Titus

"Lord Titus." The words were spoken with a cold courtesy and a tense guardedness. For Titus, there was no surer way to tell which nobles had fought with the Black Dragon at the Redgrass Field.

"Good greetings," Titus remarked, recalling an old friend's jape. Unlike Maegor Toyne's hyperbolic ebullience, however, Titus' delivery was dry and reproachful.

At thirty years of age, Pearse Caron was still in his prime. His hair had not yet receded, nor was it greying. Its orange tint was a token from his mother, who'd been Titus' aunt.

He looked disdainfully at Titus in a manner which was unnervingly similar to Cassana. He matched Titus' sarcasm with his own. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"The Vulture King," Titus replied.

"Ah yes," Pearse mused. "We have heard the rumours. I can assure you that he is not on my lands."

"That was not in question," Titus responded, frowning.

"Then why, Lord Titus, have the Dondarrions brought an army across my borders?"

"What is the meaning of that question?" Titus was growing tired of this obtuse behaviour. They had already explained themselves to the Caron knights who'd approached them. "Did your patrols not inform their lord of our message?"

"They told me that you are embarking on a Vulture Hunt," Pearse replied airily. "I simply wonder why your army is marching into our territory. The Vulture King has known better than to provoke me."

"And when you heard of House Dondarrion's tragedies, you did not see fit to volunteer your strength to their cause?" Titus' voice was sagging with sarcasm now.

"Far be it from me to impose myself upon my neighbours on a private matter."

Titus felt himself growing wroth. "Is it a new custom of House Caron to abandon their kinsmen in time of need?"

"I warn you, Lord Titus," Pearse cautioned him, "not to flaunt any kinship with House Caron before me. I dragged my father's corpse from the Redgrass Field, else you would have trampled it into the mud."

Gods be good. It never ends. "Your father's blood is not on my hands, Pearse. He was dead before Baelor charged."

"Aye, that much is true," Pearse allowed, but his voice did not grow warmer. "Nonetheless, it is only the king's protection that grants you leave to speak in my hall."

Titus believed him. Like so many marchers, Pearse had a long memory, and a fierce sense of pride. The death of his father would only cement his resentment for those who'd fought for the red dragons.

However, Titus was in no mood to coddle such ill feelings, for he was determined to bring down the Vulture King as soon as possible.

"The Blackfyre Rebellion was ten years ago," Titus observed. "Meanwhile, over a hundred and fifty years before that, our houses united against a dangerous threat."

"Spare me the history lecture," Pearse growled. "This Vulture King is little more than a brigand. Hardly a man which warrants my help to bring down."

"If you wish to play the fool," Titus snapped, "then shift your arse off that seat and put on a suit of motley."

Those in attendance gasped or cried out at Titus' disrespect.

Pearse's back straightened, and his face became flushed. "I have had men hanged for less than that."

Titus put a hand on his sword hilt, as did the other men in his company. "And I have cut down better men than you, Pearse. If you want to kill me, do it with a sword instead of a noose. Or did you lose all your courage at the Redgrass Field?"

Pearse stood up. His hand, like Titus' was grasping the hilt of his sword. "So! This is the sort of man who sits on King Daeron's small council?"

"Aye," Titus affirmed. "And I speak with the King's voice. We require House Caron's aid, and I will have it, from you or from your successor."

Even Pearse seemed surprised at those brazen words, and by the ferocity of Titus' temper. Caron guards were assembling, surrounding Titus and his company of knights. Nobody had drawn their weapons yet, but Titus sensed that if any one of them showed naked steel, it would become a bloodbath.

For a moment, Titus hesitated. Then he regarded Pearse again. "You should know, my goodbrother is less than a day's ride from here. If I am not back by tomorrow, he will enter your castle to find me or my corpse, whether you open your gates to him or not."

Pearse glared darkly at Titus. "You always did have reckless courage, I'll give you that." He looked around at his guards. "Stand down. I'll not give Titus an excuse to call me a traitor."

The guards obeyed. Beside Titus, Baelon Massey breathed a sigh of relief.

"House Caron bent the knee ten years ago," Pearse resumed in the same grudging tone. "I will not refuse a royal summons."

As Pearse called for his maester, Titus felt a tug on his sleeve. "Are you mad?"

Titus smirked at Baelon's question, until he saw the look on his friend's pale face. Nearby, Titus' squires were equally shaken, just as they had been when Miru was lost in the wedding crowd. A sour feeling filled Titus, but he could not tell if it was remorse or resentment.

Ser Hosteen Terrick and Ser Medgar Wayn were sent to bring Baldric Dondarrion to Nightsong. As was custom, Caron gave Titus and the others bread and salt, with assurance to offer the same to Baldric when he arrived for the war council. Even so, Titus could sense the hostility hanging in the hall's air.

Titus took his lads to their guest chambers. As soon as they were away from Lord Caron and his guards, Andrew gave voice to his thoughts on what had occurred.

"I thought we were going to fight them all," he exclaimed in a shaken voice.

"They would not have fought us," Titus assured him, ruffling his curly brown hair. "Pearse Caron is my kinsman, and a marcher lord. Marchers speak in a rougher language than most."

"Even Ser Baelon was afraid," Maric pointed out quietly. "I've never seen him look like that."

"He was surprised, that's all," Titus replied, determined to treat the matter lightly. "I might have a word with him after supper tonight."

Cayn sat beside his bed, scratching the ears of his hound, paying little heed to the others in the room. Titus could tell that he was troubled. That in itself was not new; he'd been much more sullen and silent than usual since leaving King's Landing. Titus had assumed it was due to Bessie, but the confrontation had deepened his gloom.

There was a knock at their door. "Lord Titus?"

"Yes, Alyn?" Titus strode forward and opened the door.

"A word, please?"

"Go on," Titus replied, then saw the look on his former squire's face. Sighing, he stepped out of the lads' chamber and closed the door behind him. Ser Alyn led him down the hall until they stood beside a narrow window which served as an arrow slit.

Alyn spoke in a whisper that was barely audible over the breeze coming through the arrow slit. "Is anything the matter, my lord?"

Gods, you too? Titus felt himself growing wroth. "I thought not, until everyone assumed as much."

Alyn's countenance saddened visibly. "Lord Titus, I mean you no offense, nor do any of us. You know that, surely?"

Through the fog of Titus' anger, Alyn's voice and expression were twin beacons that seemed to break through. He'd looked very similar on those days when Titus had been drunkenly hiding out in the shadow city of Sunspear.

Titus sighed, forcing his temper down as he tried to speak less gruffly. "Of course I know that."

"Something is amiss, all the same," Alyn pressed. "Ever since we left Blackhaven, you have been ill at ease, quick to anger, prone to silences."

Anger arose within him again; not only towards Alyn's words, but to the words which Cassana had gleefully thrown at him when he'd departed Blackhaven. He had long ago lost count of the words that he wished he'd shouted back at her, as well as the times that he'd imagined striking her, wringing her neck, running her through with Doom…

He had kept those words to himself during the march to Nightsong, and they had burned inside of him like hot coals. They soured the food he ate, and made his sleep restless. He dreamed of Lomas and Lord Armond Dondarrion, spitting on him as they repeated Cassana's words. He dreamed of Aliandra and Coryanne, praising him with words that he knew he did not deserve. Worst of all, Brynden Rivers appeared as Titus had first known him; a surly youth in the godswood, sneering in that knowing way.

Alyn was different, though. He had been with Titus during the worst moment of his life, and his loyalty had not wavered. He'd been the first orphan that Titus had taken under his wing, on the battlefields of Essos, and his loyalty was almost filial.

But still, Titus could not bring himself to ponder those words, much less speak of them to someone else. He had a good idea of what Alyn would say; he would reassure Titus that he was a good man, he would denounce Cassana, he would say all those things which ignored the simple fact that Titus was accursed.

"There are cruel memories here in the marches," Titus answered. It was not a lie, but certainly a diversion. "The sooner we finish here and depart, the better will it please me."

Alyn paused, and his expression became unreadable. He might have said something were it not for a Caron serving man who told them both that supper was nearly ready.

Much to Titus' relief, Alyn did not approach him again, though he was disconcerted all the same. I told him the truth of it. The sooner we depart from the marches, the better pleased I'll surely be.

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The following morning, Baldric came to Nightsong with his army of levies and sellswords. House Caron's banners were already assembling, though Pearse warned Titus and Baldric that he would take several days to bring together a sizeable force.

"So be it," Baldric declared as he wiped the salt from his hand onto his cloak. "Let us make our plans in the meantime."

Some twelve men of high rank sat around Pearse's table, poring over a map of the Dornish Marches.

Baldric curtly pointed out where the Vulture King had struck, clarifying that he was not fully aware of how many places had been attacked. He also explained the size of his army, the number of supplies that he'd brought, and his account of the Vulture King's forces.

"Pikemen," Pearse observed incredulously. "Your cavalry were outmaneuvered and defeated by common pikemen?"

"These pikemen were not common," Baldric corrected him. "They were able to move quickly without breaking formation. They walked or ran as a unit. These were well-trained men who stood firm against cavalry charges. They could also change formation when charged from two sides without breaking the first line of pikes. I have rarely seen such heightened discipline before."

Pearse and his bannermen were frowning. "How do you propose we fight against them, then?"

"We must match infantry with infantry," Baldric explained. "Archers too. We reserve our cavalry for when they are breaking, or if we can break their lines apart."

One of Pearse's landed knights leaned forward. "That may prove a costly strategy," he cautioned. "Our infantry haven't been trained to fight in that manner, and we cannot give them that training now."

"So be it," Baldric observed. "They must take the brunt of the fighting, but we will have numbers on our side. I doubt very much that the Vulture King will have one man for each of ours."

The talks went on, but Titus said little; he had already agreed to let Baldric take charge, and he was still bitter over his first interaction with Pearse. I brought him into the campaign. That was my task.

By the time their council was finished, the sun was already on its downward journey, and supper was nearly ready. Titus took his leave of the others and went to make an inspection of his men and their encampment.

Outside the castle, a town of tents had been set up to accommodate the Dondarrion army, as well as the assembling Caron forces.

He felt restless and frustrated, wandering willy-nilly amongst the thousands of men eating and drinking together. There was little order to the tents, and since he and Baldric used the same banner, he could not rely on flags to guide his way.

Songs, shouts, and laughter rang out all around him. He even needed to avoid a drunken fight between two Dondarrion archers. He could sense that men were calling to him, but none used his name. Except one.

"Lord Titus!"

It was Ollo of Lannisport. He was sitting with Ser Medgar and Ser Hosteen, who had returned to Nightsong with Baldric in tow. Titus did not fail to note that both knights were from houses that had fought for Daemon Blackfyre, as had Ollo himself.

"Come and sit with us!" Ollo raised a drinking horn in a salute. Titus did not doubt that this was Ollo's first drink, given how flushed his face appeared to be in the fire-light.

Much as Titus did not relish having to sit with drunken men whilst he remained sober, he was unwilling to snub Ollo. He still felt guilty over how Ollo had been imprisoned by mistake during Valarr's wedding.

"Very well," Titus replied. Even as he sat down, though, he saw that another man was sitting with his men.

He had not thought of Royce Storm for quite some time, until Baelon had mentioned him in Blackhaven. It was one thing to hear that name, though, and quite another to see him sitting in front of him.

He'd cut his hair very short, but his beard was wild. Both were still the colour of rust, with only a few traces of grey. His face was lined, and his grim countenance made him seem doubly fearsome. The sight of Royce awoke memories in Titus' mind which he'd never imagined he could have forgotten, but which also seemed to have happened to another man.

"Lord Titus," he said. There was no warmth in his tone, but nor was their hostility either.

Titus felt cagey, but he'd already sat down. Accepting a plate of food from Ser Hosteen, Titus then turned back to Ollo. "I trust you are well?"

"Better than I was in King's Landing," Ollo replied sardonically, but he was grinning as he said it. He belched loudly before taking another swig from his horn.

Royce did the same. After he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, he leaned forward and addressed Titus. "I wondered for a long time whether I'd see you again."

"We have that in common," Titus lied, cautiously lighthearted whilst he waited to see what Royce intended. "Sixteen years is a long time, after all."

"Aye," Royce agreed. "That's how it would seem, no? So much happened in sixteen years." He scratched at an old scar on his cheek. "Truth be told, though, there's some things that still feel like yesterday."

"Aye," Ollo agreed loudly. "I'll never forget seeing Quentyn Ball knock the Grey Lion off his horse." He shook his head wistfully. "There won't be another fighter like Fireball or the Black Dragon, mark my words. The two of them were the greatest warriors that I ever saw."

Hosteen and Medgar regarded him with wide eyes. Both of them had been too young to fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion, and they were still drawn to stories from those days.

"Gods," Ollo exclaimed, glancing at Titus. "I might have crossed swords with you at the Redgrass Field, if things had turned out differently."

"You weren't there?" Royce was also leaning forward, casually holding his horn between two strong fingers.

"Yes and no," Ollo sighed. "Day before the fight, there was some sort of accident. Two oxen went bloody mad and charged me. Nearly died right there. I can't even recall what happened, I was out cold. When I come to, my leg was broken and I couldn't see straight for two hours. Didn't know how the battle went until some red dragons took charge of our camp." He gave a shrug. "At least I didn't have to bend the knee!"

Hosteen and Medgar burst into laughter; Royce made no sound, but his face twisted into a smile beneath his beard.

After he recovered from his laughing fit, Ollo turned his attention to Royce. "What of you? Where were you during that war?"

Titus shuddered as he swallowed a mouthful of spit-roasted boar. Ollo would not have asked such a dangerous question if he wasn't inebriated. Ten years after Daemon died, it was still dangerous to ask a man for which dragon he'd fought.

Royce took it in stride, however, betraying no sign that he was offended by the question. "I was in the Stormlands, for the most part. I was wandering as a hedge knight when I was offered a great reward if I chose a side. I joined the siege of Storm's End as a result."

Ollo's face fell; he had fought for Daemon Blackfyre out of loyalty rather than for gold, Titus knew that. But he paid little heed to Ollo in that moment, for a sudden curiosity seized him. "Were you at Durran's Barrow?"

"Nay," Royce replied. "I was part of the token force which kept an eye on Storm's End whilst you made short work of my masters." He gave a half-grin before tearing into a leg of capon. "Went south from there," he continued whilst chewing. "Safe to say, I had little wish to remake your acquaintance in those days."

Titus was spared the need to answer that when Ollo addressed him. His voice was more slurred than ever.

"Tell me," he urged, "tell us all, Lord Titus. What made you say those words?"

Titus sighed. He knew what Ollo meant; his mind went back to that ghastly day. The summer air had stunk of blood and guts, flies had buzzed all around him, birds had circled in the fading light, and the field had been littered with the dead and dying. Daemon Blackfyre and his sons had lain on a Blackfyre banner, sneered at and mocked by Brynden Rivers' men. The old anger arose in Titus, even as he answered Ollo's query.

"Truthfully, I understood Daemon at that moment, and I pitied him. He was more like me than I realised," Titus mused, "or so it seemed at the time. I said those words to spite Brynden Rivers, as well."

"Curse that wicked sorcerer," Ollo hissed, turning around and spitting.

"Mind yourself, old fool!" Hosteen's voice was hoarsely whispered, and he even sprang to his feet, as if the Raven's Teeth were attacking their camp. "Do not invoke that man, unless you want to try and sleep with his thousand eyes upon you!"

Ollo was almost stricken with remorse as he hunched forward, as if hiding his face from invisible stares.

"Most of all," Titus admitted, "it was because Daemon once asked me to speak the parting words at his death."

"He did?" Ollo sat up again. "When was this?'

"Sixteen years ago, now," Titus mused. "It was the grand tourney in King's Landing. My memory of it fades a bit more every year, but I'll never forget that moment with Daemon."

"That's not what I remember of that year," Royce interjected in a voice made all the more dangerous by its quiet tone. "I remember being put on trial for murder."

"Murder?" Ser Hosteen gaped at Royce. "What's all this, then?"

Titus shook his head, trying to sound casual as he objected. "Must we dwell on that bitter time?"

"Why not?" Royce cocked his head? "Is there something that troubles you about my misfortunes?"

He is toying with me. Titus bit his tongue and listened bitterly as Royce addressed the others three men.

"While Lord Titus was swanning about with the dragons, I was accused of a murder that I never committed. Someone had slain the maester of Blackhaven. Cut his throat to the bone whilst he knelt in a sept."

The others were aghast at the thought of such a cold-blooded and wicked crime. Titus merely shuddered as he recalled Maester Gerold. "Traitor", she whispered in his ear. She was proud to admit that to me. She has always taken such joy in hurting me.

Royce continued on bitterly. "I was accused, and then betrayed by all those whom I loved. They refused to vouch for me, or else they told lies about my guilt. I demanded a trial by combat to prove my innocence."

"Just so," Ollo murmured. His rough face was dark with anger. Titus could not blame him, recalling how closely he'd come to being killed in Crakehall for a crime he hadn't committed.

Royce suddenly smiled, and Titus wished he would resume scowling instead. "The gods were watching over me after all. I cut down their champion before all in Blackhaven. Then I rode away with a full heart. Truth be told, it has been a very hard road since that day, but that was when my life truly began. When I truly understood that I was blessed and watched over by the gods."

"Hear hear," Ollo declared. Hosteen and Medgar remained silent, but they raised their horns in salute to Royce. Titus found himself growing very nervous at the reverence in their eyes.

"If that was true," Titus remarked, "then surely they would have prevented you from being accused in the first place?"

Royce's smile widened. "You would think so, no? But the gods test us, else their blessing would not be deserved. Why, look at yourself, my lord. You were born to a powerful family, just as I was. You were legitimate, and I was a bastard. I grew up amongst the servants, you had your own chamber. I always thought you were luckier than I, that the gods had chosen you to be above me as part of some plan. I didn't realise what the plan had truly been, though. Not until I learned how far men will go to put their own evil plans in motion. I saw then that I was being tested, and the gods wanted me to prove myself worthy of my station, just as others had proved their lack of worth."

The others were too inebriated to follow Royce's hints, but Titus understood perfectly. He dared not speak out against Royce, or to even engage him in this conversation; nothing good could come out of it, so Titus fumed silently and impotently.

In his last months, Armond Dondarrion had attempted to disown Titus, the son whom he despised, and legitimise Royce as his spare. Titus had supplanted this plan with the murder of his father, but he had not done it out of ambition to inherit Blackhaven; his older brother Arlan was alive and well, sure to have many children with his wife, Tyana. But when Armond had finally died, Titus had received word that Arlan had drowned whilst visiting Estermont. Only then had he moved to destroy the will, with Maester Gerold's help.

He had moved too quickly and recklessly to consider what might come out of that decision. Lomas had known of the will, but he could not prove anything after the only copy was destroyed. But Titus had not reckoned that Tyana would mount a vigorous campaign to secure Blackhaven for the child in her belly. Lomas had become her champion, desperate to keep Titus from assuming his father's titles and lands. Nor had Titus greatly considered that Lomas would tell Royce of the inheritance. What did it matter, after all? Royce would be even less able to fight against it than Lomas had. As Royce sat before him, his face glowing gold in the firelight, the baleful expression in his eyes could not be mistaken. He knows. He has always known.

Titus did not think often of this part of his life. He had been ambitious and impulsive; it would have been the final victory against his father's hateful memory and legacy. But it also appealed to that side of his nature which had nothing to do with his idealism, or even with his sense of honour. It had been an act of deception and treachery, and he looked upon his younger self with shame. Not that that would matter if he admitted it to Royce.

Even as Titus frantically tried to decide his next action or word, Royce made the choice first. He stood up, stretching his limbs, and gave a cheerful nod to those watching him. "I must get some rest, sers. My thanks for your company." He did not so much as look at Titus as he walked off to find his tent in the shadows.

Meanwhile, Titus sat with his men, but their fire and food could not warm him. He thought long and hard about what Royce had said, unable to resist comparing the Dondarrion bastard to himself, and how their lives had turned out. He had strong regrets about how his life had turned out, and they weighed on his mind like stones he was forced to carry on his back. He had never considered it a regret of his that he'd stolen Royce's chance at inheritance and legitimacy. Now, the notion filled him with self-loathing at his own hypocrisy.

Cassana was right, he thought. She was always right about me. Just as anyone who's ever trusted in me was wrong.

The thought was so hateful that he thought nothing of grabbing a discarded wineskin beside Ollo and emptying it in a single gulp.