A Bastard's Dance
ASOIAF/Jumpchain
Prologue
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"I'm not sure about this… mother will be angry!" the feminine voice was full of nervousness and excitement both.
"We will just tell them we are to marry! We are both Blood of the Dragon, we are both fitting matches!" the male voice responded, the careful, precisely modulated tenor of the practiced seducer doing everything that could be done to put the girl at ease.
It required a few sweet nothings, but before long she was convinced, and then it was too late for anyone to do anything about it.
A little while after, the young man looked at himself in the water of the lake, pleased beyond words. Handsome features twisted in a vicious smirk. Let them try to marry him off to a stupid Vale sow now. All he had to do was let word of the deed spread and there would be no choice for anyone but to do what had to be done to save face.
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"My own son! My own son scheming and plotting, and using his own kin in vicious schemes!" the Prince's voice was loud, and it sent the castle's servants scurrying.
"If you had just listened, when I told you that I had no interest in getting married off to the stupid bitch in the mountains!" if anything, the second voice was louder than the first, the characteristic Targaryen imperiousness untampered by experience or wisdom like the other man.
"So you seduce your own family? A sweet, innocent girl who you were trusted to protect, and instead you Prey on her?"
"Oh, she was no prey! She was happy enough, squealing like a-" the voice was cut off as a resounding slap echoed through the corridors.
"I will not have you profane my sister's name like this. Your mother would be ashamed of you. I am ashamed."
"And she'd be proud of you? Stealing your own niece's birthright, marrying your son off for an alliance so you can carve out a fief after butchering and burning thousands? Oh yes, I know your plans. To think that the loyal brother of Prince Aegon would turn on his daughter so readily. It…" the voice trailed off, this time not even needing a slap.
There were times when even Targaryens could tell doing something was a bad idea, and the boy knew that continuing with his tirade with the look his father had in his eyes was as terrible an idea as there had ever been.
It took several moments for the prince whom the people had called the Brave to master himself. Only then did he speak. "All this proves is that you have been indulged far too much. You run wild and wicked. This will not stand. You will marry the girl I have chosen for you. We will have the alliance, and the campaign after. And if, if you advance our cause to my satisfaction, I may allow you to appeal father for an annulment once the victories and the spoils are in place. I know the old bastard in the Vale, he won't oppose it once he has what he wants. Then you can have the marriage you want."
There was silence for several seconds, before the other man spoke again. "There is just one problem with that plan. The girl… she is with child."
The other man just snorted. "You truly think I summoned you without knowing that, boy? I will have that seen to, one way or another. It can be addressed. Breaking an alliance this important at this late juncture is not quite as easy. Lord Arryn is keen on this happening, and if it goes wrong it could very much cost us the whole plan."
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"You promised!"
"I promised to let you appeal, and only if the campaign went well. Does the Lord of the Vale and his heirs being murdered and sacrificed to heart trees speak of a campaign going well to you, lad?"
"That wasn't my fault, they went into the mountains before we even got there!"
"Aye, that much is true. And yet, it's all for naught. Even if I let you break it off, who are you going to marry instead? My sister…"
"And I suppose you consider that my fault too?"
"By the Seven, boy. Have you no heart? Have I truly raised such a vicious cunt, that you would seduce a princess, have her whelp your child and then feel Nothing after she walks into a river because of the shame?"
"…"
"The marriage will stand. The bronze bastard will need the prestige if he is to salvage his position at all, and we need him still."
"… and what of the child? My son? What's to be done with him? Where is he to go?"
"What do you expect me to tell you? Wherever bastards go."
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"Don't be stupid, boy. These men will not spare you because you're a child, one look at your face and they will hang you from the nearest tree. It's too late for me, but you have to go! Run!" the old knight's voice was harsh and commanding as ever, but the boy he was speaking to was past such things.
The boy in question was lying, face-down, right next to him. The knight had told him to hide when the men had first smashed their way into the little house the two shared, and once they had ransacked it and stabbed the older man to death, he'd just lied down pretending to be dead till they went away.
Now he stood up and faced his mentor and the closest thing to a father he'd known in this life, and shook his head.
"No, Ser Petyr. I-I'll take you to the Hall, they'll have a Maester there!" Maeron babbled even as he knew that it was impossible. Haystack Hall, the nearest proper Castle might have been only a few hours away, but that was on a horse. A boy of four, even if he could somehow carry or drag a man grown… it wasn't a possibility.
No, Ser Petyr of Blackwater, the smallfolk knight who had risen higher than most knights could ever imagine in service to the Old King was dead already, all that remained was for his body and his ward to realize it.
"You know better than to get silly about this, lad. You know the lay of it. I am dead, but you need not be if you run right now. These men will be back soon enough once they're done with the ladies. You need to be gone by then!" He tried again, but the boy wasn't listening.
Once he'd been reborn into this world as a squalling babe, all he recalled from the start was a lot of blurry visuals and loud, strange noises. The first face he had really understood in life had been Petyr. Ser Petyr who was harsh and rude but snuck him sweets and sat him down to go over the maddening letters and numbers of this world.
The man who had raised him for the past four years, who had been with him when he'd screamed and babbled of the Before, who had hushed down any rumors and tall tales about him that popped up in the village now and then, who had taken care of him and borne all his strangeness with grim strength.
And now he was lying outside his own little house, bleeding out courtesy of the man who had thrust a spear through his guts, one of the men who claimed to be a champion of the Faith but hadn't even hesitated before murdering an entire Sept full priests and who were raping Septas and silent sisters even now, their bloodcurdling screams ringing loud in the air.
The dying man screamed once more at him to run, collapsing into a coughing fit at the strain. He wouldn't last long. Maeron wiped away the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. It was stupid! He had been born into this world from a previous life where he'd read about it, over and over! He knew these people as characters in a story. There was no sense to crying about them!
And yet. It wasn't that simple, was it?
Looking one last time at the rapidly dying man, he swore he would avenge this. Somehow, some day, he would track each and every one of the men responsible for this murder and make them suffer a thousand deaths for the one they had dealt to a man they weren't fit to lick the shoes clean of.
It was a child's oath, nonsensical and powerless. He was a penniless toddler. They were men grown, adults with kills and infamy to their names.
He swore it all the same. Before finally picking himself from where he was sitting, running around the house as its dying owner guided him to a spot the bandits had missed. It was a tiny alcove behind a cupboard, little more than a hole cut into the wall. It took him several minutes to finally budge the cupboard enough to make his way into the space, and he reached in, finding a small silken pouch.
Picking it up he came running to the knight. Opening it as directed, all that was in it were about five silver coins with the visage of Queen Alysanne Targaryen, and two strange pieces of jewelry. A medallion, the kind one put on a string to wear around the neck, and a ring. Both made of a strange grey metal with darker designs swirling across it.
Showing them to the dying man he nodded, before mustering the last of his power and speaking up.
"Go… go to King's Landing. You're a clever lad, Maeron, you'll make it. Get there and find your father… he… he…" Petyr fell silent, and Maeron waited for him to gather his strength again. But it was already too late. The knight was still trying to speak when his hand went slack in Maeron's grip, eyes turning glassy.
And so the boy of four, with silver hair so bright it almost glowed and violet eyes shining like uncut Amethysts, ran.
Even as he got out of the village the men who had murdered the old man returned from their rapine, making note of the dead man and strolling through his house once more.
"Hey, Oswell!" he screamed at the fellow outlaw several steps behind him, who was still just finishing up with the cunt they'd been sharing. She was a septa or a silent sister or maybe a farmer's wife or something, he'd fucked so much today they all blurred together.
Getting no response, he cried out for his partner again, who finally stood up, kicked the woman as she tried to pull her ruined clothes together and walked off.
"What, you miserable little cunt? You can't still be ornery after an easy one like this!"
The first man, Willem of the Stars, shook his head. "Didn't they say there was a little boy with this knight?"
Oswell shrugged. "I didn't listen. Who the fuck has time to listen to them traitor Septons anyway? I just hear till they tell me which villages are easiest."
"Don't talk about Septons like that, Oswell. You know I don't like it. What we do is the Seven's work in truth. Septons are misguided fucks, but they mean well. Not like them abominations."
Oswell, knowing better than to ask whom the older, veteran bandit meant, simply nodded, both men moving on from the point. Thinking about this whole thing one last time, Willem shrugged in turn. It wasn't like the boy mattered.
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