Merle Bush I - Prologue

376 AC

It was pitch black in the room when Lucamore woke up. The fire that should have been billowing in his hearth all night had gone out, and it was cold. A breeze passed over him, and he realized that his window was open. Someone was in the room with him. He had an idea of who it was.

“Merle.” he called out into the blackness. It was so dark in the room, and besides the crack in his barred door to the rest of the holdfast, the darkness was immense, a black shield that offered no insights. This had been planned. He threw his covers off the side of his bed and slowly wavered to his feet. His right arm, the only one he had left, gripped around blindly for a weapon. 

“Merle,” he said again, and this time he could hear a subtle shuffling somewhere toward the window side of the room. Lucamore slowly moved toward the sword that laid on top of the fireplace, facing toward the sound. “You really shouldn’t frighten your old father this way.” Nobody responded, but Lucamore kept talking, as he crept closer and closer toward the dead fire. “It wasn’t your fault of course, Artys was killed by brigands…and Trisfier, he fell from his horse.” 

Bush knew he wasn’t convincing his youngest, he wasn’t even convincing himself. Just a little closer, you rat. You’ll see. The shortsword was castle-steel, taken off a reaver during Daeron’s great scouring of the Iron Islands. Lucamore lacked a hand but he was still damned strong. Strong enough to cut reavers in twain. Strong enough for this.

The room was never large but that night it felt impossibly big. He felt he was going too slow. At about five feet from the mantel place he suddenly turned and sprung for it. He felt the cracked marble, still warm from the fire, the dusty surface…but the sword was gone. 

Pain shot up his leg and suddenly Lucamore couldn’t stand, nor hold himself against the hearth. He spun and swung and struck air and fell back into the soaked, half-burnt logs beside him. Quickly he braced his arm out infront of him, waiting for the death blow, but it didn’t come. 

A few moments later the room was dimly lit, this time by a lantern. Lucamore already knew who it was. 

“Hello, father.”

‘’

Merle stepped in a half-circle around his father, not so close as to avoid a firepoker through the leg. He had time, knowing that the guard that was meant to be at the bottom of the tower often went to gamble with the watchman who was meant to be guarding the iron shipments. He looked down at the Ironborn’s sword in his hand and slid it beneath his father’s bed. “It was an accident, you know.”

“An accident? You bastard!” his father cried out, grasping at the back of his leg with his one arm. The blood was quite black in the darkened room, even with his lantern. 

“No, no, not that.” Merle went back over to the opened window and peered out into the crumbling courtyard. It was too cold for new snowfall, but he didn’t see any new footprints among the white, muddy field. He closed the shutters. “It was an accident when Tristifier fell from his horse. I couldn’t get the buckle on his saddle to fit for him.” He picked up a sack he had carried up with him and walked back toward the mantle.  “And Artys? We were drinking. He started it.”

A log came careening at him and he had to shield the lantern from being broken. It bounded off his shoulder and rolled off to the other side of the room. Merle let out a small chuckle. He couldn’t help it. “Not yet, father. Not yet.” 

“I should’ve killed you the moment I saw you in your crib, you monstrous fool!” His father spittled at him. Merle removed the wineskins from his sack and began pouring the oil around the room. His father’s eyes suddenly became large as dinnerplates as he rolled around on the ground, trying to find his footing. Merle slipped the emptied wineskins into the sack and placed it next to the window, before wiping his boots of any residual oil. The lantern he left on the window sill.

He gently climbed over the side of the tower, finding his footholds before looking over to watch his father. Whatever conversation they were having, if one could call it one, was finished. His father was flailing and mad with rage and was dragging himself toward the door. Merle didn’t think he could work the bar off in time.

“I think I’ve about to become what you thought I was a long time ago. Goodbye, father.” With his finger, he pushed the lantern off the sill and into the room. It took him about four and a half minutes to climb down the tower, about half the time it took him to climb the treacherously slick rocks. For all his father’s faults, the man sure could scream.