Titus
Titus sat beside Baelon, staring numbly at his friend's broken body. He couldn't muster any tears; he felt insentient, just as he'd felt after the first time he'd killed someone in battle.
The surviving pikemen were fleeing into the mountains, pursued by handfuls of Targaryen troops. Titus might have called them off, ordered to regroup, but he sat where he was in silence.
After Royce departed for the valley, his remaining forces advanced on Titus' troops. The fight had begun again, quickly spiraling into a slow, grueling grind where men either lunged with their weapons or else crouched behind their shields.
As both sides clashed, Cayn had begun to scream so loudly that Titus could hear him over the sounds of battle. It had been the trumpets which had saved them. The echoes had burst from the valley with such force that the battle in the mountains was halted. It hadn't taken long for either side to realise what those trumpets meant.
The pikemen had been dismayed by that sound, fearing rout and defeat. Titus and his fighters had pressed forward, desperate to break their foes when they faltered. Many more had fallen, but their aim was achieved.
Since then, he'd still been too disoriented to do anything but lie down and stare listlessly. Maric's injuries had been treated, and he was quickly recovering. With little else for him to do for his squires, Titus had sat down beside his former friend.
Victory was no reason to be cheered. Titus had lost all but a handful of the men who had served him for the last several years. Baelon's loss was the worst.
He thought of when he'd first met the boisterous man. He'd been the last of their friends to become a ward of Lord Tarly. The same day of Baelon's arrival, Titus was supposed to face him in the training yard of Horn Hill. Ser Danel Benoff had taken the young Titus aside before training and ordered him to beat Baelon bloody.
"Ser Lomas warned us about you," Benoff had rasped. "If you don't follow orders, I'll have someone sheer that ginger head of yours, and only after Baelon gives you a broken nose."
Titus did not doubt that Benoff had told something similar to Baelon, and so the fight had been a ferocious one. Even at that age, Baelon had been burly and strong. Not as skilled or adept as Willem Wylde, but he could brook far more punishment. Titus had made sure of that, but it had still been he who was knocked down first.
Baelon had surprised him then, and infuriated Benoff. Instead of pressing the attack, as Benoff ordered, he'd dropped his wooden sword and pulled Titus back to his feet.
"Are you a knight or a coward?" Baelon demanded of Benoff. Titus had laughed brazenly at those words.
Both not only had their heads shaved, but Benoff forced each to lash the other's back with a whip. If he'd thought it would drive a wedge between the boys, he couldn't have been more wrong.
Baelon had quickly befriended Titus, Maegor Toyne, Willem Wylde, and Orys Trant. The five of them had cheerfully made mischief for their hated hosts, until Benoff's predatory attack upon Willem. Baelon had never known which of their friends had poisoned Benoff, but he, too, had chosen a disgraceful dismissal in solidarity with the others.
"We thought that was it," Titus murmured, speaking to a corpse just as Baelon had done with Orys Trant when they'd brought his bones back home. "Remember that, Baelon? We thought nothing could be worse than that. Anything else in our lives would be easy, even war." What stupid little boys we were.
War had certainly seemed easy to a man like Baelon. He had endured half a dozen injuries during the Blackfyre Rebellion, revelling in the simplicities of life whilst shunning its complexities. Fighting was simple, and Baelon made himself good at it, almost as good as Willem. Titus had always thought Baelon would outlast them all, and he very nearly had. He might very well have done, if he hadn't put his trust in me.
"First Maegor," Titus brooded. "Then Orys. Now you." He looked down at Baelon and forced himself to close his eyes. Am I fated to outlive all my friends? Am I fated to bring about all their deaths?
"Lord Titus?"
Titus turned away from Baelon. "Yes?"
Ollo of Lannisport, freshly bandaged from the battle, stepped forward, holding Baelon's longaxe in both hands. "Your friend might be wanting this back."
Titus shook his head. "Nay. He has no more need of it." He stood up and put a hand on Ollo's shoulder. "He would have wanted you to keep it, if he'd seen how you carried yourself in battle.
Ollo gave a nod of gratitude, but his face was wary. "Something else, milord. It looks like the battle's all done below."
"Good," Titus remarked dryly. "We have been dancing to the song of death long enough." With any luck, the Vulture King is kneeling before Baldric, wrapped in chains. He looked about at the scattered survivors and called to a knight from Summerhall.
"Recall the others," Titus told him, "then we will make our descent. Bring the wounded with us."
The Targaryen knight acknowledged the orders, but he did not move. "What of the dead, Lord Titus?"
Titus sighed as he turned back to the corpses scattered across the plateau. He was loath to abandon his men where they lay, but he could see no easy way to bring them down the mountain.
Feeling sick, Titus kept his eyes away from the knight. "They will have to lie here, on this field of victory, until the others below can retrieve them."
The knight's jaws twisted beneath his beard, but he gave a nod.
Titus walked back amongst the dead, locating every one of his men that had met their death in this evil place. When he'd accounted for all of them, and closed their eyes as he'd done for Baelon, he drew his sword and gave them a shaky salute. "Friends," he declared, "soldiers, squires, sons. Men, every last one of you. Bravely did you live, and bitter is your departure. The world is a lesser place without you." The words were meaningless, for the dead couldn't hear them. Even if they could, Titus thought darkly, would they they not demand their lives back instead of empty gratitude? No wonder we choose to believe in gods.
He angrily sheathed his sword and went to organize the journey downhill.
"*"* "*"* "*"* "*"*
It took longer than Titus wished, but shorter than he feared.
A larger battlefield awaited him and his followers when they reached the valley. Thousands of Dondarrion and Caron men were piling hundreds of corpses together. Many were already digging graves to accommodate the dead.
Several men cried out when they saw the new arrivals. Titus held up a hand in greeting, trusting in his sigil to stay any sense of alarm.
The first to approach him was a man who was still ahorse. Cameron Bolt had already removed his armour, wearing only a tunic which was stained with sweat.
"Lord Titus," Cameron exclaimed. "You live! The day is gladder for it!"
Titus had no time for such sentiments. "We are the lucky ones," he replied. "We require assistance to bring our dead to a proper resting place."
Bolt seemed affronted for a moment, but he quickly nodded. "Of course, my lord."
Titus delegated his most able-bodied men to guide the others back to the plateau, then made his way back to the camp.
It was worse than he could have imagined in his darkest nightmares. The entire camp had been razed and ravaged. More corpses were being buried along the mountain trail which they had followed for what already felt like an eternity.
Lord Pearse Caron, like Bolt, was still on horseback as he oversaw the battle's aftermath. When he beheld Titus, he simply nodded.
Titus did not return the gesture. He had always loathed empty courtesies, and now he was too raw and crabbed to play the game. "Where is my son?"
Lord Caron frowned. "Which one was he?"
"Andrew," Titus called out, too impatient to speak with Caron any longer. "Andrew!" He heard Maric repeating the call behind him.
"Titus," a voice called.
Titus turned. Baldric and Manfred Dondarrion were approaching him. Like Caron and Bolt, they had already removed their armour. Titus had never seen either of them look so despondent before. "What happened?"
"The Vulture King," Baldric began. "It was Royce Storm all this time-"
"Aye," Titus interjected. "He revealed himself before he went to find you."
"You knew?" Manfred asked accusingly. "Where were you, then?"
Titus did not even hesitate. He lunged forward and seized his nephew by the front of his clothing. "Have a care how you speak to me, boy," he growled, even as his nose nearly touched Mandred's. "Where were you when Baelon Massey fell? Where were you when I watched my former squires impaled on pikes? What have you done on this Vulture Hunt?"
"Peace, Titus!" Baldric was not reproachful, nor was he affronted. He looked every bit as weary as Titus felt. "Forgive my son's words. It has been a terrible day for us. Kresimir is dead."
Surprise broke through Titus' wrath, and he released Manfred. He felt shame flushing his face, and he hated it. He still misliked how Manfred was looking at him. There is too bloody much of his mother in him.
All the same, he forced down his anger and spoke softly again. "You have my sympathies, Baldric."
Baldric nodded his head, but he seemed to only look more despondent. "And you have mine. For we have both lost sons today."
Realisation struck Titus harder than any blow in battle had ever done. He shook his head. "No," he protested.
Baldric sighed and gave another nod of his head.
"No!" Titus shouted the word, half in horror and half in fury. He could not stomach this new cause for grief. He also heard Maric softly weeping behind him.
Andrew had been on the brink of death when Titus had found him. Lying beside the corpse of his mother, Andrew was so skinny from hunger that Titus could carry him with one arm. He had wept to see the emaciated little boy calling feebly for his mother. Titus hadn't had the nerve to tell Andrew the truth for days, even as he ensured the boy ate and slept as often as the maester deemed appropriate.
After a week, the boy had approached Titus and asked him a question. "Are you my father?"
It was, as Titus would later realise, a sign of Andrew's propensity for bluntness. He had been stunned by the question at the time, but he'd answered as best he could. "I will be, if that is what you want."
Andrew had called him Father ever since. Titus had spent months -nay, years- dreading what sort of evil might befall Andrew, for he'd feared the curse of kinslaying on any offspring he might have.
He no longer believed in the gods, but the curse seemed to be real all the same.
"Where is he?" It was Cayn who spoke. His voice was hoarse with emotion. When Titus looked at him, he saw a frozen expression on the lad's face.
Baldric gestured to the smouldering remains of Titus' tent. "It is not a pleasant sight, I fear."
Titus found his voice again. "How did it happen?"
"I was not there," Baldric confessed. "Your man is standing guard. He will know."
Titus left Baldric behind for the tent, leading Ollo, Cayn, Alyn, Maric, and the six others of his guard who still lived.
The man was Ser Medgar Wayn. One arm was thickly bandaged, and there was a cut across his cheek which hadn't fully stopped bleeding.
After everything that he'd borne, every loss that he'd felt, the sight of Medgar sent a surge of relief washing over Titus. He hurried forward and put his hands on Medgar's shoulders.
"Lord Titus!" The young man arose shakily. "You live! Thank the gods!" Despite his joyful words, he seemed half fearful that Titus had survived.
At his feet were two shrouded figures. One was half the size of the other. Titus regarded them wordlessly. His relief and joy left him as quickly as a candle dropped into the sea. "What happened?"
"Lord…" When Titus looked at him again, Medgar's face was contorted with shame. "I couldn't save them. I swear upon the gods, I did all I could…"
Titus shook his head impatiently. "I believe you, lad. I just want the truth of it."
Medgar gave a shaky sigh. "Baldric's host went into the valley to find the Vulture King. We heard sounds of battle, and we were on guard. But then a host of men came back from the valley. We thought they were the men from Branston Straw's command. Royce Storm was leading them."
"Of course." Titus turned and spat upon the rocks.
"They hailed us," Medgar continued in a subdued voice. "Said they had wounded men. We let them pass our barricade. Lord Baldric's son Kresimir and that other squire - Colby, I think - they approached Royce for word on Lord Baldric. He cut them both down right there, in front of our eyes." Medgar shuddered, looking to be on the verge of tears.
Royce, you evil cunt, Titus thought, aghast. How do you believe yourself to be so righteous that you can murder a boy? Your own kinsman? Then he recalled his own sins and felt doubly sour.
"Criston and I went to find Andrew," Medgar went on. "All the while, Royce and his men were burning everything… slaying everyone they could… Criston fell before we found the lad. Took a blow for me whilst I was fighting. Saved my bloody life." His voice broke as he said the last four words.
Titus embraced the young knight as he struggled to compose himself. Medgar and Criston had always been at odds due to their families' opposing loyalties during the Blackfyre rebellion. He'd begun to think that they would never put those differences aside.
After a moment, Titus let him go. Medgar cuffed at his eyes and spoke again. "Regretfully, my lord, Andrew was already slain when I found him."
"Did Royce do that too?" Titus' voice was grim with grief. When he and I meet again…
"Nay, lord," Medgar replied. "It was that bloody dog who did it. His dog." His eyes flickered to glance over Titus' shoulder.
Taken aback, Titus turned to look at Cayn, whose expression was horror-struck.
"That hound went bloody mad," Medgar continued bitterly. "Barking and snarling with the boy's blood on her snout. She was savaging our wounded, like she was on their side…" He might have gone on if it were not for someone loudly interrupting him.
"Why?" Maric stared accusingly at Cayn. "Why did you do it?"
"Maric," Titus called sharply. "Mind yourself!"
"It was Cayn, milord," Maric insisted. "He's a warg!"
Titus shuddered, recalling Cayn's previous talk of dreams, but he put on an air of innocence all the same. "What makes you say that?"
"It was his dog that killed Andrew," Maric cried out. "Cayn controls her! That's why she was so clever! That's why she howled when Cayn was screaming in his sleep! He screamed again on the plateau! I'll bet it was when that dog died, too!"
"No!" Cayn took a step backward. "That's not what happened!"
"He's got books," Maric shouted. "I saw them myself!"
Titus waved away Cayn's attempt at a protest and stared at Maric. "What do you mean?"
Maric turned and limped to the remains of their tent. Titus watched as the lad rooted around the rubble, then began to furiously dig into the soil with his good hand. Cayn lunged forward to try and stop him, only for Titus to grab his eldest ward by the shoulder and hold him in place.
Something was terribly wrong. He dreaded the answer to this disturbing riddle, but nor would he run from it.
"Here!" Maric pulled out a leather bag, shaking off the soil and grim which clung to it. "I've seen him reading these when he thinks he's alone," he explained as he held the bag out to Titus. "He buries them in the ground and sleeps on the dirt. He's been doing it this whole campaign!"
Cayn was more agitated than ever, but he seemed incapable of speech. Titus ignored him and reached into the bag and took out one of the books.
There were no illustrations that he could see from flipping the pages. When he stopped to read one, he was disturbed by the content. It was all about skinchanging, and how one could master it. But that was not the most shocking thing about these books.
"I recognise these letters," Titus observed quietly. Spent as he was from all that had occurred that terrible day, he felt himself growing fiercely wroth once more. Even after everything he'd endured that long day, this revelation was the cruellest one yet.
"Milord…" Cayn spoke in a pleading tone. He'd never sounded so vulnerable in a long time.
None of that mattered to Titus. He threw the book down and tore another one from the bag. The same hand had scrawled these instructions too, and Titus had been on the Small Council long enough to know whose hand this was.
He turned to face his eldest ward. "Is it true? You have been consulting with Brynden Rivers? All so you could become a skinchanger?"
Cayn was trembling, and his answer was spoken so softly that Titus scarcely heard it. "Yes, milord."
Such was the fey mood which seized Titus that he could not even breathe at first. Then he rushed forward and frenziedly grabbed Cayn by the scruff of his jerkin.
"You wretched traitor," Titus screamed. He struck Cayn across the face with his open hand, first one side then the other. Baelon always wished he could give him a clout. I was the one who stopped him. "You barbarous villain!"
His hand hurt, but he did not care. He continued to thrash Cayn across the face as the boy sobbed.
"Brynden Rivers? Of all the detestable beasts in all the fucking world? I will not have that vile demon's influence in mine own household," Titus roared. "You could never imagine the evil which he has done! Yet you see fit to become his pupil behind my back? " He shoved Cayn so hard that he fell flat on his arse. "And now look what your dabbling in sorcery has caused!" He gestured to Andrew's body.
Cayn stared up at Titus, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Tears were flowing down his cheeks, both of which were bright red from Titus' thrashing. He trembled where he lay upon the hard ground, as if he were too stunned to react. "It wasn't… I didn't do it…" he stammered.
Titus was too consumed by rage to ponder it. He turned, picked up Brynden Rivers' books, and threw them upon the fire. "Get you gone from my sight!"
Slowly, with shaking limbs, Cayn arose from the ground. He turned and stumbled away, disappearing amongst the smoking tents.
Titus was shaking too; he wanted Brynden Rivers before him so that he could beat him to death with his bare hands. He wanted all the Vulture King's forces so that he could cut them all down with Doom. But they had long gone, and he was left to bury all those men whom he'd lost.
"That was ill done, Lord Titus."
Alyn Garner was staring at him, but Titus was having none of that. He turned away and stormed off alone, leaving the others behind.
Titus barely saw anyone around him; he went on walking until he'd left the camp.
"All these years, I raised him like he was my own," Titus snarled aloud as he restlessly paced along the trail, "but no son of mine would ever dishonour me like this!"
Son… He recalled the sight of Andrew, his remains covered by a bloody cloth. He thought of Cayn's books, the way that they'd flared up in the fire and quickly smouldered into shades of black and grey. Black and grey, just like their creator.
Titus understood it all. For so many years, he had lived under the notion that the gods had cursed him. The Vulture King had put an end to that notion, but now he saw that the curse had been real all along.
"You spoke truly, Edgar," Titus murmured. "I am accursed." Not by the Seven, but by a man. It was he that told me of Ser Lomas' presence, who steered me down the path of revenge. It was he who manipulated me into confessing my own sins, so that I might be exiled. Now he has claimed a squire of mine for his own.
He suddenly halted mid-stride, frowning at his own thoughts. This was not the first time that Brynden had done this sort of thing to one of his squires. He'd never fully learned the truth about Clifford Straw, except that Brynden Rivers had had some sort of influence on him. It had appeared to be against Clifford's will, from the way he'd spoken of it. What happened to him, Titus wondered despairingly.
None of this was helping him. The past injuries against him continued to swirl in his mind, forcing him to go through more cycles of blaming Brynden, blaming his father, blaming Cassana, blaming Cayn, and blaming countless others in his life. But no matter how vehement he became, no matter how many fingers he pointed outward, he could not help but turn it back on himself every time.
Eventually, he saw how far he'd walked from the camp. With a curse, he reluctantly started back the way he'd come, trying to slow his breathing.
Someone had been following him. Ollo of Lannisport was using the longaxe as a walking stick to compensate for his injured leg. He showed no clear emotion on his face as he halted in his tracks and waited for Titus to reach him.
Titus was still seized by anger. "What now? Is there more grief for me to bear? Go on, then! Heap more logs upon this fire!"
"Just keeping an eye on you, milord," Ollo replied humbly. "Best not wander off too far in these parts."
Titus felt frustrated; he actually wanted to have another excuse to dispel the rage which was tearing him apart. But Ollo had been brave, and he had been loyal. Just like Alyn, Titus reminded himself, and he felt a surge of remorse which only made him angrier.
"Where are the boys?" He asked gruffly as the two men walked apace.
"Cayn is off on his own," Ollo answered. "Alyn's seeing to him. Medgar and the others are with Maric."
"Very well," Titus grumbled. "We'll keep Cayn with us for now. No sense in sending him away."
Ollo hesitated, then turned back to Titus. "Milord, he swears he didn't kill Andrew. And to tell you the truth, I believe him."
Titus frowned. "How do you explain that hound of his, then?"
Ollo shrugged. "I don't know, but I do know that Cayn had no cause to hurt that boy."
"Maric seemed quite convinced," Titus snapped. "And I know what sort of man Brynden Rivers is! As do you!"
"Aye," Ollo agreed. "Just as I knew you to be a just man."
Titus nearly put a hand on Doom's hilt. "Be careful, Ollo."
Ollo averted his eyes. "As you say."
The two men walked in a silence so heavy that Titus was quick to break it again. "Tell me true, Ollo. Do you still think that Daemon Blackfyre was the better man for kingship? Better than Daeron? Better than Baelor?"
The older man did not look at Titus, but his countenance became contemplative. "I used to be so sure of things. Like Daemon." Titus wondered whether Ollo was comparing himself to Daemon or if he meant that Daemon was a surety in his life.
"I first met Daemon Blackfyre years before the rebellion," Ollo mused. "He was in Lannisport for a tourney. Figured he would stay with those Lannisport Lannisters. Pack of snotty strawheads." That was slightly ironic, given Ollo's hair colour, but Titus did not interrupt. "Anyway, he stayed in a humble abode, with his family and all. Never saw a more gallant man. He was a proper knight, he was. Allowed any man to drink with him, and he was generous with his coin."
Titus shook his head. "You fought for him because he was gallant? Because he was a good man? Baelor is just as gallant and just as good."
"Maybe so," Ollo answered, "but I never met Baelor."
Titus sighed. "Was it worthwhile, then? All that bloodshed?"
"No, milord, it wasn't. But that don't change the way I remember Daemon Blackfyre. He was a good man, and the men I hated were against him. That's all I needed in those days."
"If only life was that simple," Titus drawled.
"Maybe it is. Out there, somewhere," Ollo mused.
An old thought returned to Titus, as if an echo were calling to him. He had rejected it for years, even feared it, but now he suddenly felt a yearning to take heed. No, he thought. Duty will not allow it.
"I felt sorry for Daemon," Titus spoke again, in an attempt to drive that old thought from his mind. "Brynden Rivers had confessed a terrible truth to me when the battle was over. He had orchestrated the war, just as much as Aegor Rivers had done. And Daemon had died for it. He lived a cursed life from the first day. Cursed with an evil father who set him on a dark path. Cursed by kin who despised him. Cursed by enemies who plotted his downfall." He spat again out of loathing. "Cursed to lead those loyal to him to an early grave." Those last words could only come out as a whisper, else they might have choked him.
He could feel Ollo's eyes upon him, but Titus kept his eyes averted; he did not trust his stormy emotions.
"I'm still here," Ollo declared. "Alyn is still here. Maric and Cayn are still here. And Miru awaits you in King's Landing with your sister. What happened here today was not a curse, it was war."
Titus had no idea what to say in response, so he held his tongue instead.
When they reached the outskirts of the camp, a man in Dondarrion livery approached him.
"Lord Titus," he said after a short bow. "Lord Baldric requests your presence."
"What is the matter?" Titus asked.
"War council, milord," came the reply. "We know where to find the Vulture King's lair."
Let everything else wait, then. To villainy and vengeance once more. Without so much as a glance at Ollo, he nodded to the messenger. "Lead me to him, and be quick about it."