down
who managed to catch me off guard."
I came to congratulate you. You've got to show your moves. I could barely see you half the time. You were like a blur." Marq says.
"Well, Ser Quentyn has taught me everything I know, and he'll teach you also. You might be a better fighter than me when you get older." Daemon smiles.
The tent flap rustles as someone else enters, causing Marq to spin around to face the newcomer, who looks to be some messenger. "M'lord, the King requests the presence of Daemon in the throne room."
"Daemon, follow me." Ser Quentyn stands and marches out of the tent, and Daemon follows the older knight. Marq hesitates for a moment before turning to Torrhen.
"Come on, don't you want to see what's going on?" Once more, grabbing Torrhen by the arm and leading him after the other two.
"What if we get in trouble? The King didn't ask for us." Torrhen protests, but his feet continue to follow Marq.
"I live there anyway, and no one will even notice you. It'll be fine. Besides, I bet I'll get there first." Marq takes off running, only distantly hearing Torrhen protesting.
Nearly an hour later, the pair, having barely kept up with Ser Quentyn and Daemons, relatively quick pace. Stand in the throne room, desperately shoving their way through the mass of courtiers to try and glimpse the ceremony.
He sees the fat King standing in front of the Iron Throne, a twisted mass of melted metal, holding a sword for what must be the first time in years. Not just any sword, though, Blackfyre, the sword which Daemon would soon take the name of.
"In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Rise, Ser Daemon." Each word spoken seems to be a struggle for the man. Almost grunting with exertion at the end. He then sheaths the sword and holds it out hilt first to Daemon.
"It pleases me, Aegon, fourth of my name and King of the Seven Kingdoms, having knighted you as a knight of these Kingdoms, and with you being my blood. It pleases me to bestow upon you this ancestral sword of House Targaryen, knowing that you will bear it with courage, pride, and honor." The King collapses into the throne, straining under his weight. "Begone now."