Cayn

"Ser Jon Footly!"

Cayn leaned forward, trying to glean the strange symbols on Ser Jon's black surcoat. They were a silver colour, and looked like three-pointed stars. Only when he came closer did Cayn realise they were caltrops.

His opponent was Ser Toby Serrett. Not only did he have a peacock emblazoned on his surcout, but he wore a helm shaped like a great bird with real peacock feathers attached. It was so ridiculous that Cayn started laughing. He hoped that Ser Toby would lose, just to see Jon Footly rip those ridiculous things off the chicken-shaped helm. Why do so many southrons have to be so pompous?

Still, Ser Toby held his own against Ser Jon. The two knights broke seven lances against each other before Ser Toby was declared the winner. Despite his astonishment, Cayn applauded him with the others; the man had earned his victory, regardless of what he wore on his stupid helm.

The platform on which they stood had been given two layers. Lord Titus had sat with them on the lower level until he'd gone up to speak with his sister. The royal family was up there, and this was the closest that they would ever get to sitting with the Targaryens. Lord Titus had not yet returned, but several of his older knights sat with the children.

Tourneys had always been a fascinating spectacle. It was perhaps the only part of the southron traditions which enthralled him.

The first one he'd ever seen was in White Harbour, hosted by Lord Manderly. Compared to the tourneys he would later see in King's Landing, it had been a modest event, but it had ever loomed large in his recollection.

Da had put him on his shoulders so he could watch the knights charge towards each other.

"Don't cry, lad," he had urged him when he'd screamed at the sight of a fallen knight, sprawled in a heap on the ground. "This is a sport! Nothing to cry over!" He'd gently squeezed both of Cayn's legs and bounced him on his shoulders until Cayn's fear passed. He hadn't cried at a tourney again after that. Not even when he'd learned that the knight had died of his fall. It is a sport. All who play it know the risks.

It had been a beautiful day. Knights and other mounted men in shining armour had charged each other, hailed by the crowds. The melee had been a sea of men and horses, the archers had made a sport of their skill, singers had bellowed out northern ballads which would haunt his memory for the rest of his life. And always there had been Da. He'd held his hand when they walked together, or else he'd held him up on those strong shoulders of his.

He still dreamed of that first tourney. It was the earliest memory which remained to him, and the last full memory he had of Da.

He'd had other memories when he was younger; sometimes their ghosts would visit him at night. He sometimes dreamed of saying goodbye to Da before he rode off to war, but he distrusted those dreams. Da never said the same thing to him; sometimes Ma was there, sometimes she wasn't. Sometimes he ran after Da, begging him not to go, urging him that he would never return from the war. Even if he'd believed me, would that have stopped him from going?

"Where did Father go?"

Cayn glanced at Andrew, who had just come back from relieving his bowels.

"You know where he went, Andrew," Barba replied. "He went to speak to his sister."

"She's gone too," Andrew protested. "I went to see where Father was, but he and the princess are gone."

That got the others' attention, but not for the reasons Andrew intended.

Maric covered Andrew's mouth, throwing a look at the nearest knight. "Quiet," he hissed, "you know you aren't supposed to go up there!"

"I missed him," Andrew mumbled beneath Maric's hand.

"So? You can't be so stupid!"

Cayn gave Maric a shove, causing him to step away from Andrew. "Leave him alone."

"Oy!" One of the knights had taken notice. It was Ser Hosteen Terrick. He'd been Lord Titus' squire when Cayn had first met him. Officially, he'd been a hostage, but Lord Titus had treated him kindly and personally knighted him when he'd turned seventeen. Hosteen's family might have resented the Master of Laws for being a loyalist, but Hosteen had become his man through and through.

For his part, Cayn loathed Hosteen the most of all Lord Titus' men. Men of House Terrick had been part of Daemon Blackfyre's army in the Riverlands. When an army of northmen had marched south, Daemon had fallen upon them. Da had been one of those northmen who had fallen that terrible day, and could very well have been slain by Hosteen's kinsmen for all Cayn knew.

"The rebellion is past," Lord Titus liked to say, and Cayn was careful to hide his loathing from the marcher lord's notice. It was a fine thing for Lord Titus to say such things when he hadn't lost his father in the rebellion. He hadn't been forced to leave his home when his Ma had married another man. He hadn't been beaten by that man or his sons. He hadn't been forced to flee his new home after seeing his Ma murdered by her second husband whilst in a drunken rage. None of that would have happened if Da was still alive, Cayn knew that for certain.

Still, Cayn bore no ill will to Lord Titus himself; he had taken Cayn in when nobody else glanced at him. He'd been seven years old, half-starved, and miserable on the streets of White Harbour, eating whatever he could catch or steal and selling what he couldn't eat. Titus would never replace Da, but he came closer than any other man would.

The tourney went on. Names were announced, one after another. Some of them Cayn recognised as Titus' men.

One of these was Ser Todrik of Duskendale. Cayn clapped with the others as he won his first joust. Cayn liked him well enough, though he had resented him greatly when they had first met. Lord Titus took him in when Todrik was twelve. Cayn was only eight years old at the time, and he had spent years resenting the older boy. He'd put those feelings aside when he learned that Todrik was the illegitimate son of a landed knight who had died fighting the Blackfyres.

Ser Alyn Garner triumphed against Ser Clarence Cargyll. Ser Medgar Wayn was defeated by Ser Humfrey Hardyng, much to Cayn's delight. Ser Tybolt Lannister defeated Ser Criston Lynderly. Prince Daeron Targaryen was defeated by Prince Jon Waters, a son of Elaena Targaryen and a hero of the Blackfyre Rebellion.

The sun had passed its zenith when the last two knights were announced. Fittingly, one of these knights was the one in whose name the tourney was being held.

"Prince Valarr Targaryen!"

The herald droned on whilst Maric and Andrew jumped up and down, cheering wildly for the Young Prince.

He made an impressive sight, wearing the black armour modelled after dragons of old. A dragon also adorned his helm, its batlike wings outstretched, making Valarr seem taller than usual. He led his horse past their platform and gave two salutes to the upper level.

Cayn did not join in the cheers. He had never forgotten the first time that Valarr had spoken to him.

Valarr had been nine years of age at the time, three years older than Cayn. Lord Titus had brought him to King's Landing for the first time. Cayn had marvelled at the sights and smells of the city, particularly at the Red Keep and its contents.

The King and Queen had been kind to him when Lord Titus had presented him as his new squire. The Crown Prince and Princess had been kinder, gifting him with fine clothes which had once belonged to their sons. Cayn had never worn anything so wonderful.

The joy had turned to ash in his mouth, however, when he sat beside Lord Titus at supper. Prince Valarr had been sitting across from him, splitting a suckling pork with his brother, Matarys. Valarr had recognised the clothes on Cayn's back, and had resented him for it. He'd made his younger brother laugh by pointing out Cayn's lack of manners. He had made comments in speech which Cayn did not understand; that he had spoken it softly to avoid his parents overhearing, and that Matarys chortled yet more, convinced Cayn that he was being mocked. Worst of all, Valarr had knocked over his mother's wine goblet, causing the red liquid to stain Cayn's new clothes. He'd sworn it was an accident, and when Lord Titus and Valarr's parents had insisted that the prince apologise, he freely did so. But Cayn knew the words were false; Valarr was one of those who could smirk with his eyes alone.

"Lord Damon Lannister! Warden of the West, and Lord of Casterly Rock!"

The Grey Lion. Cayn applauded wildly as the red-and-gold-clad knight trotted down the line. Here was another hero of the rebellion, albeit one who was better known for his defeats than his victories. Ser Quentyn Ball, better known as Fireball, had famously routed his forces on the battlefield. The Grey Lion had been sent reeling back to his lair to lick his wounds for the rest of the war. Still, Cayn much preferred cheering for him than for Prince Valarr.

The first tilt began. The black and gold figures leaned forward on their saddles. Their lances shook in the air as their destriers charged forward at top speed. Knock him off his horse, Cayn silently urged the Grey Lion.

As the horses passed each other by at great speed, there was a large crashing noise, and both lances shattered in midair. It was impossible to determine what had happened, for both men were still ahorse and moved too quickly for Cayn's eyes to follow.

When they had halted, men in Targaryen livery ran up to examine the knights. It was deemed that Valarr had been closer to the center of Damon's shield.

The Grey Lion and the Young Prince lined up for the second tilt, this time at opposite ends from where they'd begun. The signal was given, and their horses charged once again. Do it this time, damn you! Knock Valarr down!

It was not to be. The older man was struck by Valarr's lance and fell backward off his horse. The crowds cried out in shock. Valarr struggled to halt his horse, even as Damon Lannister slowly arose from the dirt. He held his hand up, yielding to the prince.

So easy? Must everything in your life be so easy? Cayn spat over the edge of the platform in Valarr's direction. It was a futile gesture; Valarr swiveled back and forth in his saddle, taking in the smallfolk's adulation.

After Prince Valarr had won his first joust, the first day of the tourney ended. The rest of the afternoon would be devoted to the first round of the squire's tourney. Cayn jumped up and bolted off the platform to gather his things. It would be the first time that he'd ever participated, and he prayed that Lord Titus would come back in time to see him.

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His horse was a sturdy courser, only two years old, purchased by Lord Titus the year before. Well-trained, the animal did not spook as easily as other horses did. Cayn adored his mount, riding him whenever he had the chance. His coat was a mottled white and grey, with flecks of black. It reminded Cayn of how the sky often looked when he was back home, and in his longing for that home, he'd found the perfect name for his horse.

North was snorting impatiently as Cayn put on layers of linen, mail, and leather to protect his body. These jousts were less serious, and no squire could afford their own plate, but Lord Titus had seen to it that his armour was still good quality. He'd also seen to it that Cayn had a sigil to carry. North and Cayn's armour were both black, and Cayn's shield bore the purple lightning bolt of House Dondarrion.

The sigil gave him pause. He had spent seven years being looked after by Lord Titus. He had first served as a page, then becoming a squire. Older boys had come and gone, serving as squires for a few years and then receiving their knighthoods. Now he was the eldest boy, with Maric and Andrew taking their lead from him. Am I wearing this sigil as his squire, or as his son?

Despite his gratitude and affection for Lord Titus, Cayn had never felt comfortable calling him 'father' as Andrew did. It was easier for the younger boy, Cayn understood that. He did not have memories of a father who'd adored him, who had taught him lessons, who had been brave and good-hearted and kind. Cayn would never forget Da, nor would he ever replace him with Lord Titus, no matter what Lord Titus might do for him. So, why does it feel so wrong? Why must I feel like such an ingrate for that? Why can't I have two fathers?

"Cayn?"

He turned away from North, grinning as he recognised that voice.

It was Bessie, one of the maids who served the royal family. She was fourteen, the same age as he, and she had grown up in the Red Keep all her life.

As children, she had shown him how to navigate the maze of passages in the great castle. They had sat on the battlements, watching the sun rise or fall, telling each other a thousand stories.

"Are you afraid?"

"A little," Cayn admitted. "I wish I knew who I was fighting."

"Steffon Fossoway."

Cayn grinned. Of course Bessie knew. "What's he like?"

"He's got a stocky build, but he doesn't seem too strong. He's older than you by a bit, but that won't matter. You've got nothing to fear from him," Bessie confided. "He's a pompous little cunt, too. Told me to meet him after he won so I could clean his lance for him." She mockingly mimed a crude gesture with her hand and mouth while crossing her eyes, then gave a cheeky grin.

Cayn spat to show his opinion of such effrontery. "I'll knock him on his arse for that!" He spoke those words with far more confidence than he felt.

"My hero!" Bessie giggled, pretending to be a blushing maid - batting her eyes at him and blowing kisses - such as the ones that she and Cayn always used to mock. But still, there was something in her manner which made Cayn think it was not all feigned.

For his part, Cayn found her pretty; her eyes were a warm brown colour, her skin was pale and unblemished, and she still had most of her teeth.

He smiled at her as he continued to secure his belt. "Can I wear your favour, milady?"

Bessie giggled as she pulled a small cleaning rag tucked in her bosom and offered it to him in mockery of a highborn lady. "Why yes, milord!"

He laughed as he accepted the gift and tucked it where his glove met his wrist.

"Good luck," Bessie urged, blushing brightly as she stared at him.

Cayn suddenly felt a stab of remorse. He found it strange that he did not reciprocate her feelings, and he hadn't the heart to inform her of such. He enjoyed her company too much to disappoint her so thoroughly.

Truthfully, he hadn't felt such feelings for anyone that he'd ever seen. He'd seen Lord Titus occasionally, dallying with men and women alike, and he'd also seen others doing it too. But neither men nor women had aroused his own interest, and though he'd caught Maric pleasuring himself several times, he himself could count on his hands the number of times that he'd ever done the same in his entire life. It simply didn't enthrall him as it seemed to do for most boys, or girls for that matter.

"Cayn of White Harbour!"

Cursing, Cayn quickly grabbed his lance, mounted North, and urged the horse out into the open air whilst Bessie blew him a last kiss.

The crowds were diminished; they had not come to watch boys playing at men's sports. But enough were there to provide Cayn with applause. He turned North this way and that, holding up his lance proudly. He had not yet put on his helm, so his vision was unimpaired. He saw Maric, Andrew, and the others staring down at him and cheering his name.

On the level above them, King Daeron and Queen Myriah were politely clapping, but Prince Baelor and Princess Jena were nowhere to be seen. Nor was Lord Titus. Where are they? Why didn't he stay? Cayn put on his helm to hide his disappointment, even as he gave his salute to the king.

"Steffon Fossoway of Cider Hall!"

The applause was louder this time, but Cayn had expected that. He turned to watch his opponent emerge from the shadows.

Thanks to Lord Titus, the quality of their armour and horses was more or less equal. Where Cayn was black, Steffon was yellow, and he bore a red apple on his shield instead of the purple lightning bolt.

Cayn gave a customary salute to Steffon, which the other squire did not reciprocate. They went to opposite ends of the lists, and waited for the signal to charge.

Steffon was a yellow speck to Cayn. His heart was pounding in his chest. It had been so easy to be confident when Bessie was smiling at him. Now he took a deep breath as he positioned his lance.

The septon was preaching again. Cayn had no interest in that prattle; he'd already prayed to the true gods that morning before the false heart tree. It was an oak, rather than a weirwood, but it was the best that Cayn could do.

He was relieved that he did not have to embrace the Seven in order to become a knight. Lord Titus had promised that he would not invoke those gods when he knighted Cayn. Reflexively, he turned back to the royal pavilion to see if the marcher lord had returned.

Applause suddenly broke out, a sign that the septon was finished. Cayn quickly looked back to Steffon Fossoway, sweating worse than ever beneath his armour. He readjusted his lance again, wondering if Steffon was as nervous as he.

The silver trumpets sent a thrill down his entire being, but he spurred North forward nonetheless. The courser's powerful legs began to pound against the earth, his deep breaths drowning out the crowd. Steffon was growing larger and larger atop his own charging horse.

Cayn felt his body growing numb with terror. He struggled to keep a level head as he clung onto North for dear life. His arm was stiff, but his lance was steady, aiming for the bright red apple on Steffon's shield.

That was when it happened.

The world changed before his eyes. Blues, greens, and yellows stood out, while reds, purples, and pinks were gone. The Fossoway apple was a dark grey, almost black. He wanted to adjust his lance, but he could not move his arms. His heart was pounding louder than ever, and his breathing was rasping. But his fear was gone. He felt only a cold obedience, a determination to do what he was trained to do, without hesitation.

He saw the gap was closing rapidly. Steffon's lance was pointed at him. No; it was pointed above him. What is he doing?

Wait… these aren't my eyes…

Even as that thought entered his mind, the world seemed to burst asunder. A blunt force knocked the air from his body. For an instant, he felt weightless, then a sharp pain struck him from behind, and the world went dark.

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"Oy! Wake up, lad!"

Cayn was groaning, blinking his eyes as light entered his vision once again. His whole body was throbbing from a dull pain.

Three men were looming over him. One was robed like a maester. The other two wore black surcoats adorned with the red Targaryen dragon.

"What happened?" he called out feebly, wincing from the flood of sensations returning to him.

"You lost," the maester curtly explained. "Can you move your arms? Your legs?"

A cold fear grew inside of him as he sought to obey. His limbs ached, but they moved. "Thank the gods," Cayn gasped.

"Indeed," the maester remarked. "Can you stand?"

Slowly, with the help of the other two men, Cayn rose to his feet. An applause broke out, much to Cayn's surprise. He had forgotten where he was for a moment.

He turned to one of the Targaryen servants. "How long was I…"

"A few minutes," the man replied. "Not too long."

The men kept their hands on him for balance as he stumbled down the list, where North was standing peaceably by himself.

"Where's Steffon?"

"Buggered off. He won the list while you were out cold."

"Strange," Cayn mused, struggling to snap out of his dazed condition. "It's never happened when I was awake before."

"What?"

Panic seized Cayn; he normally knew better than to speak openly of his visions. "Nothing. Must have hit my head."

That was foolish. Bloody foolish. He still recalled the look of alarm on Lord Titus' face when he'd spoken of his dreams, where he found himself moving like a beast through the city, the castle, and many other places which he could not identify. He had dreamed of killing other animals, even people that he came across.

They felt so real to him, even as a boy. Lord Titus had urged him to pay them no more heed, that mayhaps they would eventually fade away. Ignoring them did nothing, however. In fact, as he'd gotten older, he'd become keen on having more such dreams.

This was different. He had never experienced such a dream while he was awake before. He wanted to ask Lord Titus about it, but he knew that the marcher lord wouldn't have any answers for him.

As he led North away from the list, Bessie was waiting for him. Her face was pale, and his eyes were wide. "Are you well?"

"Aye," he answered, albeit somewhat shakily. "What happened out there?"

"You don't remember?" Bessie looked even more concerned than before. "His lance knocked you off your horse! You only grazed him." Her voice became harsh with anger. "The bloody cunt didn't even look at you as you were lying there! Just gave the king a salute and swanned off!"

"May the next apple he eats be full of worms," Cayn cursed, even as Bessie assisted him with removing his armour. Mayhaps it's a good thing that Lord Titus didn't see that.