Chapter 2: Training Montage Time
"Let's get down to business."
The sudden knighting of Daemon causes more changes in Marq's life. Nearly immediately taken as a squire under Ser Quentyn and thrown into an intense training schedule.
The human body is a wonderful thing. With the right amount of focus and denial, it can, for a while, ignore a wound or a desire. Those little things the body creams at you that it needs. With enough focus, you can banish those to the back of your mind.
Marq has been sending so many things to that pile in his mind he's beginning to wonder how long he can keep it up. It stops being about how tired he is, how hungry he is- and becomes a matter of how long can I keep it up?
Right now, as he stands, a Warhammer in one hand, heater shield strapped to the other. Staring down another squire, Perwyn Rosby, a tall and skinny fellow, standing at least a head over Marq and two years older than him. The answer he is coming to is surprisingly long. The two circle each other, waiting for the other to act first, but Marq allows himself to be drawn back into his thoughts.
He has been in the Red Keep for a very long time. Two years since Daemon was knighted. Occasionally, he could sneak out to meet with Torrhen, but everything else has been training. If this was how Daemon trains, no wonder he was knighted so quickly.
However, he doesn't mind much. He knows what he has to do. Why he can't stop, why he needs to be the strongest he can be, more prepared to the point when the time comes, he doesn't have to think. Just listen to his body talk and let his springloaded muscles act for him at the moment.
Sometime this year, maybe tomorrow, maybe two months from now. But sometime this year, Aegon would die. He is legitimizing all his bastards on his deathbed. He wonders what it'll be like to meet his siblings for the first time properly. Sure he had seen them in passing, but invariably, their mothers would be dismissed, and they'd go with them.
He tears himself back into reality, staring at his opponent again, studying him, looking for any opportunity to bring him down.
Marq sees the boy's arms twitch, and Perwyn acts first, swinging at him with his longsword. He exhales a breath, stance ready, muscles tensed. And moves, using his shield to guide the swing to the side and swinging his hammer right into the other boy's stomach.
He can hear the boy's air being driven from his lungs as the boy recoils, collapsing in a heap. A cloud of loose dirt shot up around the boy. The boy had never been the most robust.
Standing above the boy, he barely hears him gasp out, "I yield."
Marq steps back, then offers a hand to the down squire. Perwyn, after a moment of hesitation, accepts it, allowing Marq to drag him up to his feet.
"Gods Marq, you hit me like I threatened to kill you. Try and keep me somewhat intact. My father needs his heir." The tall boy laughs, clapping Marq on the shoulder. However, his joyful mood evaporates when Ser Quentyn starts storming over from where he is standing by the weapon racks.
"You are both bloody fools." The knight pinches the bridge of his nose. "Perwyn, you should have hit him far sooner. Being overly cautious ended with you losing. Marq, you were caught up daydreaming in the middle of the fight. If this were a real battle, both of you would be dead. I see anything like that again, and I'll have you both hitting training dummies for a moon."
Marq looks down slightly, his ears burning, while Perwyn nods. He hears Ser Quentyn sigh. "You're both dismissed for today. Marq, Daemon mentioned wanting to speak to you soon."
"Yes, ser." Marq nods and wastes no time tearing off the padded training armor. To his surprise, Perwyn comes over and takes it from him.
"Go on, speak to your brother. I'll take care of putting things up this time." Perwyn gives a small smile to Marq, patting him on the shoulder.
"Thank you, Perwyn!" Marq drops his training Warhammer and shield onto the ground and makes his way inside the keep. Going to Daemon's chambers. You'd think the Red Keep would be more active, but it has been quiet since the death of Aegon's most recent mistress, along with the Queen and Aemon. The King has rarely been seen outside his chambers, getting only fatter each time he was noticed. The Hand of the King, Jon Hightower, all but rules the realm in his stead nowadays.
He walks through the keep halls, eventually making it to the Daemon's room and knocking on the oak door. It doesn't take long for the door to be opened. Revealing the young teen, who, at first glance, looks exhausted.
"Marq, come in. We need to talk about father." Daemon places a hand on Marq's shoulder and guides him into the room, which is relatively sparse, with few decorations or belongings. The only furniture was the bed, a nightstand, and a desk. Marq allows Daemon to guide him to the room's sole chair and waits for the older teen to speak.
"Father is unwell…." Daemon pauses. "The Grand Maester says he doesn't have much longer left." Marq frowns. The King also has a rather gruesome death from what he remembers, so fat and swollen he couldn't even stand under his own power. His couch was covered in feces, his limbs rotting while he withered away.
"When he passes, Daeron will ascend to the throne, and I am unsure if we will be welcome in the keep anymore. You would likely be allowed to stay to finish squiring under Ser Quentyn, but I am not sure about myself."
Daemon takes a breath, putting a hand on Marq's shoulder and squatting in front of him." I say this not to frighten you but to warn you that the keep may not stay safe for much longer. You'll need to keep an eye out. Above all, if you think something strange is happening, please tell me."
Marq nods before looking at Daemon. The lore says Daeron treated the bastards honorably, but who knows if he might try something. "You don't think he might try and hurt us do you?"
The older boy scoffs. "No, no, I don't think he'll hurt us. Besides, I'd beat him up if he tried to hurt you."
Marq doesn't doubt that Daemon could take down a score of older knights if he had Blackfyre in his hands. And despite knowing what is to come in the future, that knowledge is reassuring for now. He gives Daemon a toothy smile. "Thank you."
As if summoned by the conversation, there is a knock on the door and an old messenger barges in. "Ah, good, you are both here. Your father has passed. His grace's final command was that all of his baseborn children be legitimized. Congratulations, my lords." The messenger then leaves the room, ignoring Daemon's quickly developing look of shock.