Cayn
It was easy for Cayn to persuade the commander of the Targaryen host to take him to Summerhall. He was the eldest squire of Titus Dondarrion, after all, and the Targaryens knew full well how Lord Titus regarded his squires as his own sons. When he'd claimed that Titus had instructed him to send word to his sister in the capital, he had been given a horse without question.
When they reached Summerhall, Cayn had accompanied several others travelling to King's Landing with their report of what had happened. Nearly half their number had died, after all, and Prince Maekar would want to know of it as soon as possible.
All through his journey across the Stormlands, Cayn felt nervous in the others' company. He had claimed that he was sixteen, and the others hadn't questioned it. Still, he was intimidated by the others, and thus kept to himself as much as he could.
It was an easy journey; Summerhall had been constructed as a place of pleasure for House Targaryen, and thus they had arranged for a well-made road which connected with the roseroad in the Reach. From there, they'd ridden through the kingswood, up the kingsroad, until the smell of King's Landing filled his nostrils.
He'd never thought he'd be relieved to smell that gargantuan city. There had been times during the Vulture Hunt when he thought he'd never see it again.
It was almost as though he'd never left. The city dwellers carried on with their lives: they sold and bought wares, they stole, they ate, they drank, they offered their bodies or their swords for service. Cayn passed them all, determinedly keeping his eyes upon the Red Keep.
The journey to the capital had been a terrible one, filled with anxiety and anger which he'd struggled to keep to himself.
In his dreams, he still recalled those terrible moments of the campaign; he was sure that they would haunt him for the rest of his life, especially the worst three.
"*"* "*" *"*"* "*"* "*"*"*" *"*"*"* "*"*"* "*"*" *"*"* "*"*"*"* "*""* "*"*"*"*"*"*"*"*"*"
The first had occurred when the battle had begun atop the plateau. He had been knocked out cold by that mace, swung by a corpse. It hadn't really been a corpse, but he'd been too shocked to realise that.
He'd woken up inside of Fyre. At first, he'd been panicked, dreading what might happen to him or the others. He'd read in one of Lord Bloodraven's accounts that if a skinchanger died, they could transfer a part of themselves into a beast. It was known as a second life, according to him, but Cayn was not finished with his first one.
The army was on the move, with Andrew plodding along beside him. He could hear Ser Medgar and Ser Criston speaking to each other, repeating rumours that Lord Baldric was set to lead an attack upon the Vulture King in the valley.
Cayn had sensed a trap, but he was in no position to speak his mind about it. His curiosity kept him in Fyre's skin, observing as Lord Baldric's host set up camp. Hundreds of guards were assigned to guard their rear and the front, where the valley began. Then, Lord Baldric had marched out.
Fyre's ears were finer tuned than men's. Through her, Cayn could make out faint sounds of battle in the wind. We're right above them. How can they not hear us?
He attempted to warn Andrew, but the boy had been flummoxed by Fyre's antics. Medgar and Criston were little better; they were far more interested in joining those on guard.
Battle had been joined in the valley, alarming him yet further. There was some devilry at work. More than ever, he was determined to wait until he caught signs of the Vulture King's skinchanger, wherever she was.
At one point, he noticed that Lord Baldric's son, Geraint, had lost his entire hand. That had checked him; he hadn't expected that outcome. The wound must have gone bad. Still, he did not feel remorse. Geraint was an arrogant shitheel, like almost every other highborn boy Cayn had ever known.
He'd assumed that Kresimir had been the lucky one of the boys, until Royce Storm arrived from the valley at the head of two hundred men. The camp guards had assumed that Royce was a friend, until he'd cut Kresimir down in front of everyone. His men had fallen upon the stunned defenders.
They might yet have been repulsed if it weren't for archers appearing just above the camp on mountain ledges. They'd loosed arrows down at the confused Dondarrion camp, as well as fire arrows at the tents.
Andrew had fled, wailing with fear. Cayn had tried to stay close, ready to defend him with Fyre's life. He thought of going back to his own body to warn Lord Titus, but disaster had struck.
Someone else had entered Fyre. He'd grappled with this new entity, fighting it as best he could. It was the other skinchanger, it had to be. There was no other idea in Cayn's mind as he frantically tried to keep control. All the while, Fyre was howling with a voice that he'd never heard her use before.
It had hurt him in a way which he could not explain. It was pain which he could not feel in any part of his body. He could not feel it in his mind either, for it was Fyre's mind. All the while, he lost control of Fyre, trapped inside this consciousness without any ability to prevent which he saw play out.
He'd watched Andrew stare in horror, then scream in agony as Fyre had sunk her teeth into him. The boy had wailed for help, until Fyre's teeth had torn his throat to pieces. It was the worst sight which Cayn had ever seen, filling him with terror.
Fyre had leapt about, savaging others who were wounded by arrows or other weapons. She would have gone on to assist the Vulture King with his massacre if Ser Medgar had not returned to Andrew's side. Cayn had been forced to watch Fyre leap at Ser Medgar, biting his arm until his sword had disemboweled her.
Only then had he been released from this hellish imprisonment, but he'd awoken to another nightmare, surrounded by corpses. He could not have begun to imagine how he could explain what he'd endured, or what awaited Lord Titus when he returned to the camp.
He had not expected things to become worse, but when Maric had seen Andrew's shrouded body, he had turned on Cayn as nobody had done before.
Then it was Lord Titus who had turned on him. Cayn had never dreamed that his master would strike him, let alone look at him with such fury and loathing that had rendered his face into an ugly mask which horrified him anew. He'd barely been able to protest, for Lord Titus would hear none of it. All he could do after that dreadful tirade was weep, with only Ser Alyn standing by him to ensure that he was safe.
He'd hidden away from the others, keeping to himself, feeling utterly miserable. He hadn't bade Lord Titus farewell when he'd departed for the Vulture King's lair, nor had Lord Titus sought him out. He is finished with me, he'd realised. He will send me away in disgrace. After all these years.
That thought had reduced him to agonised tears. Not since he'd been driven out of his home in the North had he felt such isolating excruciation.
Maric was still wounded, and he kept his distance from Cayn. Ser Medgar and the others gave him the cold shoulder as well. Only Ser Alyn attempted to be kind, but Cayn knew Alyn for Titus' man through and through, so he didn't trust him.
Lord Bloodraven was right after all, he thought more than once as the wounded slowly healed. Titus was just another Andal, as were Maric and the rest. They all fear me for my skills, they think me a monster who feels no love or loyalty. They treat me as if I were less than a beast. Am i not the same as always? By what bloody right do they judge me or Lord Bloodraven? Medgar's family helped slay countless good men of the realm. Alyn's ancestors fled Westeros to be mercenaries. Why should Titus despise Bloodraven? For killing Daemon Blackfyre? For protecting the realm? For being of the First Men?
It felt better than self-pity and grief. Anger and hatred were weapons whose power he knew only too well. Why should he be ashamed? He had done nothing to deserve the punishment he'd received. Titus had always called himself a just man, one who treated men fairly. It was all fine and good for him to help a former Blackfyre - nay, a loyal Blackfyre - like Ollo of fucking Lannisport, but he had not wasted a second to denounce his own squire, someone who he had once urged to look at him as a father if he would.
Mayhaps that's it, Cayn thought amidst his days of brooding. Mayhaps he mourns for the one who called him Father. Would he have given me a chance if I'd pretended he was man enough to replace my Da?
He'd continued to go down these dark paths in his mind, even as the contingent had begun to march out of the Red Mountains.
It was easier than the path which they'd first taken, but it was not without tribulations. The wounded might have been fit to travel, but that did not mean that they had recovered. Many were forced to sit in the few carts which remained to the contingent. They could only move as fast as the wheels would turn, and the going was slow.
Many grew impatient, and departed early. Many of the Carons were still horsed, and they began to depart for their lands. They would spread word of victory, they claimed, but Cayn could tell what their true intentions were.
One of these was Maric, but the boy had always been impatient. It was not long before he began to disembark from the wagon to limp along for stretches at a time. Ser Alyn Garner and the others warned him of such reckless behaviour, but the wagons were overcrowded as they were.
Ever since Andrew's death, Maric had continued to snub Cayn, except when he looked upon him with suspicion and loathing. Cayn had been devastated at first, but by the second day of their travels out of the Red Mountains, he returned the resentful glares with his own.
He could not stay silent either. One day, as the contingent rested, he followed Maric on his restless wanderings, as he was wont to do when he was not staying on the wagon.
Cayn followed him, unnoticed by the others. Ser Medgar and the others were still wounded, and Ser Alyn had taken up a leadership role of the contingent in Lord Titus' absence.
Maric did not hear his approach at first. He had slowly stumbled his way up a slope to view the pathway ahead of them. He turned when Cayn's boot sent several pebbles clattering over the rocky ground.
There was only fear and anger in his eyes when he looked upon Cayn. Cayn thought of how many times he'd looked after the lad, treated him as a younger brother moreso than a friend. Have you forgotten all of that?
"What do you want?"
Cayn glared at Maric as he approached more slowly. "I didn't kill Andrew."
Maric gave no reaction to that claim.
"Does my word mean nothing to you anymore?"
"Why should it?" Maric spat at Cayn's feet. "You've got the mark of the beast on you. I know the stories of your kind."
"My kind?" Cayn's hands were fists, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. "I'm not a monster, Maric."
"It's evil what you do," Maric snapped. "You have the mark of the beast upon you!"
It was always this way with Andals, Cayn thought to himself. He had always disliked their faith, just as he'd always disliked their pompous customs and arrogant ways. But ever since that terrible day, those feelings had been warped, turned to loathing.
"You betrayed me," Cayn snapped, stepping forward. "You never gave me a chance to explain what happened!"
"Get away from me!" Maric was trying to back away, but his position was clumsy, and he'd been too impatient for his body to heal. "Stay back!"
"Or what?" Cayn took another step. "What else will you do to me?"
Maric suddenly bent down. Before Cayn could question it, the younger boy rose up again with a sharp-pointed rock in his right hand. He cried out in anger as he flung it straight for Cayn's face.
He missed his mark; Maric's arm was still weak, just like his left leg. The rock did not strike Cayn on the face. Instead, it slammed into his chest. His clothing blunted the stone's edge, but the force was enough to provoke a cry of pain.
Furious, Cayn lunged forward and smote Maric. "I hate you!" He did not use an open hand like Titus had done. Nor did he aim for Maric's face. He had learned long ago, scrapping with other waifs on the streets of White Harbour, that punching someone in the face could lead to a broken fist, depending on where the punch landed. Instead, Cayn's fist landed on the side of Maric's neck, knowing he would feel it for weeks.
Maric wailed in agony, but only for a moment. Cayn had underestimated how stable he stood on his feet. For one instant, he was reeling to the side, and the next, he'd tumbled down the small slope which he'd climbed.
Cayn stared in shock as he watched Maric soundlessly crumple in a heap amongst the larger rocks. His wrath gave way to horror at what he'd done. Now it was he who screamed for aid from those in camp.
Men had hurried over and picked up the badly injured Maric, even as Cayn had frantically claimed how he'd seen Maric lose his footing and fall down. The men did not ask how it had occurred; Maric had been prone to wandering before, and such was Cayn's panic that none seemed to suspect him.
For his part, Cayn was filled with guilt and terror at what had happened. He knew that when Maric awoke, he would name Cayn as his attacker rather than his saviour. Even after the maester called Brome declared that Maric would surely die, that his injuries were too serious, the torment did not cease.
He was still unable to remove the sight of Maric's broken body from his mind when he approached the Targaryen host as it was about to depart. Slowly, over the long journey, he recalled how Maric had betrayed him first, how he had attacked him with a rock. Suppose he meant to kill me? What if he had done so? Would he have been dismayed and ashamed? Would he have thought it right to slay a beast like me?
Since he would never be able to answer those questions, Cayn eventually reasoned, it might be better to bury them along with Maric.
"*"*"* "*"* "*"* "*"*" *""*"*"* "*"*"*" "*"*"* "*"*"*"* "**"*"* "*"*"* "*"*" *"*"*"*"* "*"*"*"* *"*"**
Once he'd arrived at the Red Keep, he split off from the Targaryen troops as quickly and quietly as he could. He did not know where to find Lord Bloodraven, but he knew where Lord Bloodraven could easily find him.
He almost wept to walk beneath a godswood again. It had been so long since he'd first met Lord Bloodraven beneath the bowers, since he'd first learned what he truly was, since he'd formed a bond with Fyre. Now the hound was dead, and all his other bonds were permanently severed.
He knelt before the heart tree and prayed. He prayed to the old gods - the true gods - for deliverance. He prayed for their protection, as he'd done all his life.
Time lost all meaning within the godswood; he did not know how long he was kneeling there before that familiar voice rang out.
"So, you have come back."
Cayn whipped around; there was a time when the mere sight of the Master of Whispers would have filled him with an uneasy dread. But now, the sight of him was a relief that he hadn't felt in a long time.
"Milord." He stood up with alacrity, unsure of what to expect.
Lord Bloodraven regarded him curiously. "You have a strange look about you, lad. What happened to you in those cursed mountains?"
His story spilled out of him as they stood before the heart tree. For almost the entirety of that time, Lord Bloodraven was a thoughtful and courteous listener, asking only a few questions.
Cayn could not help but feel dread over what Lord Bloodraven would say of Titus' destruction of his books. Much to his surprise, the pale lord simply smiled.
"As I suspected," he said with a humourless chuckle. "He need not have bothered. I would not have given mine only copies to you if I thought he might discover them."
Cayn was relieved at that, but he still felt obliged to beg the man's pardon. "I did my best to hide them, milord. I was betrayed."
"No doubt. And I'm sure that betrayal was amply rewarded."
Cayn felt a shudder go through his body, but he gave no answer to that.
"Truth be told," Lord Bloodraven mused, "I almost pity the man. Men and women sing songs of my rivalry with Bittersteel. Lord Titus will never attain even that dubious honour."
Cayn grinned in response to Lord Bloodraven's observation.
"And now you are here," Lord Bloodraven observed. "It would seem that you have left Lord Titus' service, is that the way of it?"
Cayn nodded resolutely. "I have, but I don't know if he knows it yet, milord."
"All in good time," Lord Bloodraven assured him dryly. "If my sources are to be trusted, Lord Titus has been kept busy at Blackhaven. It seems that the Vulture King proved a considerable match for him. But you need not concern yourself with Titus any longer. I foresee that he will not be with us for long."
Cayn faltered only for a moment, but the moment was fleeting. Wretched traitor, he called me, and barbarous villain. Why shouldn't I side with he whom Titus names a villain? It speaks better of Lord Bloodraven that Titus despises him so.
"As for you," Lord Bloodraven resumed, "do you still aspire to knighthood?"
"No, milord," Cayn replied. He would no longer equivocate with the false faith, nor make a compromise upon who and what he was. "I wish only to serve a man who serves the true gods."
And with that, he knelt before Lord Bloodraven. He'd once believed that the old gods had delivered him unto Titus. He'd been confused by that, given Titus' Andal faith, but he had been grateful for Titus taking him under his wing. Now, as he knelt before Lord Bloodraven, he realised the truth of the matter. The old gods brought me to Titus so that he would bring me to my master.
A cold hand held his chin and guided his gaze back up to that face which he'd once feared. "Do you swear yourself to my service? Do you swear your fealty, with the old gods as witnesses, in their name?"
"I do, milord," Cayn vowed. "Gladly."