Titus
"King's Landing," went the sailor's cry, "off the starboard bow!"
Finally. Titus pulled himself out of his bed and staggered out of his cabin. A green-faced Alyn trailed after him.
They both leaned against the bow, staring at the vast, sprawling city which they'd left nearly three months before. Titus was relieved to see it intact; he had not been sure if it would still be standing when they'd finally returned.
Baelor had instructed him to leave with all haste, but also to take his best men south. Titus had taken three fourths of the able-bodied Dalt bannermen back south, leaving the wounded to heal and the last fourth under Damrod Martell's command. As per the Crown Prince's desire for fairness, Titus had also selected a scattering of warriors from the other regions of Westeros. They were led by Ser Baelon Massey, whose foot had slowly healed during the length of the voyage.
It had not been an easy process. Titus had tried to be discreet as he made a list of whom he would take back with him. Rumours had spread nonetheless, and soon Titus found himself brought before Baelor, Ser Mavis Holt, and a furious Fynan Umber.
Northmen were said to be blunt, speaking hard truths with cold resolve. Fynan was certainly blunt, but his anger seemed almost hot enough to melt a section of the Wall.
"This rebellion has lasted almost four years! Half the houses in the North have lost kin to those Skaggs! And now you see fit to abandon us? Is this what southron honour is worth?"
Much to Titus' relief, Baelor remained calm throughout the northman's tirade. When he was finished, Baelor quietly rose from his seat, and though his arm was in a sling, the prince's authority and dignity radiated from his being.
"You mistake me, Umber, and you mistake our intent. I will stay and resolve this rebellion, but I must send aid back south in order to quell this second rebellion. No doubt you are aware of what a Blackfyre victory will mean for the realm as we know it."
Fynan had grudgingly yielded, and Titus had been permitted to carry on. It was a small enough number of men that they only needed four of the large transport ships, with twice as many war galleys serving as their escort.
They had stopped at the Sisters and Gulltown to resupply, where Titus saw with his own eyes the effects of the Blackfyre Rebellion, as men were already calling it. He was stunned by how many buildings had been burned, by the sight of mass graves along the shore, and by the accounts of those who had taken part.
The remnants of the second contingent had departed the city, leaving behind only those who were too wounded to leave. One of these men was a Dondarrion man who recognised Titus from the old days. He spoke of the burning ships, the gangs of men attacking their fellow troops, of Baldric rallying the Dondarrions, of other skirmishes breaking out, of Uthor Dalt being captured and burned alive by a vengeful Baldric.
The last part filled Titus with horror and regret. He had once defended Uthor, and although he had been greatly angered by Uthor's hostility towards him, he had hoped that they might reconcile. Now, knowing what Uthor had done and how he had died, Titus could only imagine how Coryanne would react to son's cruel fate.
For the rest of the voyage, the matter lay heavy on Titus' mind. No matter how much he kept himself preoccupied, Titus could not stop brooding on Uthor, and also the fates of those whom he loved.
First, he needed to carry out Baelor's task. He kept the reminder close at hand, firmly bound into its sheath with strips of leather. Titus had also wrapped the sword in old rags to disguise it from thieves.
He had not had the nerve to draw Dark Sister, much less use it. Alyn had once offered to polish or sharpen the blade, but Titus had seen the longing in his eyes and laughed at his suggestion.
"You know full well that Valyrian steel needs no polish or sharpening." Titus had patted Doom at his side to emphasise his point.
Now, as they finally neared the capital, Alyn carried Dark Sister in both hands, stumbling several times across the deck until he stood by Titus at the starboard bow.
Together, they watched the city loom up before them, ships sail past them, and the sensations of King's Landing fill their ears and nostrils. Lord Sunderland had promised to send a raven to King's Landing, informing them of Titus' approach, and as the ships entered the harbour, Titus could see that their arrival had been anticipated.
Men dressed in Targaryen livery were waiting for them at the docks, along with a knight of the Kingsguard. As Titus walked down a gangplank, he saw that it was Ser Willem Wylde. Titus was much relieved; he had not sought Ser Willem's company when he had first been in King's Landing. He'd been far too bitter about Jena's rejection and the death of Orys Trant. When did Willem know that Brynden had murdered Orys? Did he question the death?
Despite these doubts, Titus approached his friend with a smile. "I almost didn't recognise you, Will."
Stone-faced, Willem nodded his head formally. "The gods were kind to reunite us in these troubled times." His words were what Titus might have expected an old comrade to say, but his manner did not betray any sign of past affiliation.
"Well said, good Ser!"
It was Baelon Massey who given that derisive shout as he'd stumbled onto the dock beside Titus. He grinned broadly at his friend. "Tell me, what's this about the realm going up in flames since we left? I always thought you were the most responsible one of us."
Willem nodded in acknowledgement of Baelon's japes, while his stern countenance discouraged him from continuing. Then, solemn as ever, he turned back to Titus, "I bring word of your sister. She has given birth to her second son, very nearly at the cost of her life."
Titus felt his insides turn cold beneath the warm sun. "Is she recovered?"
"Praise be to the gods, and to Princess Elaena," Willem assured him. "But you must come with me. His Grace wishes to see you at once."
While they had spoken, Baelon stood by with a confused disposition. Titus felt equally unsettled as he turned and gave instructions to Ser Zeuxis of Lemonwood, his new second-in-command.
A hand grabbed his shoulder when he was still turning back from the ship. "What's gotten into him, Titus? Was it something I said?"
Titus shrugged. He gave Baelon an encouraging pat on the back before mounting up on a proffered horse. Alyn, holding Dark Sister awkwardly under one arm, scrambled his way atop another horse.
Baelon and Titus positioned themselves on either side of Ser Willem in the hope that he might speak with them again. Ser Willem did not even look at them, let alone speak. Titus felt alarm and anger inside of him, but he did not wish to make a spectacle again. He could still hear Baelor Targaryen's admonishments atop the Wall, and recall that empty misery which had left him shivering more than the cold around him.
The three knights were ahead of the others, towering over the smallfolk in the streets. Gold-cloaked watchmen bellowed orders to make way, but it was still a tediously slow process. Titus did his best to ignore the clangour around him, until he suddenly he caught a sound beside him. Ser Willem was muttering, barely decipherable over the other noises.
"Is it true about Orys Trant? And Maegor?"
Titus turned to his left. Massey had looked to his right, mirroring Titus' confusion and alarm.
Willem Wylde was staring at Titus warily. His eyes was uncomfortably fierce.
"What is your meaning?"
"Were they traitors? And is it true that you helped get them killed?"
Baelon's eyes widened in surprise. Titus had told him the account of Orys, but not of Maegor. He knew that King Daeron would expect him to keep the secrets of that trial which had led to his exile. All the same, he did not like how Willem looked at him.
"Maegor was a traitor, and a murderer besides," Titus answered grimly, "but Orys was not. I did betray Maegor for that, but Orys was murdered by Bloodraven."
"Murderer," repeated Baelon. He shook his head. "Still, mayhaps that is no shock. Not after what happened at Horn Hill." With a jolt, he realised what he had said and looked to Willem with alarm.
As always, Willem turned pale at the mention of Horn Hill. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he looked intently at his horse's head. Baelon and Titus exchanged a glance. All three of them were thinking of that terrible night in Horn Hill.
Ser Danel Bennoff had been a crude man, barely able to read or write his own name, engaging in lewd behaviour with anyone whom he could bully into staying silent. Titus, Baelon, Orys, Maegor, and Willem had only understood the full extent of Danel's depravity until it was too late. All five of the boys had gotten drunk in the barracks and gone their separate ways. It was not until they reunited in their quarters that they realised Willem had not returned. They went looking for him, until they'd found him half-dressed, limping his way through the hallways.
Through many tears and gasps of pain, Willem had whispered the truth of what had happened to him. He'd gone away with a fellow page for a secret tryst, when he'd been discovered by Ser Danel. Willem had been horrified at being discovered, and had tried to flee. It was this terror at being discovered, coupled with Ser Danel's inebriation, which had given him the nerve to force himself upon the young ward. After their friend refused to testify against Bennoff, and made the others swear to say nothing about it, Titus had conspired with Maegor and Orys to take their revenge on Danel. Baelon and Willem had suspected that Danel's poisoning was the others' doing, but they had never discovered which one had actually committed the crime.
"In any case," Titus declared, hoping to move away from that subject, "Orys committed no treason. He was executed for courting Brynden's lover." And drinking with me when I made light of Brynden's power.
"His half-sister, more like," Willem grunted. "She's a witch, if ever I've seen one."
Baelon shuddered, "I've heard much the same. What madness possessed Orys to play such a dangerous game?"
He was always more daring than you knew, Baelon. "Who is this Shiera Seastar anyway?" Titus suddenly resented his time away as an exile in Essos, for he felt stupid asking such a question.
"She was born to the Unworthy," Willem answered, pausing as they rode past a blacksmith's shop. "I've only seen her thrice, but I can see why Orys agreed to dally with her. Bloodraven and Bittersteel both vied for her attention, but Bloodraven won out. Shiera has many lovers, though, almost as a game to make Bloodraven jealous, but they also dabble in dark sorcery together."
"They deserve each other," Titus grumbled. He turned and spat upon the street to show his disgust.
As they left the busiest streets behind, they halted the discussion abruptly, and rode in silence until they were in the shadow of the Red Keep.
When Titus entered the Great Hall, King Daeron was sitting upon the Iron Throne. Two men of the Kingsguard stood at the foot of the twisted monstrosity, hands resting on their sword hilts. On either side of the throne were the men, women, and children of Daeron's court. Queen Myriah, Prince Maekar, Prince Aerys, Princess Elaena and a number of her children, Lords Ambrose Butterwell, Ronnel Penrose and Steffon Banefort... Titus stopped identifying the rest when he saw his sister.
The last time they had seen each other, she had called him a kinslayer and looked upon him with loathing. He had not forgotten that, but his anxiety over their reunion had been eclipsed by his concern over the war. Now he saw her standing with three ladies-in-waiting - the only one he recognised was Gwenys Bolt - as well as Princess Elaena. She was an older woman, beautiful and proud-looking, with a single lock of gold amidst her silvery hair. In front of Jena stood a somber-looking boy whose brown hair contained a light streak of its own. A Targaryen-coloured bolt of lightning. How fitting. He seemed to be more bored than anything else, judging by his aspect alone.
"Welcome back, Ser Titus," Daeron called, even as he arose from his seat and slowly approached the marcher knight. "It pleases us to see you returned in good health."
"My thanks, Your Grace. I'm afraid that many from the first contingent will not be as lucky as I."
He had spoken the words lightly, albeit solemnly, but much to his surprise, the words were taken badly. Several courtiers and nobles began to mutter feverishly in hushed voices. The king had halted mid-stride, speaking no word through his clenched jaws.
Best get this over with. Titus took the bundle of rags from Alyn Garner and unwrapped them to reveal Dark Sister. As he and the others knelt before the king, Titus held the Targaryen sword in both hands, raising it above his bowed head.
"Your Grace," Titus declared, "I was tasked by your son to return Dark Sister to you."
Nobody spoke for a moment, but Titus did not move from his pose. Much to his alarm, he heard the whispers increase dramatically. Some of the ladies even gasped. He heard Jena make a noise of horror. What madness is this?
Finally, two hands took Dark Sister from Titus, and he heard the king bid him to rise in a shaky voice. When Titus beheld the royal party, he saw alarm and confusion plastered across their faces.
Daeron was ill-at-ease and discomfited as he held Dark Sister. The very image of this pot-bellied scholar holding such a weapon was bizarre to Titus, and utterly contrary to everything which he knew about Daeron the Good.
"Does my son have no more use for this sword?" Daeron was composed, but Titus heard a quaver in his tone.
"He did not say that, Your Grace," Titus responded quickly. "But the prince was alive and well when I saw him last. Aside from his broken arm, anyway."
"A broken arm?" Daeron repeated incredulously. "Is that all?"
"That was the most serious injury that I know of," Titus replied. What is going on? Damn you, Sunderland, what did you put in that fucking letter and what did you leave out?
Daeron frowned, and turned to his Hand, who stood nearby. "It appears that your messenger was mistaken, Lord Butterwell."
Butterwell was paler than Jena, and his face was turning slick with sweat. "I assure you, Your Grace, I do not understand this."
Small surprise. Titus did not understand it much better, but he enjoyed seeing that arrogant man in distress.
King Daeron turned back to Titus, "My servants will find accommodations for you and your company, but I urge you not to make yourself comfortable just yet. I shall assemble my small council, and you shall tell us what you know about the campaign, Ser. It is past time that we had a proper account."
Such was done. After leaving Alyn to watch over their belongings, and overseeing the arrival of his followers, Titus was led by Ser Willem Wylde to Maegor's Holdfast, where Daeron had arranged for the meeting to take place.
The lords of the small council were present, as were Grand Maester Elial, the Lord Commander of the City Watch, Queen Myriah and Jena. She said no word to Titus, but there was no anger or disgust in her expression. All the same, he kept his gaze from his sister as he sat down at the table, and he did his best to ignore the presence of Brynden Rivers.
Three knights of the Kingsguard were also present, but the only man whom Titus could place was Willem. Of the other two, one sat with the small council as the Lord Commander, whilst the third stood with Willem beside the king.
Time lost all meaning as he told his listeners of what had transpired. He tried to abridge his tale, but the king repeatedly asked for further details once the expedition had reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
Only Myriah presumed to question Titus between Daeron's interruptions. They both seemed determined to uncover some mystery to which Titus was not informed. He did his best to speak plainly and truthfully, admitting when he did not know something.
He deviated once to look at Ser Sigfryd Velaryon. "It pains me to have to tell you this, Ser, but your father has fallen. He was leading the rearguard for our retreat when his ship was driven onto rocks. We couldn't recover his body."
Sigfryd, the new Lord of the Tides, stiffly requested leave of the king to send word back to Driftmark. Daeron agreed readily, knowing full well that Sigfryd also needed time to come to grips with his father's death.
Titus watched the young man rise and leave the table. He was struck silent by the sight of Sigfryd's struggle to stay composed in the face of grief. Isengrim Velaryon had never given Titus a reason to grieve his death, and he had certainly never mourned his own father. Is it a blessing or a curse that I do not understand Sigfryd's pain?
He put these musings aside and resumed where he'd left off, describing his last council with Baelor and his journey back to King's Landing.
"I was also asked to give you a message," Titus added, turning reluctantly to Jena.
Her eyes widened, and her breath seemed to stop.
"Speak that message later," Myriah urged him. "Doubtless it is not suited for so many ears."
Jena looked at Myriah, but she did not disagree. She sighed and leaned back in her chair.
"I am puzzled," Daeron mused. He turned to Lord Butterwell with an unfriendly expression. "You made it seem as though my son was near death."
"That was the message I received!" Ambrose Butterwell was paler than usual, unable to stop himself from trembling.
Before Daeron could respond, Butterwell turned to Brynden Rivers and ineffectually slammed his fist upon the table, "This is your doing!"
"Mine?" Brynden's laugh was sardonic as ever. "Pray tell me, which part of it was my doing? Did I break Baelor's arm?"
Nobody laughed at his jape, least of all Lord Butterwell. He turned back to Daeron. "You must know it to be true, Your Grace! He is a treacherous snake!"
"Treacherous?" For the first time since Titus had seen him, Daeron spoke wrothfully. He arose from his chair, and though he had never been an intimidating man on sight, he towered over everyone else.
"You forget yourself, Ambrose," Daeron snapped, in a voice which Titus had never heard him use before.
"Your Grace," Lord Butterwell began, but the king raised his voice.
"Brynden has proved his loyalty to me a hundred times, ever since he was a boy. He risked his life to save mine when you were still licking my father's boots!"
Titus was astonished to realise that he was genuinely afraid of Daeron. He was not alone in thinking this; everyone except Myriah and Brynden were regarding Daeron with either awe or fear. The king himself was oblivious to the others, fixing Butterwell with his baleful gaze and pointing a finger at him as if it were a sword.
"Please," Lord Butterwell stuttered, utterly bereft of dignity. "Please, Your Grace… my grandfather… your father…we all know…"
Daeron slowly lowered his hand to his side, glaring at Butterwell with a mixture of anger and contempt.
"I should have seen you for what you were," said Daeron. His voice was quiet and calm again, but the finality in his tone caused Butterwell to shudder. "I gave you the chance to serve me well, but it seems that your service has run its course. That much is clear to me now. Was it not you who urged me not to endorce my rule upon those who sent few troops?"
"I advised you in good faith," Butterwell protested shrilly, "I sent mine own son on the second contingent!"
"And where is your second son?"
All turned to face Brynden, who'd interjected with that infuriating tone. His reptilian eyes were glowing with a strange fire.
"He is back in the Riverlands," Butterwell answered defensively. "He is my spare. I must needs leave someone behind at Whitewalls, especially now that Blackfyre is loose."
"Indeed," Brynden's smile was more dangerous than any grimace. "You were foresighted to leave him home so that he could declare his treason in the name of Blackfyre."
The blood seemed to have drained from Butterwell's face.
"You lie!" He stood up shakily, though Titus was not sure whether he did so to confront Brynden or flee from him.
Brynden ignored the accusation and his gesture. He simply turned to face Daeron. Titus followed the master of whispers' example, wondering what would happen now. He had never liked Butterwell, but he could not help but feel sorry for any man preyed upon by Bloodraven.
The king , then he gave a slow sigh. Whether it was a sigh of weariness or regret, Titus would never know, but when Daeron spoke again, there was no mistaking his resolve.
"Your son is guilty of treason, Lord Butterwell. Whether you knew of his actions or not, I do not doubt Lord Rivers will be pleased to uncover." Butterwell looked ready to burst into tears, his eyes shifting fearfully to the cheerful Brynden.
"However," Daeron added sternly, "I do not forget that you served me well in times of peace, and your heir has also been loyal. I have too many foes already without making more. Therefore, you will remain as a guest of the Red Keep, dismissed from your post as Hand of the King. No harm shall come to you so long as you conduct yourself as a man of the realm."
This merciful decree did nothing to assuage Butterwell or ease his dread. But after some time, he reluctantly forced his trembling hands to remove the Hand of the King's pin from his lapel and place it on the table. Escorted by Ser Willem, Butterwell left the room with his head bowed.
Daeron sat back down and picked up the pin. He held it up and studied it thoughtfully. Titus glanced around the table, then back to Daeron, wondering what he would say next.
Instead, it was Queen Myriah broke the silence. "My king, in light of this war, it is essential that you choose a new Hand at once."
Daeron looked up. "Is there a man whom you wish to recommend?"
"Lord Folgrim Hayford," Myriah replied. "He has fought for you since the beginning of this war."
"Fought and lost," Ronnel Penrose observed. "With respects to Her Grace, of course. I do not share her support of Lord Hayford."
"Any man will stay loyal in victory," Myriah retorted. "Lord Hayford saved hundreds with an orderly retreat. He has been rallying our followers in the Crownlands ever since. By all counts, we are losing this war, and he is still your leal servant."
Daeron was listening thoughtfully, and when Myriah was finished, he nodded his head. "Agreed." He shifted his focus to the younger man of the Kingsguard beside Willem. "Ser Lucas, go and bring Lord Hayford to me." When that was done, the king looked at Titus again.
"Tell me, Ser Titus, did Baelor have no further message for us? No instruction on what to do with his sword?"
"Just that he will return when the Skagosi rebellion is put to an end, as the Crown promised the North. Until then, he felt that Dark Sister would be of better use in the south."
Daeron paused, nodding absent-mindedly. "Did he suggest any man to wield this sword?"
"Not to me," Titus replied. "That is for you to decide, Your Grace."
"If I might interrupt?"
Daeron turned to Brynden again, and not without some wry bemusement. "I believe I can guess the reason, brother."
So could Titus; he felt a wave of revulsion and fury hit him as Brynden Rivers arose and addressed the king.
"Give me Dark Sister, Your Grace. I have rarely asked anything of you," he began, "and I wish to redeem myself in your eyes."
"Redeem yourself?" Daeron repeated curiously.
"I meant to end the rebellion before it began," Brynden explained, "and by treachery, I was unable to complete that task. Give me Dark Sister, and give me leave to pursue these rebels, and I will gift you Daemon Blackfyre's head, Your Grace."
He spoke well, Titus had to grudgingly admit. He had mastered the art of appearing humble and sincere. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.
"You have been useful to me as my Master of Whispers," Daeron pointed out. "I cannot afford to make my small council smaller."
"I do not resign the position, I ask only to take my services beyond the capital," Brynden answered. "You need not reveal my absence to the city. I have made sure that the city is yours, and so long as the Blackfyres think that I am in the city, they will do nothing to disturb you."
Titus shuddered at these words, unable to stop himself recalling how the crow had looked, pecking at the flesh inside Orys Trant's empty eye sockets.
"So be it, then. For all that you have done for me and my family, I shall give you Dark Sister to wield," Daeron proclaimed gravely. "But now, there is the matter of you."
Titus blinked in surprise as Daeron faced him once again. "I?"
"It seems that you made good use of your exile," Daeron observed, and Titus could have sworn that he glanced at Doom while saying it. "You have become a leader of men, and we are in need of those now more than ever. You are also a loyal marcher, which has become a rarity. Few know that region better than you."
Titus thought of Coryanne, Aliandra, and their children. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am no friend to the marchers. I am also leading men of House Dalt. They would sure be best served liberating Dorne."
"That is so," Daeron answered, "and that will be your task as well. I will send word to Prince Maron with my wishes. The marches are rebellious on both sides. If you can travel south, break the siege of Storm's End, secure the marches, and meet Maron in Dorne to put down his rebellious vassals, you will break the Black Dragon's strongest and fiercest supporters."
Titus saw the sense of it. He did not wish to acquiesce, but he knew that he had no such power to refuse the king. Duty calls to me, and love must wait.
"As you wish, Your Grace," Titus nodded his head towards the king. "But may I ask, what forces will be at my disposal?"
"The men of House Dalt will suffice," Daeron answered.
Titus frowned. "I do not understand."
"Perhaps I was being too vague," Daeron replied, not without the ghost of a smile on his face. "I do not doubt your abilities, but there are many who will object to following your orders."
Gods, was he making a jape? Titus felt like a fool. Of course the king had not outright said he would be the commander. Why should he be? He had the name, but not the title. Then who will command me?
A sudden jolt of horror went through his body, almost like the lightning bolt which adorned his surcout. He resisted the urge to glance at Brynden, but he could feel the man's hateful eyes upon him. "Might I ask whose command I shall follow?"
If Daeron had shown any playfulness before, it was gone now as he looked with some apology to Myriah. "I would not ordinarily thrust one so young into war, but it seems that every man must play his part. My son Maekar will have need of experienced men such as yourself, Ser Titus."
Titus restrained his sigh of relief. Prince Maekar was not known to him, apart from the fact that he was the only one of Baelor's brothers who showed any martial promise.
"And you as well, brother," Daeron added, looking back at Brynden. "The two of you shall advise Maekar and protect him with your lives."
"Yes, Your Grace," Titus murmured. The last time I was forced to work with Brynden, he got me exiled. What will happen this time?