Cayn
He was running through the forest.
Where this forest was, he neither knew nor cared. All he wondered about were the eyes through which he saw that forest. To whom - no, to what - did they belong?
He could sense his legs. All four were in constant motion, even as a large heart pounded inside his deep chest.
On he went past endless lines of dark blue trees, lit from above by a bright moon. Eventually, his pace slackened as he approached a small lake. The water shimmered like glass, so that it became a dark mirror.
He realised what he was before he saw his own face. He only needed to see the tips of his antlers in the water to see the truth. An elk again.
Something was wrong, however, for he did not stop to drink. He was running again, as fast as the trees allowed him. His antlers rose upward and outward, like some kind of wildly elaborate crown. Several times, he bolted in another direction to avoid low tree limbs or thick bushes.
Instinctively, he knew that something was chasing him; what else could fill him with such fear and agitation? He could not sense the animal's thoughts, if it had any at all. All he sensed was an urge to run from a perceived threat.
He could smell the danger before he heard it. By the time he heard the breathing of his pursuers, Cayn was already terrified. He had experienced this dream before, a dozen times at least, but the dread never diminished.
The first of them was snapping at his legs. Cayn gave another great spurt, desperate to avoid this terrible fate. He had outrun his foes before; sometimes, he had been large enough and strong enough to stand his ground and fight off his attackers. A great elk might do it, or an aurochs, or a moose. But he was only a lesser elk, and a juvenile at that. He had no such courage on this night.
He had been running for too long; he was growing weary. No amount of fear could have given him the energy he needed to escape. His pursuers were smaller, nimbler, far abler at running through the thick forest.
They were not just behind him. They were in front of him, and to the sides. Or perhaps that was because of his disjointed path through the forest.
He heard himself cry out as the first set of teeth sank into his haunch. Another bit into his chest, even as snarls of triumph erupted all around him. They had won again, for they smelled his life blood as it left his body.
As they tore him to pieces, he cried aloud from agony and from fear of death. It did not matter, however. They killed him all the same.
"Cayn! Cayn! Cayn!"
He was still screaming as he sat upright in his bed. His body and the bedsheets were soaking wet. For one wild moment, he thought it was blood, until he remembered where he was.
Maric and Andrew were standing on either side of his bed, pale-faced.
"You were screaming," Maric muttered. "Like you were being burned alive."
Not far off from the truth. Even as he tried to catch his breath, ragged gasps of laughter shook his whole body.
"A dream," he urged. "It was a dream."
Lord Titus had told him that much when he'd first learned of Cayn's visions. They were only dreams, he'd assured him. Pay them no heed, they will go away someday. He did not know if Lord Titus believed that, or if he simply hoped the dreams would subside on their own.
They did no such thing. As far back as he could remember, he had experienced these dreams. Be it wolf, deer, fox, boar, or falcon, he had seen the world through all their eyes. It was a strange sensation, to say the least; he could do nothing while he was in their bodies; he could not command the animals to his will. In fact, it seemed more as though the animals were leaving their mark on him.
The older he got, the more these dreams seemed to affect his peace of mind in the waking world. He misliked the dreams where he was a wolf or a bear, bringing down deer and other such prey. There was no mercy in these animals; there was only a ruthless desire to eat. He could understand it, but he did not like it. He had felt too much of a deer's panic as it had desperately run for its life.
Worst of all were the dreams where he slew men. They came with weapons and fire, or else they wandered where they did not belong, and didn't know it until it was too late. He slew them in defence of his own life, in defence of his cubs, out of hunger, or simply because they were there, and he'd long ago learned to hate and fear those who walked upright on two legs.
"Are you sure?" Andrew's eyes were wide with alarm. "Shall we get Father?"
How? He's been dead for years. "I will get something to help me sleep," Cayn said as he hastily got dressed. The others said nothing as he left them. He couldn't recall how many times they'd heard him scream like that, but it never failed to leave them aghast, staring at him as if he were some kind of monster.
He could not tell what time it was; it might have been the hour of the owl or the wolf, but there was still plenty of torchlight within Maegor's Holdfast. He knew that the maesters would be asleep, so he did not bother to try finding them. Even if they were awake, he had little wish to ask anything from them.
He thought of finding Lord Titus, but he knew that the marcher lord would only be dismayed at his continued dreams. He feared them, even if he did not admit it. Much as Cayn loved and honoured his guardian, he was unwilling to bring this matter to him once again.
Sleepy-looking guards stood by or paced the hallways. After one of them gave him a suspicious glance and several intrusive questions, Cayn avoided the rest so that he could restlessly wander in peace.
There were no answers to be found skirting armed men and traipsing along hallways. Cayn found that his feet were taking him in the direction of the drawbridge. He wanted to leave the castle, but he worried what might happen if he attempted it at this hour of the night.
As per tradition when the king and his family were asleep in the holdfast, there was a knight of the Kingsguard keeping vigil at the drawbridge. Cayn had been with Lord Titus long enough that he could identify all the Kingsguard by name and sight.
This time, it was Ser Donnel of Duskendale who stood guard over the holdfast's only entrance and exit. He was one of the older knights - past forty at least - but he was still hale and healthy.
"Hullo, lad," he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"I can't sleep. I need to see the maester," Cayn answered, once again telling truth and lie with equal sincerity.
After Ser Donnel ordered the drawbridge lowered, Cayn passed into the Red Keep and made his way towards the godswood.
It was a cool autumn night, but while most southrons might have shivered from the cold, Cayn was unaffected. He had survived his first winter in the North before Lord Titus had found him. All the same, he still carried his fur cloak under one arm as he stepped outside and approached the godswood across the castle grounds.
There was no wind in the godswood. The trees grew thickly there, older and thicker than most forests which Cayn had seen in his short life. Moss covered much of the trees' bark, and sounds seemed to be muffled as he plodded deeper into the wood.
He had been here many times before, and could have made this trek with his eyes closed. It disappointed him that there was no weirwood at the centre of this godswood. Instead, the heart tree was a massive oak, bigger than any of the trees around it.
As always, Cayn knelt silently before the tree and bowed his head. He prayed to the gods for help, for relief, and for guidance. But his silent prayer was answered with silence in kind, as always.
Still, he was not disheartened. The Andal gods were no less silent than his own, after all. No matter how many grand septs were built, no matter how many fine statues were carved or forged, no matter how many songs were sung, the Andals would never make their gods speak to them. We give our gods the trees, and that is all they require. We honour the woods from whence they come, and whence they still dwell.
Eventually, he grew weary again, but he was loath to leave this sanctuary. Finding a patch of soft grass, Cayn pulled the fur coat over him like a blanket. It had been made of bearskin, purchased at great cost by Lord Titus when they were last in the North two years ago. It was still too big for Cayn to wear properly, but he was still growing.
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"The old gods always draw us back."
Cayn awoke with a start.
He was still in the godswood, lying where he'd fallen asleep. He was hot and clammy beneath the fur coat, so he flung it off his shoulders and sat upright.
A thin man was kneeling before the false heart tree, with his back to Cayn. He was dressed in a mix of scarlet and mottled grey. His head was hooded, concealing his appearance. All the same, Cayn knew exactly who he was; he recognised that cold voice, as well as his figure. This was the man whom they called Bloodraven.
Cayn tried to curb his shock, but he had already put hand on the dagger at this belt. "How long have you been here?"
"Not so long as you," the man replied. His voice was calm, but not without some hint of amusement.
"What hour is it, milord?"
"It will soon be dawn," came the answer without so much as a glance in Cayn's direction.
Cayn stood up, still holding the hilt of his dagger. Lord Titus had always warned him to avoid this man, but what was he to do now? He owed Lord Bloodraven courtesy and respect due to his title, and he was certainly not going to try and slay him where he knelt. He looked to the heart tree, as if it might offer him guidance, but even if it had been a true weirwood, the tree would not have given him what he sought.
"So," Bloodraven drawled as he remained kneeling. "What brings you to the godswood at such an hour?"
Cayn shuddered. He was hesitant to answer that question with an honest answer, but he was not so foolish as to tell an outright lie to Bloodraven. He had heard too many stories about the Master of Whisperers.
"A bad dream, milord," Cayn replied.
"Indeed?" Bloodraven turned his head so that his one red eye was looking back at Cayn. "What sort of animal were you this time?"
Cayn froze.
Bloodraven smiled. "Fear not, Cayn. There is no shame in your talent, save that of those who do not have it."
When Cayn made no reply, Bloodraven's smile faded. "You mistrust me. I understand the impulse, of course. I can only imagine what your benefactor has said of me."
"He is a good man," Cayn snapped, stung into replying.
Bloodraven smiled again. "The older I get, the more I realise the meaninglessness of that word." He turned back to the heart tree. "Try it yourself. Define the words 'good' and 'bad' for me."
Cayn opened his mouth to speak, but the words did not come to him. Whether it was because Bloodraven was right, or because Cayn could not think properly, he closed his mouth again, feeling embarrassed.
A soft chuckle left Bloodraven's body as he shook his head. "Right and wrong can at least indicate what is correct and incorrect. Good and bad have no true definitions. They can mean whatever you decide them to mean. Was it bad of me to slay Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows? Was it good to spare the lives of countless men with such an action?"
Does he mean for me to answer? Cayn tried to recall why Lord Titus had wished him to avoid this man. And yet, he could not help but recall how his mother had wailed when Jeor the blacksmith had returned north with news of Da's death. He had wept so many days after that, cursing the Blackfyres for what they had done. How could he hate a man who slew the Black Dragon? How could Lord Titus expect him to hate such a man?
"Likewise," Bloodraven continued, "what makes your dreams bad? Feel free to speak plainly before me. I swear by this heart tree and all others still standing that I will not betray your secrets."
Cayn shuddered. "I was killed. I felt death as it happened." I've also killed. I've felt the joy of killing.
Bloodraven paused for a moment, as if in thought. "That is understandable. It was a shock to me when I died my first death."
"You…" Cayn stared in astonishment. "You too, milord?"
Bloodraven slowly stood up and turned to face him fully. "Did you think you were the only one? Have you heard nothing of wargs and skinchangers?"
Cayn shook his head, feeling abashed.
"I suppose that cannot be helped," Bloodraven remarked. "I doubt Lord Titus would have known much of those things, and even if he did, he would have wanted to hide it from you."
"Hide it?" Cayn shook his head. "He is not ashamed of me! He would give me his name if I asked for it!"
"No doubt, no doubt," Bloodraven's tone was gentle, utterly bereft of scorn. "I believe you, Cayn. You must forgive me, I misspoke before. I doubt very much that Lord Titus wishes you ill, nor that he wishes to have that gift for himself. I am saying that he would hide it from you out of his own sense of what is 'good.' But the truth is that he is an Andal, and he fears that which the Faith cannot explain."
Once again, Cayn felt himself bristling at this dismissal of Lord Titus. "What are you, then?"
Bloodraven spread his arms apart, palms open towards Cayn. "I am no Andal. My father was Valyrian, and his family chose to embrace the Faith simply because it served to ingratiate the conquered to their banner. My mother was a Blackwood, and we have long held true to the old gods."
Wonder took Cayn. How had he not known Lord Bloodraven's ancestry? He had known about the Blackwoods, of course, and he had been amazed by the massive weirwood which grew in their castle. They were one of the few noble houses south of the Neck that openly eschewed the Faith in favour of the old gods.
Ever since he'd gone south with Lord Titus, men and women had judged him for his worship of the old gods. Some were more obvious than others; he knew that Miru had begun to avoid him after she'd learned of his devotion to the old gods. He did not blame her; she was a terrified little girl who clung to the Faith as if it was a piece of driftwood in a lake. But he could not shake off resentment so easily when it came from grown men and women.
All the same, he would not allow himself to think ill of Lord Titus and his fellow wards. "The dawn is breaking, milord," he spoke. "And I must attend my master."
Much to his surprise, Bloodraven seemed completely agreeable to this. "Very admirable of you, Cayn. I have known your master since I was your age, and I know that he is proud to have such a loyal squire by his side."
Cayn gave a respectful nod, and was about to turn away when Bloodraven spoke again.
"If you ever wish to have better control over those dreams, and to understand them, then feel free to seek me out at your leisure. I doubt very much that Lord Titus would object to you learning about your faith and your heritage, after all."
A queer feeling came over Cayn as he tried to envision just what Lord Titus would say to that proposition. Involuntarily, he felt a jab of resentment, for Bloodraven proposed something for which he had always longed. Here was the first man who had ever seemed capable of giving him the answers he sought, and now Lord Titus seemed to stand between them.
The feeling did not pass when he walked out of the godswood, and though he tried to expel the unworthy feeling from his mind, and reproached himself for ever thinking ill of his master, it did not fully leave him. Like a tooth which occasionally ached without warning or reason, the meeting could not be forgotten or ignored indefinitely, and nor did he fully wish to forget it.