Chapter 4: The Calm
"And therein were many knights and squires to behold, scaffolds and pavilions; for there upon the morn should be a great tournament.."
Three years. Three years of training with one of the best knights in Westeros, with Daemon, arguably the best swordsman in Westeros, currently more than willing to help. A bit too willing. Despite all that, Marq still found himself on his ass in less than two seconds when trying to face someone while wielding a sword.
It wasn't even his idea. It was Daemons. He wanted to teach Marq how to wield a sword, yet he still consistently failed three years later. Marq doesn't even know why Daemon is so dead focused on blades, but they just do not work for him. He has yet to find a single blade that feels right in his hand, that doesn't feel off. It's resulted in him laying in the dirt, Daemon standing over him, offering him a hand up dozens of times.
"I'm starting to think your 'lessons' are just to teach me how to get hit and not fall on my ass," Marq says as he is pulled up by his older brother.
"I'm starting to think something is wrong with your head. It's been three years, and you haven't improved at all with swords, but no, put a war hammer in your hand, and it suddenly clicks." Daemon shakes his head, looking at Marq as if he were from another planet.
"How about a match where I get to use the weapons I am good with?" Marq gives a cheeky smile.
Daemon just sighs. "Fine, go get your damned hammer, brat."
Marq all but runs over to the weapon rack, putting away the blasted bastard sword Daemon was so intent on teaching him and instead grabbing the war hammer and a heater shield, then moves back to the field Daemon was standing upon, waiting for him dulled bastard sword on his own hand.
He raises his shield, readying himself to be overwhelmed by Daemon in seconds. At least the weapon in his hand feels right, not perfect, but it does its job. Part of him wonders if he'll ever find the weapon that feels right for him like Daemon has with Blackfyre.
Daemon moves nearly faster than he can track. Most people don't realize until they fight him that fighting Daemon isn't like fighting an average person. It's like fighting a force of nature. A storm of probing strikes that breaks down your defenses before you can even realize it and then finishes you with a masterful blow.
Block, block, block. It's all that Marq can do not to be taken down instantly. His muscles were on fire, swelling with force and power as he blocked and weaved around Daemon's sword.
However, just as he joked earlier, Daemon's lessons had taught him something. Sometimes the only time to keep fighting is to take a hit and withstand it in order to get closer for the kill.
Daemon swings, a probing slash at his arm. He allows it to land as he moves along the attack, picturing his father's face, the fat king, as he gets deadly close to Daemon.
Every muscle sings as he swings his hammer right into Daemon's ribs. Too close for the other boy to dodge or block. It lands with a crunch, and he hears Daemon let out a grunt of pain at it. However, it isn't enough.
Daemon kicks out, sweeping Marq's legs out from under him. The world goes dark for a moment, and then Marq comes to, Daemon's training sword held at his throat, a disappointed look on his face.
"You know if I had Blackfyre and this was a real fight, you would be missing an arm now, don't you?" Daemon drops his training sword in the dirt and grabs Marq, dragging him to his feet.
Marq nods. "I do, but you didn't have Blackfyre, and not everyone out there has magic swords Daemon."
The older boy opens his mouth to retort but seems unable to find anything to say. "Fair enough."
Now is probably as good of a time as any to approach the elephant in the room, Marq thinks. "So do you think I'll win the squires tourney tomorrow?"
"I think," He pauses, reaching out to ruffle Marq's hair. "You worry too much, and you will acquit yourself well no matter who you face."
It's then that Marq's least favorite sibling walks in. Black hair and purple eyes. Looking like someone's first OC on Wattpad with the personality to go with it. He spares precisely two seconds to scowl at Marq before turning his attention onto Daemon.
"We need to talk. In private." Aegor spares another glance at Marq for a second.
"Must we?" Daemon sighs.
"Yes, we must." Aegor audibly grits his teeth.
"Very well," Daemon looks at Marq, "You should sleep early. You'll need rest for tomorrow." Then before Marq can even respond, Daemon and Aegor are gone. Leaving Marq alone.
After returning his weapons to the rack and removing his armor, Marq enters the keep and heads to his room. It's almost barren. The only things he really owned himself were his clothes.
As he lay in bed, he felt a sudden pull. A tugging sensation at his gut. As if something were trying to lead him somewhere. He forces himself to ignore it, and luckily sleep quickly claims him. However, sleep isn't as peaceful as he might wish.
Marq 'wakes' in the midst of a battle. Men armed with bronze spears and heavy furs fighting knights clad in chainmail. In the center of it, all are two men dueling, One wielding a war hammer, with a crown studded with emeralds upon his head. The other is wielding a sword and shield, his helmet having a prominent pronounced ridge in the middle.
The two seem equally matched for the longest time until the warrior manages to slash the king across the chest. Marq gasps as he feels the same wound forming on his own body. And then another, and another. Until Marq falls to his knees.
The pain hits him all at once. His body is torn to ribbons. Broken and hacked and cut until he's a husk of stringy meat vaguely attached to a skeleton that resembles a boy. The blood pooling around him smells foul and poisoned, a thick, viscous glue that sticks him to the dirt in a pool of filth.
There is no more water left in his body to sweat. Just a dry, dull pain that exists in so many places at once that it becomes something he can almost tune out and ignore as if sticking his mind into neutral and just letting it run.
Then it happens. Starting with a finger. Right hand, ring finger. It happens again, left hand, index finger. Tiny little pinpricks like insect legs against the numbly cold extremities.
The body shuts down those parts first when you lose blood. Retracting all its effort into the core, the heart, and the lungs. The parts to need to survive. Those are the only parts of him that don't feel like death.
Marq turns his head and sees the fallen king in the same state as he is in. Barely alive and staring right at him. Then everything turns black.
Marq has eyes. That's a surprise. He remembers… a battle. A clash of steel and a storm of death, and his death.
One of his eyes opens.
The room is dark. The pain is gone as if it never was there. He can't muster the will to do anything else except fall asleep. This time blissfully dreamless.