Mudd and Blood (ASOIAF SI)

[TrashyBoi]

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."

 

[TrashyBoi]

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.

 

[TrashyBoi]

Chapter 3: Meeting the Family​

"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance."​

It took only two weeks for Daeron to arrive at King's Landing and have himself crowned. Marq avoided the coronation ceremony, it would have been a waste of time, and he chose to spend more time training instead.

In all honesty, he did his best to ignore the regime change entirely. Simply kept to his strict training regime. Something which only became increasingly harsh after King Daeron refused Ser Quentyn a white cloak, spurning him for Ser Willem Wylde instead.

However, tonight as he walks toward what will likely be the longest night of his life. He finds it impossible to do that, as King Daeron has requested he and Daemon sup with his family. It was phrased as a request, but one would be foolish to deny a 'request' from the King.

So there he was, in his least worn out clothing, a leather jerkin over an old brown doublet and simple pants, knife on his belt, ready to do something anyone would be fearful of. Meeting his family for dinner.

Marq hesitates, standing at the door to the dining room, before working up the courage to knock on the door. He is greeted by a tall, well-groomed man, who he can only assume is a servant of some sort, who opens the door for him. "Welcome, milord. Please take a seat, his grace and his family are already seated, and food is to be served shortly." The man then steps to the side, holding the door open for Marq.

Upon entering the room, he can immediately spot King Daeron, a thin man with a kind face and a slight smile that seems permanently etched on it, sitting at the head of the table. To his right sits Prince Baelor, looking more like a Prince of Dorne than a Targaryen Prince, directly by him being the much scrawnier but more Targaryen-looking Prince Aerys.

Marq bows slightly as he sees Daeron turn his attention to him. "Your grace, thank you for having me."

Daeron waves him off. "No need for formalities. We are family here, after all. Please take a seat."

Marq does so, moving and sitting in the middle of the table, a respectful distance from King Daeron, but not directly across from him. The King speaks again the moment he sits down. "I'm afraid I haven't been able to meet with you before now. Regardless of your mother, we share the same father, making you my brother. So tell me, what is it you often do?"

Marq shrugs. If Daeron expects a fantastical tale, he is to be sorely disappointed. "Not much. I mostly just train. Ser Quentyn is a harsh taskmaster. I like to ride when I can, and Daemon has been speaking of wanting to get me into falconry with him."

Daeron nods as if he more or less expected those answers. "I was an accomplished falconer before I moved to Dragonstone. Unfortunately, there isn't much to hunt on that island."

It looks as if Daeron is about to say something else when Daemon opens the door and walks in, ignoring the servant who tries to hurry to welcome him. Marq can see him tensed as if he were expecting trouble or even a fight but relaxes when he sees Marq simply sitting and talking with Daeron.

"Your Grace, forgive my tardiness." Daemon gives the shallowest bow he can manage before moving over and taking a seat directly across from Daeron.

"Nonsense, and none of this Your Grace stuff in private. We are family here, and don't worry about tardiness. Food is only just about to be served." Daeron keeps the slight smile on his face, friendly and in control.

King Daeron's reassuring face doesn't seem to impress Daemon, who fights to keep down a scowl. "I trust you haven't been bombarding my younger brother with questions?"

"Of course not, merely polite conversation while waiting for your arrival, and now that you are here, we may begin." A veritable army of servants begins to lay out food when he finishes speaking. Beef cooked up with dornish peppers, apple cakes, lemon tarts, and lemon-cooked chicken soup. Everyone waited for Daeron to begin before allowing themselves to dig into the miniature feast.

Unfortunately, they aren't left to enjoy the dinner in peace simply, and the questioning begins again. Daeron turns his attention from his food to Daemon. "So Ser Daemon, you were knighted at just 12. What's next from the man who is being hailed as one of the greatest knights of our lifetime."

Daemon quickly replies, "I don't have many plans for the future. Just as many tourneys as possible, maybe raise a small keep."

As far as Marq can tell, his words are sincere, but he is caught by surprise. One would think the man who would try and take the Iron Throne would be more ambitious in his youth. Then again, as far as he remembers, Daemon was heavily influenced to do so, which makes him wonder what the breaking point was. Why press his claim? Why condemn Westeros to a year of war and another hundred years of rebellions and strife after the fact?

From what he knows of his brother, it wasn't out of simple naked greed and ambition. It couldn't be. Unless he doesn't know his brother as well as he thinks he does.

"Marq." Upon hearing his name, he looks up and sees Daemon staring at him. "There we go. I was asking if you had any ambitions for your future."

Marq opens his mouth, then shuts it, and thinks. "I suppose I'd like to travel and see Westeros, but not until I get knighted. Then maybe, like Daemon said, raise a keep or restore Oldstones."

Daeron raises an eyebrow. "Oldstones? What would you want with those ruins."

Marq shrugs. "Well, I'm a Mudd on my mother's side, the last one left alive now."

Daeron's eyebrow somehow rises even further. "Mudd? Is that some house? I'm afraid I'm not familiar."

Marq opens his mouth to explain but finds himself cut off by Prince Aerys. "House Mudd were the Kings of the Riverlands before the Andals invaded, and Oldstones was their capital."

Marq nods. "Prince Aerys is right, though I am surprised he knew. Most nobles today don't even remember."

Daeron nods. "Well, Oldstones. I might have to look into that in the future."

Marq tenses. He didn't just make an unintentional deal with the King, did he? "You- I mean Daeron. That isn't really necessary."

"Nonsense, it's my duty to ensure my siblings are taken care of."

Marq tries to muster a weak smile. Shit, that's going to be held over his head now, isn't it? Daeron leans back, looking satisfied, leaving Marq to assume the best course of action for the rest of the dinner is just to shut up and keep his head down.

Which he does, leaving the verbal sparring to Daemon. Thinly veiled insinuations and deflections flying on both sides. This is one aspect of Medieval life he doesn't think he can ever adjust to. Ironically it was simpler under Aegon. No one wants to talk to a bastard, even a royal bastard. However, now that he has been legitimized, He is a living, breathing succession crisis waiting to happen. All of his siblings are Daemon, just more so than the rest. Eventually, he is able to make his excuses and retreats from the dinner back to the safety of his room.

As he lays on his bed and waits for sleep to claim him, all he can think of is how much more complicated his life just became. That was only half of the royal family, and he still has three other bastard siblings to get to know. Why couldn't he have been reborn as something simpler?

Spoiler: AN

Hello people of SV, I thought it'd be a good idea to crosspost this from SB. So here I am, to see what y'all folks think. Lemme know and y'all have a wonderful day.