Titus
After he learned of Cassana's plight, Titus had left the tourney. He'd first written a letter to his sister expressing his grief and condolences, delivered it to the rookery for Blackhaven, and then he had gone to find his son.
Jena had made the arrangements that day when the Redforts had confronted her. A cot had hastily been made up and placed in Titus' chambers. The wetnurse - a young and heavyset woman - was busy feeding the child when Titus entered the room.
"Please," he urged as she looked at him, "don't get up." His eyes fell upon the small bundle in her hands.
He was still wrapped in red and white swaddling clothes, as befitting a child of House Redfort. "There was no need to change them, milord," the wetnurse explained as he ran his hand over the fabric to see more of his child's head.
The babe was almost entirely bald; only a slight fringe of dark red hair clung to his scalp.
"Did they say when he was born?" Titus asked her.
"If they did, they didn't tell me, milord," the wetnurse replied. "My guess is the boy's only a month old, if that."
Titus nodded as he sat down in a chair. By the time he had returned to Westeros from exile, his children with Aliandra and Coryanne had already turned six years old. This was the first time that he saw one of his own children as a babe in arms.
As he sat silently, he thought of the boy's mother. He had presided over several court cases in the Eyrie, where Kyra was serving as a maid to Donnel Arryn's daughter. It had been a familiar story for Titus; his rank and his reputation were alluring to anyone who took both at face value. So it had been with Kyra. As for him, he'd been drawn to Kyra by not only her beauty, but also her experience with loss.
Kyra had been widowed twice by the time she was twenty. Her first husband, the heir to House Ruthermont, had gone north with Prince Baelor to resolve the Skagosi rebellion, where he met his end in the frigid sea. Her second husband, a knight who served Lord Redfort, had been involved in a hunting party which was ambushed and slaughtered by mountain clansmen. She had wept as she questioned Titus on her first husband, and Titus had comforted her with accounts he'd heard of how Simon Ruthermont had nobly defended the gangplank of his ship against Skagosi attackers, allowing others to escape slaughter. He was careful to omit the detail that the ship had later sunk with all on board.
Jena's admonishments had not been wrong. Titus had put Kyra out of his mind as soon as he'd left Redfort, blithely assuming that a cup of moon tea was the end of their dalliance. As the wetnurse held the babe in her arms and hummed a tune for him, Titus felt ashamed as he thought back to his conversation with Jena. Mayhaps she tried to find moon tea, mayhaps her father found out. Mayhaps the tea didn't work. Why did I assume that she had lied?
The bigger mystery, however, was the ease that she wanted to put Titus and the babe behind her. Even with scandal hanging over a bastard's birth, Titus had been puzzled why Kyra was so quick to abandon their child. She had adored her nieces and nephews, far as he could tell. He had assumed that she'd kept the babe to entrap Titus into marriage, but she did not seem to want him or their child. Why not? They can't have heard the rumours already.
"Milord?"
Titus was jolted out of his thoughts. "Yes?"
"He's had his fill. Did you want to hold him?"
Slowly, cautiously, Titus arose and walked over to the wetnurse. He felt a thrill of concern about how he was supposed to hold an infant without hurting it somehow. A few gentle words from the wetnurse assisted him, so that he was soon looking into the face of his son.
He had seen his share of infants, but this one seemed different. His son's forehead and jaw were prominent, while his nose was exceptionally small in proportion. Still, his eyes were a deep green colour, and his gurgles were the same as any other babe. He has time to grow into his own. Mayhaps that face will sort itself out when he's older.
Titus took the babe to his cot and slowly unwrapped the red ex and white cloth. For the first time, he beheld his son's body. The arms and legs were much shorter than he would have supposed. His stubby fingers were also arranged in a bizarre manner; the ring and middle fingers were pointing in opposite directions from each other. The babe almost seemed to have tridents for hands.
Gods be good… Titus turned to the wetnurse. "Did you know?"
"Know what, milord?"
He frowned at her confusion. "How many infants have you nursed?"
"Only five, milord," came the hesitant reply. "Why? What is the matter?"
Titus sighed and shook his head. "Nothing." He felt a strange urge to laugh. Ill-fated child, I said to Jena. The gods must have been roaring with laughter! Ill-fated indeed! "Forgive me, but what is your name?"
"Caris, milord." She still seemed nervous, so Titus gave her three copper groats from his purse to ease her mind.
Titus looked back down to his son, even as the babe stared up at him with those green eyes. "Of course," he remarked. "Of course the Redforts would not wish to see you again." Saying that out loud, to his son's face, prompted a wave of pity and remorse to wash over Titus. He picked up his son again and faced the wetnurse.
"He is a dwarf," Titus remarked to Caris as he allowed her to see his son's misshapen body.
Caris flinched at the sight of his son. "Milord, I did not know…"
The babe gave a soft cry, so Titus put his son down again and rewrapped his body for warmth. It did not ease the cries, however.
"Milord, he may need some assistance after feeding," Caris suggested. "I can take him."
Titus gave her the infant once more, even as he reflected on this answer to the riddle of the Redforts. Bad enough that they have a bastard to dispose of. What would folk say of Kyra if they knew she had birthed a dwarf?
After the babe had given a soft belch, Caris put him back down in the cot. "What will you do with him, milord?"
Titus thought of what other fathers might do when presented with such a deformed son. They might hurriedly send that son off to the Faith for holy training. Or perhaps it would be the Wall. A cruel man might even leave the babe to die in the wilderness. If he later claimed the child was carried off by some tragic illness, none would have questioned it.
As he looked down at his son, seeing his own eyes staring back at him, each of those options filled Titus with unutterable loathing and disgust. He had first thought that the gods were punishing him again, but as he thought of what his son would endure, he saw the truth of it. The gods are punishing my son because of my sins. It is my fault that he is the way he is. What sort of man could I be to abandon him now?
"What will I do?" Titus repeated. He turned to Caris. "He is my son. I am his father. There is nothing more to be said."
"Yes, milord," Caris replied, understandably surprised at his decision. It was a defiance, not only of her own expectations but also that of any sensible Westerosi. What will Lord Tyrell and all those pompous fools say about me now? The thought made Titus smirk.
Caris was not finished, however. "Pardon my asking, but does he have a name, milord?"
A name. Even before he'd finished writing that letter, Titus had been pondering what to name his son. He certainly wasn't going to name him after his father or his older brothers. He thought of Garrison, whom he had loved, and Garin, his first son, but he couldn't bear it. His son was cursed enough.
It also felt like ill luck to name his son after a living friend, so he thought of the ones who had died. Maegor Toyne had betrayed Titus, and then he had betrayed Maegor in turn. Both Maegor and Orys Trant had been slain by Bloodraven, the former for his Blackfyre sympathies and the latter for his affair with Shiera Seastar. He also slew both of them to torment me, Titus thought bitterly.
"I will tell you when I decide," Titus answered. "If you wish to eat or see the tourney, then do so now. I will stay here with him. Send my wards to my chambers, if you can find them."
Caris gave a curtsy and slipped out, even as Titus set up a chair beside his son's cot. He held out a finger for the babe to grab. It was not an easy feat for such a malformed hand, but Titus felt some little strength in his grip nonetheless. That alone was enough to make him weep.
After the babe fell asleep, Titus' mind continued to race. He wondered what he would say when the other children arrived. This felt like a considerable change. Is it, though? Does it have to be?
"Lord Titus?"
"Come in."
Miru, Barba, Maric, Sadog, and Andrew entered, one after another. They all stared at the sight of Titus and the babe in his cot.
Barba was the first to speak. "Another one, Lord Titus?"
"Yes," Titus replied. "This is your brother."
Slowly, individually, they approached the cot and looked at the infant, who slept so soundly that his breath was scarce to be heard.
"He looks strange," Andrew remarked, as tactlessly as ever.
"Of course he does," Titus japed, "he gets those looks from his father." Only Maric laughed, and it was short-lived. All five were soon paused in thought at what Titus had said.
Barba was the first to give voice to their puzzlement. There was a strange expression in her eyes. "Is he yours?"
Titus sat back. "He is of my blood, if that's what you mean."
Maric shifted uncomfortably where he stood. "He's not really our brother, is he?"
Titus looked back at the lad. "Why shouldn't he be?"
Barba shrugged. "It's true, isn't it? We're not of his blood. We don't have his name."
Titus stared at the girl in surprise. "Do you doubt my words?" His gaze shifted to each of the children. "Do any of you doubt my promise? I told you all that I would be what you wished me to be. Your lord, your benefactor, your protector, or your father. I said as much to Lady Leonette, and I say it again to you now. For anyone who wishes this, I will go to King Daeron and arrange it."
The children looked amongst each other, and back to Titus. They seemed bereft of words, as if they were unable to understand what was happening.
"You need not decide now," Titus assured them hurriedly. "I will arrange it whenever you decide. But does anyone wish it now?"
Andrew, the youngest of them save Miru, stepped forward. "I do, Father."
Titus put his hand on the boy's head and ruffled his hair. "So be it, then."
"And me," Sadog lifted the hand which was not holding his crutch.
Titus smiled as he put his other hand on Sadog's shoulder. "Done."
Barba, Maric, and Miru were less certain. They looked at each other, bewildered and diffident. To spare them the need to say something, and also to sate his own curiosity, Titus posed them a question. "Where is Cayn?"
"He went off on his own after the tourney," Barba replied.
Gods… the tourney… Cayn… Titus felt a jolt through his body. "How did he fare?"
"Not well," Maric answered dryly. "Fossoway knocked him flat on his back."
Titus sighed. "Pity. I'll have to find him later. I owe him an apology."
He sat back down beside the cot. The infant had awoken due to the noise, and now he stared at the children gathered around him.
"Hello, brother," Andrew told him, holding a finger out to him. The others were grinning as the babe resumed babbling at them.
Sadog looked up at Titus. "What's his name?"
A good question. "Well, I had one in mind, as it happens." Titus' mind raced as he tried to think of a plausible option. As he thought, his eyes wandered about the room, until he found himself looking at Miru.
She had not said a word since coming into the room. That was not abnormal for her; she was deeply withdrawn from the others. She did not like anyone touching her, with the only exception being Barba.
Inspiration struck him, as he recalled that terrible night when she had first met him. She had spoken of the family that she had lost. In particular, he recalled the look on her face when she'd identified the man who slew her brother.
He looked at the children. "I was thinking of naming him Matthias."
Maric shrugged his shoulders at the idea, Sadog and Andrew glanced appraisingly at the infant, as if this new name was like a prospective outfit.
Meanwhile, Miru's head snapped towards Titus, her wide eyes quickly filling up with tears. Before Titus could react, she bolted from the room. Gods… what have I done?
The boys looked after her in surprise. Barba knew better; she turned to look up at Titus with a knowing expression, which was quickly giving way to anger.
Titus shook his head. "I thought… if I knew she would not…"
"That was cruel," Barba protested. She had never spoken to him like that before, and Titus suddenly felt small in the face of this girl who was half his size. "Why would you do that?"
He sat down, stricken with remorse. "That was not my intent!"
Barba's expression did not change, but she said no more words to him. Instead, she hurried after Miru.
Titus looked down. As he sensed the eyes of the others upon him, Titus shut his own and bit his tongue in frustration. As if that poor girl did not have enough pain inside her… you bloody imbecile…
"Father?"
Titus looked up again at Sadog. Never before had he called Titus by that word.
He gestured to the babe, who was gripping Andrew's finger and gurgling as Andrew tickled one of his little feet. "We can look after him if you want to go speak to Miru."
Titus ruffled Sadog's hair; he was too diffident and embarrassed to convey the full feeling which Sadog's offer had inspired. "I doubt she will want to see me. I will see how she is at supper."
"Oi!"
Titus turned to Maric, who was staring at the babe in his cot. "What is it?"
"I dunno how to say it, Lord Titus," Maric remarked, "but I think your son's a dwarf!"
"*"*" """"**** "*"* "*"**"* "*"* *""* *""***"* *"* "*"* *""*
Later that evening, Miru did not emerge from her chamber. When Barba left the table with a plate of food, Titus did not stop her.
As with all the days of the tourney, King Daeron was putting on a feast in the Great Hall. As a member of the small council, Titus sat at the head table.
Thankfully, Daeron had been wise enough to place his Master of Laws on the opposite side of the table as his Master of Whispers. Unfortunately, the table was not long enough for Titus to avoid seeing Brynden Rivers.
He was dressed in blacks and greys, as was his wont. He'd grown his hair so that it spilled over one side of his face, concealing the hideous scar which Bittersteel had given him. The other side of his face was also marked; the blotch which had inspired his moniker stretched across his face and neck.
Loath though he was to admit anything favourable about the vile man known as Bloodraven, Titus could not deny that he had embraced airs more befitting a nobleman. Over the years, he had acquired a more refined and courtly speech, and - like Titus himself - had become comfortable in his seat of power. It only served to heighten Titus' animosity towards him.
Beside him sat his half-sister and lover, Shiera Seastar. Men declared that she was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, with her perfect skin, her refined features, her pale hair, and her mismatched eyes. Small wonder that Orys tried his luck.
He averted his gaze from them and looked at his nephew, who sat with his betrothed. There was little warmth from either of them; Kiera was a snobbish woman who had never forgiven Titus for serving as a mercenary, and Valarr had never warmed to him either.
Much as it irked him, Titus couldn't help but understand them both. The Tyroshi had always placed commerce and intellect over war, and looked down their noses at any man who made his livelihood from the end of a sword. As for Valarr, he had never even met his uncle before the Blackfyre Rebellion, and it was clear that the war had left a mark upon him. He was one of the few boys who had never once asked Titus to speak of his experiences. The prince did not look fondly on the past, but simply wished to forget it.
Ironically, Titus was relieved to be sitting across from Prince Maekar Targaryen and his family. Sullen and cold though Maekar was, there was still a mutual respect between Titus and the youngest of Daeron's sons.
The death of Dyanna Dayne had only deepened Maekar's gloom. Titus was careful not to speak of her to Maekar as they ate.
"I must apologise for my absence at the tourney," Titus told Maekar. "I would have liked to see your sons participate in the tourney." Both Daeron and Aerion were sitting close enough to hear Titus' words, but they gave no sign that they were listening.
As always, Maekar had no time for courtly courtesies. "You missed little enough, Lord Titus," he remarked gruffly. "Aerion fared well enough, but Daeron could use more instruction."
"We all could," Titus offered, pitying Maekar's eldest son. "I was not even knighted when I was his age."
"I was," Maekar retorted.
"Aye," Titus allowed, feeling foolish. Any other man might have angered him with this kind of talk, but Titus had great patience for any man who was burdened with such bereavement as Maekar.
"Still," Titus ventured, "you were tempered by war. A war that we fought so our children would not have to fight it themselves."
"You sound like my brother Baelor," Maekar observed. Titus could not be sure if it was a compliment or not, for Maekar had always envied and resented the Crown Prince. Even after "The Hammer and the Anvil" had been careful to acknowledge both brothers' roles in defeating Daemon Blackfyre, Maekar had still been overshadowed by Baelor's reputation. Even Brynden Rivers had gotten more of the credit than Maekar had.
Titus had no answer to that, so he took another bite of roast quail instead.
"Tell me," Maekar suddenly asked, "what drew you from the tourney?"
"My nephew has been murdered," Titus explained. "My sister and goodbrother denied us any details beyond that. Understandably so, to be sure. And I was also told of my son."
"Your son?" Maekar frowned. He knew full well that Titus was unmarried.
"Aye," Titus replied cautiously.
After a pause, the prince gave a shrug. "Mayhaps that is for the best. It is past time that you tried to make a new family of your own."
Titus felt stung, but he bit back his anger. The words, blunt though they were, had not been spoken maliciously. Maekar simply did not understand Titus' desire to take waifs into his household.
They were all seated at the table, two of them wearing the Dondarrion sigil on their clothes. Despite that, Titus marvelled that Daeron had allowed his wards to sit amongst his royal family. He suspected that it had been Myriah who was to be thanked for that generosity.
"I suppose that's what I've been doing," Titus answered. "Making a new family. Though I have little desire to wed again."
Maekar's face darkened, and his jaw twisted beneath his beard. For a moment, Titus fretted that he had spoken too carelessly, but then Maekar gave a long sigh.
"I suppose it never goes away, then?"
Titus hesitated, then shook his head. "It's a wound, to be sure. An old wound which flares up at odd intervals. You learn to live with it, but it will never fully heal."
Maekar's jaw twisted again. "My wound is not yet old. Nor do I feel as though it will be."
Titus said nothing to that. Thankfully, he was distracted by Andrew and Maric arguing over a piece of peppered boar.
Beside them, Cayn was tucking into a serving of salmon instead. Like the others, he had been surprised and guarded at the news of Titus' son. Titus had also told him that he'd adopted Sadog and Andrew, asking him if he too wished to take Titus' name. Cayn refused him once again, and had declined the chance to go see the babe for himself. Titus did not confront him on it; he still regretted that he hadn't watched Cayn's joust in the squire's tourney.
As the meal went on, Titus excused himself from the table. As he made his way to the privy, he sensed a pair of unfriendly eyes upon him.
When he turned, he saw a stout young man sitting at the end of a table. His doublet was blue, and bore the image of a hanged man in black.
"Lord Titus," the man declared when his gaze was returned.
Titus nodded. "And who might you be?"
"Lord Amos Trant." The man stood up and approached Titus. He did not raise his voice, nor was he armed, but Titus could not mistake the loathing which Amos felt for him.
He steeled himself to speak civilly. "I trust all is well in Dawncroft?"
The storm lord's grimace became even more malevolent. "We do not call my home by that name any longer. Since the war, it has become better known as Gallowsgrey."
Titus shuddered. The Trants' sigil was a hanged man, true enough, but ancient stories from history were not quite so painful as an atrocity committed ten years before. Titus had captured Dawncroft during the rebellion, betraying his old friend's family. Then he had abandoned the castle, leaving it in the hands of a cruel master. A dozen Trants had ended their lives hanging from their own tower before the war had ended.
"A suitable name," Titus replied, nodding to the sigil on Amos' chest. "If you have a grudge with me, mayhaps we can fight it out later? I must be on my way."
Amos' brow furrowed even more than it already had. "Tell me, is the state of the realm so corrupted that a man such as you can be appointed Master of Laws? Will my family receive any justice for what you did to them?"
"If you seek justice, you had best find Ser Humphrey of King's Mountain," Titus snapped. He did not wait for Amos to reply, walking out of the great hall towards the privy.
He felt foolish not knowing about Gallowsgrey, but it was his own fault. He had visited the Stormlands more than half a dozen times in the last ten years, but he had always avoided the home of House Trant. Just as he avoided Lemonwood in Dorne.
Sure enough, when he returned from his business in the privy, Titus could not help scanning the Great Hall for a sign of his former goodbrother. Ser Edgar Dalt might well have been there amongst those crowds, but Titus had not yet seen him.
He felt melancholic as he returned to the high table, recalling the Blackfyre Rebellion. No matter what he did, he could not escape the notion that it had solved nothing. The survivors of House Blackfyre were abroad, licking their wounds in Essos, rallying their own supporters in exile. Meanwhile, the Seven Kingdoms was still bitterly divided between the red and black dragons.
Titus had always tried to heal that rift. He'd refused to condemn men for their Blackfyre sympathies, so long as they committed no further treason. Baelor was of a similar mind, and Titus relished the day that he would take up his father's seat. Daeron was growing old, after all, and he had never had the nerve to dismiss Brynden Rivers from his council.
The man himself was absent from the table when Titus returned, but Shiera was still seated there. Before he could walk past her, she met his eyes and beckoned him to her with a smile. Much to Titus' reluctance, he approached her and sat lightly on an unused chair, preparing to walk away as soon as the owner reclaimed it.
"Lord Titus," Shiera spoke. "I heard that congratulations are in order!"
"Thank you," Titus remarked dryly. "I was beginning to wonder when someone would congratulate me on the death of my sister's son."
Anyone else might have been horrified, but Shiera's smile only widened. "I understand if you do not wish to discuss your son. It is not a thing that many men would feel proud of, after all."
"You mistake me, Lady Shiera," Titus retorted, furious with himself. "I have no shame for my son's condition. No more shame than if he'd been born an albino."
Shiera giggled. "You and Brynden deserve each other. Both of you so fixated on the other. I cannot help but wonder if there is some sort of desire beneath all that loathing."
Titus felt sick at the suggestion. Shiera was not to be outdone with shocking suggestions, and he saw that she was determined to get the last word in a battle of wits. "I believe you had a point to this invitation?"
"Simply that if you wanted something to be arranged for your son," Shiera offered, "I would be happy to arrange it for you."
"Most kind of you," Titus replied, "but I am more than capable of arranging my son's upbringing."
Shiera paused, looking at him in that strange manner, as if she were studying some animal that she'd never seen before. Titus was about to excuse himself, when she spoke again.
"I must admit, you do interest me, Lord Titus. All that lust for flesh, and yet not so much as a single glance in my direction?"
Titus grimaced. "I know the price for your pleasure, Lady Shiera. Only too well."
"Is that so?" Her blue and green eyes seemed to glitter with curiosity.
She was playing with him, Titus knew. He forced himself to stay calm and expressionless as he answered her teasing question. "My apologies. I should not have assumed that you would recall Orys Trant after ten years."
Shiera smiled. "You do me wrong, Lord Titus. I do not forget such names as easily as you. His time with me was short, but he was a good man."
"I'm glad you think so," Titus retorted. "And yet I cannot help but notice you seem to hold no grudge against his killer."
Shiera laughed. "I would not expect you to understand, Lord Titus. Orys was a good friend of yours, after all. A man once told me that true justice cannot be obtained through a man's friends or family. Perhaps you might agree with that."
"It was justice, then, what Brynden did?"
Shiera cocked her head to one side. "Justice is a strange thing, Lord Titus. I have never fully understood what it is supposed to mean, truth be told. Laws are broken all the time, by every manner of person. And when a just man such as yourself strives so hard to administer the laws, they make far more enemies than friends." Her smile seemed to become much more malevolent than before. "I suppose it must be frustrating for you, my lord, to deal with so many men who fail to meet your just standard."
Titus wanted to pick up a goblet and splash it in Shiera's face. Instead, gave her a thin smile as he stood up. "Pleasant as this is, I must go."
Shiera might have said something else, one final barb thrown his way, but it was lost in the tumult of thousands of conversations, the clutter of food and plates, the ever-present music being played in the corner, and the quantity of blood pounding in Titus' ears as he strove to restrain his temper.
He did not return to his seat at the table. Instead, he left the hall once more, only this time, he went in the direction of Maegor's Holdfast. He had tarried long enough; it was past time that he go make things right with his youngest ward.