Cayn

All his life, Cayn had tried to imagine what it would be like to fight in a war.

As a boy during the Blackfyre Rebellion, he had imagined marching side by side with Da, laughing as they went to war. That had been before he'd learned of Da's death. War had meant something else entirely after that.

Lord Titus was different. He had fought in the war and survived. He carried himself as a man of authority and power, one who had proved himself as a warrior and leader. Once, when Cayn had still been a boy, he'd asked Lord Titus why Da had died and he had survived.

"There is no answer to that," Lord Titus had answered. "None that will cheer your heart. War is chaos. It takes lives, worthy and unworthy alike. There is no sense or reason behind it, else you will have to ask the gods."

Cayn had done plenty of that; he'd spent years of his life despising the old gods for failing to protect Da, but then he'd recalled how the old gods' power had been broken south of the Neck. Only such houses as the Blackwoods were still faithful, which left Cayn all the more grateful for Lord Bloodraven's willingness to instruct him.

After all his imagining of what a campaign would be like, Cayn had been bitterly disappointed that Lord Bloodraven was unable to persuade Lord Titus to stay behind.

During their last meeting in the godswood before Cayn's departure, the Master of Whispers had been astute enough to sense Cayn's discontentment.

"You must not blame your master," Lord Bloodraven urged him. "He is doing what any man would do for his family, after all."

It was true, Cayn could see that, but it did nothing to appease him. He wanted to remain in King's Landing and harness his abilities. He wanted to learn more of the old gods, and the secrets of greenseeing. And he wanted to be able to do it openly, without needing to hide it from Lord Titus and the other wards.

"Why does he hate you so much?"

Lord Bloodraven had been surprised by the question. "Have you never asked him?"

"I have," Cayn replied. It was a lie; he'd never needed to ask Lord Titus why he despised Lord Bloodraven. Lord Titus had been quick to warn all his wards and squires to stay away from the Master of Whispers.

"And what did he say?"

Cayn might have hesitated then, but he no longer bothered to quibble over the path he'd chosen for himself. "He said you are a treacherous man, and a sorcerer besides. He said you think nothing of destroying lives if it gains you something. He calls you dangerous and evil."

He did not know how he expected Lord Bloodraven to react, but he was surprised nonetheless. The pale man folded his arms as he regarded Cayn with a thoughtful expression. "Why are you asking me, then?"

"I wanted to know your answer, milord."

Lord Bloodraven smiled. "I cannot speak for your master, but I suspect that he despises me because I do what must be done for the good of House Targaryen, and for the good of the realm."

Cayn frowned. "Lord Titus serves the realm too, and House Targaryen. Why are you not allies?"

"Men can serve the same master in different ways," Lord Bloodraven explained. "Lord Titus and I have always disagreed on how to deal with Daemon Blackfyre's former lickspittles, for example. I see that they plot together, planning their next rebellion, whilst Lord Titus welcomes them into his service."

That much was true. Cayn wished he could deny it, but it had always been a fact which he had suppressed. He hated men such as Hosteen Terrick, Ollo of Lannisport, Medgar Wayn. They always sat together, reminiscing on the Black Dragon. Hosteen and Medgar had been too young to fight, and they looked up to Ollo for his own service in the rebellion. Such sycophantic behaviour was disgusting to Cayn. Ollo had been a sailor and fisherman before and after the war. He had carried a fishhook and an axe during his time with Daemon Blackfyre. Cayn had seen him fight, and he reckoned he could defeat Ollo with one hand. But that didn't matter to Terrick and Medgar.

And yet, he had felt honour-bound to defend him anyway. "Lord Titus only takes those who bent the knee."

"Of course," Lord Bloodraven affirmed. "It is gallant of him to give such men a second chance. Foolhardy, perhaps, but gallant all the same. No doubt they are pleased to serve the man who spoke so eloquently for their dead pretender."

That had been a surprise. Cayn had frowned. "What do you mean?"

Lord Bloodraven had told him of how Lord Titus had marched across the Redgrass Field, stood by the body of Daemon Blackfyre and the bodies of his twin sons, and loudly hailed them for friend and foe to hear. He spoke of how Lord Titus had used the opportunity to insult those who had slain Daemon, and he spoke of how the Blackfyre prisoners had been heartened by those noble words.

The mere thought of Titus honouring the man who'd slain so many… he might call that forgiving a fallen foe, but Cayn would never forgive the men who'd taken Da from him.

"*"*"* "*"*" *"*"* "*"* "*"*"* "*"*" *"*" *"*" *"*" *"*" *"* "*"* "*" *"* "*" *"*"* "*"*" *

Thus, he'd been left to stew in a bitter quandary ever since his departure from King's Landing. He had carried out his duties as a squire, but he'd avoided interactions with Lord Titus whenever possible.

Such a stance was easier to take once they had left Blackhaven. Lord Titus became more withdrawn and melancholic, prone to a quicker temper than usual. It even caused Cayn to forget his own conflict as he wondered what had become of his master.

Maric and Andrew were no less aware of the change in Lord Titus. The confrontation in Nightsong jolted all of them, as did the night when Lord Titus had stumbled into his tent, clearly drunk.

"What happened?" Maric whispered to the others as their master snored through the sunrise. "What's become of him?"

"I've never seen him like this," Andrew murmured fearfully.

Cayn, who knew full well what Andrew had seen and endured from drunken men, put a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "I have."

"When?" Maric stared at Cayn with an incredulous expression. "I've never seen him drink."

"He stopped before he met you," Cayn retorted. "It was five years ago now."

Andrew was staring at Cayn too. "What was he like before that? How much would he drink?"

Cayn shrugged. "He was not a drunkard, not like that anyway." Not like the beast that Ma married. "He drank like Ser Baelon did, and usually with him."

Andrew's expression did not ease; he was not afraid of Ser Baelon, but he did not regard him well either. He was careful to respect him, for Lord Titus clearly did. He was not cruel, but he often threatened the boys with a clout over the ear if they misbehaved. Only Lord Titus' will kept him from carrying out that threat.

"If he's drinking again," Maric murmured, "do you suppose he'll change toward us?"

Cayn gave a firm shake of his head. "I doubt it. He never struck me those two years, not even when he was drunk."

The fear dimmed on the faces of Andrew and Maric, but it did not wholly leave their countenance.

Whatever was happening to Lord Titus, Cayn did find a new use for his newfound warging abilities. In Fyre's skin, he could freely travel the campsite whilst he slept, or whilst he feigned to sleep. His dog had been equipped with a fine collar before leaving King's Landing. Any man who saw that collar, inlaid with bronze, would know that the dog was no stray. Thus, Cayn watched over Lord Titus, keeping a close eye upon him. It had all been going well until Lord Titus had noticed him.

He'd patted Fyre's head with a bemused chuckle. "You know the way back, then?"

Any man could see that he was drunk. He would not recall what happened on this night, surely. But Cayn had seen how hatefully the bastard Dondarrion had glared after his master. It was Cayn's duty as a squire and ward to look after Lord Titus. Careful to make Fyre appear like an ordinary dog, he led his master back to his tent.

He could not sense what the other boys were doing around him; by the time he saw the candlelight flickering behind the tent flap, it was too late.

Andrew was still awake, and he'd always had a penchant for saying the wrong thing at the worst of times.

Just as Cayn had feared, Lord Titus' conduct was too much for Andrew, and his fears doubled after that night. Cayn tried to assure Andrew afterward, but the boy did not listen to reason.

The rift grew larger as the days dragged on. Andrew and Maric were both fearful of Lord Titus; only Cayn could recognise just how affected Lord Titus was by this turn of events.

And yet, for all his attempts to mend things, Cayn could not fully commit to his loyalty to Lord Titus. He could not forget Lord Bloodraven's claims; he had been warned that Lord Bloodraven was untrustworthy, but Lord Bloodraven had proved to be far more generous and kind than Cayn had been told. And he had, after all, avenged Da by ending the war alongside Lord Titus. Which of them is lying? Are they both lying?

He did not have the heart to give voice to these questions, so the thoughts rattled around inside his skull whenever he was awake. Skinchanging was a welcome escape from those concerns.

Due to the watchful presence of the Vulture King's followers, Cayn did not want to risk venturing too far from the camp, lest some archer should make a target out of Fyre. It was much easier to focus on those who were within the camp.

No man lowered his voice if he saw a dog; Cayn marvelled at how easily he could overhear conversations.

Much as it angered him to overhear Ollo's conversations with Hosteen Terrick and Medgar Wayn, he could not stop listening to them either. The latter two would beg him for more details of the Blackfyre Rebellion, and then speculate on the various rebels whom they clearly admired. Ollo indulged them, eager to tell stories as so many other sailors Cayn had met. If Lord Bloodraven could hear them, he'd have had them all executed for treason.

Eventually, as the days wore on without any sign of the enemy, Cayn began to grow bored of exploring the camp. The conversations grew increasingly dull and predictable. The Dondarrion bannermen were frustrated that they hadn't found the enemy, whilst the sellswords were happy to keep marching aimlessly so long as they were being paid. These contrary attitudes led to clashes, much to the fury of Lord Baldric and Lord Titus.

For his part, Cayn was disdainful of the sellswords, but nor was he especially friendly with those who served Lord Baldric. One relief was that most men saw him only as Lord Titus' squire, rather than an upjumped ward as he'd been in King's Landing.

Whilst all of this unfolded, Cayn's dreams had only become stranger. Thanks to Lord Bloodraven's instructions and advice, he had far more control of the beasts which he inhabited. More often than not, he found himself in the bodies of deer, elk, moose, even an aurochs on one occasion. These dreams were far more fascinating than his waking hours, and he wished that he could make further use of his abilities.

It was on the seventh day of the trek into the mountains that things changed considerably.

Ser Criston Lynderly had always been fascinated by birds of prey. Lord Titus had encouraged this interest when Criston was his squire alongside Cayn, just as he later approved of Fyre. By now, Ser Criston was an accomplished falconer. The latest of his birds was a long-winged peregrine that he called Warbeak.

Cayn had always been wary of Warbeak; her eyes had always seemed to blaze with an unfriendly air. Ser Criston had always claimed that Warbeak had never attacked anyone before, but Cayn hadn't trusted that assertion. Still, even he had to admit that Warbeak was a fine bird; she never returned from a hunt without something in her talons, and she was so tame that Ser Criston did not tether her. She might be gone for days, but she had - thus far - always returned to Ser Criston.

He might not have thought about it if it weren't for that day, when he and Lord Titus' other squires were sitting on their horses, weary from walking. Warbeak chose that moment to return to her master, descending upon Ser Criston with a piercing shriek. Cayn's horse, North, gave a frightened whinny at the sudden sound, and began to move in a panicked manner.

Fear seized Cayn; if North threw him, he might break bones, or even his neck. He'd seen the same happen to a hedge knight on the fifth day. The man had been too proud to walk, and when his horse had slipped and fallen down a short slope off the path, he had not risen from where he fell in a crumpled heap.

It happened almost by instinct. He saw through North's eyes once again. He maintained a measured breath as he bade the horse to halt where it stood.

It happened only for a short moment; he was soon back in his own body. At the same moment that he realised he was slumped over his horse's back, he realised that Andrew and Maric were calling his name.

"Are you well?" Maric was giving Cayn a puzzled look; Cayn could imagine why.

"I was calming North," Cayn explained, as if Maric was the strange one for being concerned. It's no lie, either.

"Whatever you did, it worked," Andrew quipped. "I thought North was going to throw you off!"

Cayn glanced at Ser Criston, who did not so much as look at the squires. Warbeak was perched on his forearm whilst he carefully stroked the falcon's wing with his hand.

As soon as the thought entered Cayn's mind, he cursed himself for being so thick-headed. How did I not think of this sooner?

"*"*"* "*" *"*" *"*" *"*"*" *"*"*" *"*"* "*"*"*"* "*"*"* "*"*" *"*"*" *"* "*"* "*"**

Ser Criston Lynderly did not keep Warbeak tethered. She was free to come and go as she pleased. She would not have been the first falcon to leave Ser Criston's side, nor would she be the first to take days to return.

Cayn wondered if he could do it. He and North had formed a bond before he'd tried to skinchange, and Fyre had been handpicked by Lord Bloodraven to assist him. If I can skinchange into other animals when I sleep, why shouldn't I be able to do the same with that falcon?

Cayn had taken several moments throughout the next two days to look at Warbeak, studying the details of her appearance. He'd even begged Ser Criston to let him feed her, so that she might become acquainted with him. On the second day, he had even tried putting a hand on her whilst feeding her with his other. The falcon had flinched, even glared at him with those terrible eyes, but she had not attacked.

All the details returned to him in the early evening as he lay on a rough blanket in Lord Titus' tent. The others were preparing supper, but he'd feigned weariness to go for a nap. Instead of sleeping, he recalled the curved beak which was yellow at the base and black at the tip. He recalled splotches of black all across her white belly. He recalled how black her eyes were, even against the black plumage of her head.

He didn't know how long he was lying there before it happened, but he suddenly found himself looking at a gloriously vibrant sky.

Colours were clearer than he'd ever seen before, and he could also see new colours which had no name. All his life, he'd heard expressions about the sharp-eyedness of birds, especially hawks and falcons, but nothing could have prepared him for this new way of seeing the world.

He did not need to think about flying; Warbeak's instincts took over as he willed her to take wing.

It was the most wondrous sensation of his life. The army shrank beneath him as he ascended into the mountains. He wanted to laugh aloud, but all that left him was the falcon's piercing cry. It seemed to echo against the Red Mountains as he flew yet higher.

Despite all this, Cayn sensed that something was different. His will was being tested, and he needed to focus on asserting his control over the animal. Warbeak is resisting me.

It surprised him to think that an animal would have the ability, much less the will, to protest the process. A pang of guilt went through him, but it was not enough to make him relinquish his hold on Warbeak.

No matter how high he flew, his vision was clear as day. The sky was already becoming purple, with a base of red forming to the west, but it was more than enough light for his purpose. He had a chance to find the Vulture King, wherever he was, to see for himself the foe whom they pursued.

He could not be sure which way Agripina meant to lead them, so he stuck to the path which she'd kept them on, for as long as it would go. He recalled what she had told Lord Titus and Lord Baldric about where they were going.

He did not know how long he flew, but the sun was setting fast. Yet he still saw no sign of the enemy, outside of several scouts moving amongst mountain passes far above the army.

Finally, he saw something promising; on top of a large plateau overlooking the same mountain pass that he'd been following, he saw a collection of tents and campfires.

Cayn willed the falcon to swoop downwards, only to halt the dive by slowly descending onto a rock formation beside the biggest tent.

It was still light enough that Cayn could make out every detail beneath him. Men of various hues were assembled, milling about the various fires as they laughed and swore and sang together. Cayn was surprised by their lack of discretion, until he recalled how far he'd flown, and how high up these men were from the pass. He tried counting their number, but he gave up after he passed two hundred.

Men were not being raucous about the largest fire. These men sat together and spoke more quietly. They were the best armoured and armed. Most wore mail and helmets, while a few had scraps of plate armour on. Others were also dressed in Dornish bronze which looked as if it had been plundered.

Cayn descended from the rock formation so that he was walking along the ground, as if scavenging for food. He wished that falcons' hearing was just as good as their eyesight.

Eventually, he could make out what the men were saying. Their features were clear by the light of the fire.

"How much longer, do you reckon?" It was a woman's voice that spoke, but Cayn could not see where she sat.

"A few days yet, I'll warrant." The man who answered her was one of the ugliest men that Cayn had ever seen. His hair was filthy and matted, his skin was grimy, his features were distorted, and a hideous goitre grew on his neck.

"Taking their time, are they?" The speaker appeared to be a salty Dornishman, lithe and handsome despite his ragged clothing and a long scar across his face.

The goitered man laughed unpleasantly. "They have some ways to go before we spring the trap."

"What about the other bunch?" Now Cayn realised who was speaking. She was bald, and her pale skin was covered with freckles. Although she was short and squat, she looked more formidable than the men who sat with her. "Still blundering about?"

"Aye, far as we saw. We'll deal with them in due time," answered another stony Dornishman. His hair and beard were the colour of gold, though the firelight made it seem orange.

The bald woman nodded before standing up to take a bite of the meat which they were roasting on a spit over the fire. Cayn had always known that Dornishwomen lived a different life than women did in the other six kingdoms, save maybe the Iron Isles and some parts of the North. But it still astonished him to see a woman who looked as if she could outfight any man who sat with her.

"And what about His Grace? Has anyone seen him yet?" She grinned as they laughed at her questions. Half her teeth were yellow and the other half were gone.

Her questions puzzled Cayn. He leaned forward to hear more, focusing on the woman. Where is the Vulture King?

"No word from him yet," the goitered man replied. "My lads are keeping their eyes open for him."

The salty Dornishman spat into the fire. "They should be keeping an eye open for that bloody bitch while they're at it." His hand went up to the scar on his face.

The bald woman sneered. "Is it that hour again already? Time for more griping, Yorick?"

Yorick glared at the bald woman, but said nothing as she turned to the others. "Come on now, everyone! Let's all weep for poor Yorick and that ruin of a face!"

The golden-haired man laughed, but the others were sullen and uncomfortable.

"That bitch is no laughing matter," one man remarked. Even though he was sitting down, it was clear to Cayn that he was taller than the others. "So long as she's alive, we can't sleep easy at night."

"No fault but yours," the golden-haired man remarked. "You lot should have killed her while you had the chance!"

"Better yet," the bald woman suddenly snapped. "They shouldn't have given her so many reasons to want us dead!"

"She would never have joined us," the tall man remarked. "If you'd been there, you-"

"Shhh!" The bald woman interrupted. A knife appeared in her hand so quickly that Cayn wondered if she'd always been carrying it. "Something is wrong."

The others were alarmed. They arose from where they sat, seizing weapons as they looked at the woman in silence.

The woman turned this way and that, lifting her face as if she were sniffing the breeze.

Cayn stared at her, intensely curious as to what she was looking for; he'd seen no sign of enemies approaching the plateau, and the number of guards posted would surely have noticed something long before this woman did.

Suddenly, she stopped and looked in his direction. He felt himself growing tense, and he willed Warbeak to give a chirp, cocking her head as he'd seen her do when staring at humans.

The bald woman suddenly looked past him. Her mouth opened and her voice hissed in alarm. "A spy!"

Impulsively, Cayn swiveled Warbeak's head to look behind him. There was nobody there. His confusion was brief, and his horrified realisation was briefer.

Something pierced him - nay, impaled him. He looked back, only to see the bald woman had thrown her knife at him. The dark handle was touching Warbeak's plumage, and the blade was sunk fully into his - her - chest. A wail of agony left him, even as the world went dark.

"Cayn!"

He was back in the tent. His body was slick with sweat, his throat was dry, and his breathing was ragged. Something long, soft, and slimy raked across his face. As he opened his eyes, he saw that it was Fyre, licking him as if she were trying to revive him.

Lord Titus and the other squires were standing around him, staring in shock. The former was holding Cayn's shoulder with his hand, gently but firmly.

"Cayn," Lord Titus spoke again. "Are you awake?"

"Aye," Cayn croaked. He put a hand to his chest, where the knife had sunk in. I died. Warbeak died.

"Just a dream, milord," he stammered. "Just a dream."

"Aye," Lord Titus replied. There was a strange expression on his face as he stood up again. "I will see if there is milk of the poppy for you."

"No, milord," Cayn insisted. "I don't need it."

Lord Titus hesitated, but gave a curt nod. "As you say." He turned and left the tent; Cayn heard him assuring others that all was well.

He turned to Maric and Andrew. "What happened?"

"You screamed," Andrew murmured, pale-faced and shuddering. "I've never heard anything like it. Almost like you were dying."

"Half the camp heard it," Maric added. He was not as shaken as Andrew, but his expression was worse; there was a suspicious look to his eye, which Cayn did not like at all. He turned to Fyre, holding her tightly as she licked his face.

"Your hound started to howl too," Maric continued. "Like a bloody wolf."

"Strange," Cayn remarked, feeling embarrassed as he feigned stupidity before the two boys. But his mind was racing as he thought of all he had seen and heard. Questions sprang up in his mind, but above them all was a terrifying realisation which slowly sunk in as he caught his breath.

The woman was a skinchanger. The Vulture King has a skinchanger on his side. It was a terrifying prospect, made all the more infuriating because he had no idea how to warn Lord Titus and the others.