Titus

They had been blown off-course by a winter gale, so that they had mistook the Bronze Bay for the Bay of Crabs. When the ship ran aground, twenty men had fallen overboard and or been washed away by the waves. More lives would have been lost if it wasn't for several dozen fishermen loyal to House Royce.

"They risked life and limb for us," Lord Tolman Manderly remarked solemnly. "We gave them whatever valuables we salvaged from the ship in our gratitude."

"Generous of you," Titus observed.

"Aye, but foolish," answered Lord Rory Locke. "It meant we were stuck in Gulltown with little means to go anywhere."

"Did Lord Royce not host you?"

"He was already on his way to King's Landing," Tolman explained, "along with Lord Jasper Arryn and any lord of the Vale that agreed to go south. We thought it unseemly to add fifty extra mouths to Royce's household."

Titus gave a respectful nod in admiration of such consideration. "And Lord Stark was unable to make the journey south?"

"Unfortunately," answered Tolman. "From what I've heard, the kingsroad outside Winterfell is buried under ten metres of snow. Were it not for the Narrow Sea, we would be similarly snowbound. The North has been beset by an especially cruel winter."

"My sympathies," Titus replied softly, addressing it to all those who were sitting around him.

The three lords nodded in acknowledgment of his words. Two muttered their thanks. Still, Titus could see the hard look in their eyes which revealed the truth. Words were wind to these men, and sympathies did not keep a fire from going out or a stomach from going hungry.

Still, Titus had been a diplomat long enough to know how a host could endear themselves to any guest.

Leroya had been persuaded to yield up a small cask of spiced rum from the Summer Isles. Now, as they sat in Titus' cabin over a meagre meal of cold rice and dried beans, he offered these Northmen a drink.

Tolman led the charge when it came to the rum. He was a corpulent man who attempted to conceal his sagging jowls behind a thick grey beard. He was also the most gregarious of the Northmen, and coaxed courtesy from the others with his example.

The spiced rum also did its work. Before long, the men had drunk to the North, to Lord Stark's health, and to King Maekar's memory.

"You are a generous man, Lord Titus," Tolman exclaimed as he held out his goblet for more. "As generous as you are prolific!"

The marcher lord laughed. It had been a surprise to him to be hosting these men, but a far greater surprise to them when they were formally introduced to his five children.

The Northmen asked little of Titus, and their answers were often brusque in their content and delivery. Still, they were honest, and Titus much preferred that to the sort of talk which would doubtless fill up the great council.

Rory Locke was the youngest of the three lords. He was horse-faced with a broad nose, while his long brown hair and bushy umber beard were both tangled messes.

"Tell me, Lord Titus," Rory called as Titus passed him the cask to refill his goblet, "how long have you been from home?"

Titus was initially bewildered by the question, until he realised that Rory meant Blackhaven.

It had long ago seemed as if his life in Blackhaven belonged to a stranger. It had taken him a long time and great effort to bury the pain and lay the ghosts of Blackhaven in his mind. He could never forget what happened, or the countless injuries which he inflicted and suffered alike, but the memories no longer held any sway over him.

In response to Rory's question, Titus gave a shrug. "Truth be told, I cannot even recall. The years pass much faster when you reach my age."

Tolman Manderly gave an excessively hearty guffaw at that, clapping Titus on the shoulder. "That's true enough!"

"Spiced rum could thaw a frozen lake." Bellaria had made that jape when they'd indulged themselves on their wedding night. Not for the first time since he'd left Braavos, Titus felt a pang of longing for her.

What intrigued Titus was that all three of these men seemed mostly indifferent to who became king.

"We will hear them out," Tolman tactfully explained when Titus inquired. "After that, we will choose the worthiest one of them."

"Aye," Lord Errold Flint interjected. "We'll choose the one who'll do right by us. That's what we were promised when we first bowed to the dragons."

It was the first time that Errold, easily the most taciturn of the bunch, had spoken. He was a head shorter than Titus, sporting a face marked from battle and violence. He'd lost half of one ear and the tip of his nose. His grey hair grew white along an old scar across the top of his head.

It wasn't long before the spiced rum took full effect. Tolman nodded off as his chin rested against his breast. The other two were drinking much more slowly than before, and looked quite inebriated.

For his part, Titus had been careful to take the smallest of sips from his goblet during the toasts, only feigning to refill it to the brim each time. He'd long ago lost his taste for spirits, and he wished to keep a clear head whilst discussing important matters.

At one point, Rory leaned forward, resting his head in his hands as he plopped both elbows on the table. "Strange drink, this is. Strong, too."

"Courtesy of the Summer Isles," Titus replied pleasantly.

"Aye," Rory muttered, blinking his eyes rapidly for a moment. "Back home, now, we've got proper ale. You don't drink it, you eat it!" He burst into drunken laughter at his own jape.

"Indeed," Titus concurred cheerfully. "Keeps a man hearty and his heart manly till spring."

It was an old Northern proverb, and it caught both men's attention. Errold Flint, who was holding his own better than Rory, gave a curious frown. "You've been up north, have you?"

Titus gave the man a short nod. "Only a few times. Mostly when I was Master of Laws."

Errold frowned as he picked at an old scar on his forearm. "Aye, I thought I heard your name before..."

"The first time, though," Titus continued, "I nearly lost my life on Skagos during the great rebellion."

"You were there?" Rory's back straightened.

"For a time," Titus replied. "I followed Prince Baelor north, but he sent me back to aid his family when the Blackfyres rebelled."

A dark look came over Errold's visage. "I recall that time too. It was that bloody war which gave me this face."

Titus looked the scars over once more, shuddering as his own memories of the war flooded his recollection.

It had been one of the worst periods of his life. For years afterward, he'd been tormented by nightmares which had left him in tears or in a sweat. It was only when he'd gone to the Summer Isles and consulted with Babatunde that he'd made some sort of peace with it all. Still, the dreams had never gone away.

"Forgive me," Titus began remorsefully, "it has been a long time, and I do not enjoy recalling that war. Were you at Skagos too?"

"Nay," Errold answered gruffly. "I was in the Riverlands with Lord Manderly." He jerked his head towards the slumbering merling lord. "We fought the Black Dragon himself along the Green Fork."

Rory Locke, who'd given Errold a reverent glance, suddenly looked at Titus. "It was a bloody day for the North. My grandsire was there too. He was taken prisoner alongside my fellow lords."

"Aye," Errold acknowledged, "not before I saw my father cut down. I got this -" and here, he gestured to his cropped ear, and the streak of white hair just above it "- when I stood over his body."

Titus gave a sad sigh. He lifted his goblet. "To the ones we lost in that terrible war." He thought of Coryanne, of Aliandra, of Garin, and of Chayora; he could not stop a tear from leaving his eye.

The other two northmen were surprised by that emotion, but they lifted their goblets all the same. This time, Titus drained his own along with them.

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"Father! Father"

Titus groaned as he pulled himself upright. "What is it, Matthias?"

"King's Landing is in sight!"

Titus sighed. "Right then. Give me a moment."

He heard Matthias' footsteps receding as he got dressed in his best clothes. The last time he'd worn these had been when he'd visited the Sealord. Accordingly, he'd had them prepared. It was an ancient trick adopted in Braavos from the people of Yi Ti. They would take newly washed clothes, stretch them out, and press them with pans filled with hot coals.

When he emerged from his cabin, he was dressed in a thick black surcoat, decorated front and back with a carefully stitched purple lightning bolt of House Dondarrion. His boots and gloves were made of leather lined with sable fur.

Matthias was dressed similarly, in clothes tailored to his frame. The Braavosi tailors who'd measured them up had been exceedingly polite, but Titus caught sight of at least three other customers who either stared or else quickly looked away to conceal their smirk.

For his part, Titus thought Matthias looked regal. His hair and beard were still short enough that he could comb them into an orderly appearance, and it was clear to anyone that he was not only a Dondarrion by blood, but Titus' son. Their hair was the same shade - or would have been if Titus hadn't gone grey - their eyes the same sort of green, and they spoke the Common Tongue in much the same way.

The others awaited them on deck. Miru was wearing pale clothing made of linen or fur. Once again, Titus was struck by how proudly she carried herself as a grown woman. She had once been nervous at the prospect of going to the temple of love, but in her first letter to Braavos, she'd thanked her parents for the chance. Where she had once hidden behind hoods, she now bore her face proudly, be damned what others might think of her looks. Lozyn had made her even more confident, so that she had styled her long chestnut locks into an elaborate Braavosi style. The old burn scars across her body gave her a mottled complexion, but she held her head high all the same.

Sadog had put even greater care into his clothes and appearance than Titus and Matthias. Immaculately groomed and neatly dressed despite the toils of the voyage, he was very much the image of an Iron Bank representative. Even the gold on his cane seemed to glitter without so much as a single ray of sunlight through the overcast morning sky.

Baalun and Leroya, meanwhile, were clad much the same as usual, nor were they abashed by the well-dressed company about them. At the very least, they were warmly dressed in furs of fine quality. Leroya continued to wear the silken cape of a Summer Isles priestess, but now she wore a cloak of bearskin over it, making for a strange effect. Beneath those layers, Doom jutted up over one shoulder, with a belt crossing her torso between her breasts.

The Northmen and their retinues continually glanced at Titus' children, who seemed either ignorant or apathetic of the attention they were getting. Even Titus, stepping back from himself, couldn't help but understand the others' confusion and surprise that these five could call the same man their father.

It wasn't long before all on deck were staring at the city of King's Landing as it arose before them.

The city had begun from a humble fort on a hill, if the histories could be trusted. Now it encompassed three whole hills and the land around them. A massive wall surrounded the city, but it wasn't tall enough to hide the hilltops from view.

Titus looked up at the Red Keep with anticipation, then across to the Great Sept of Baelor, and the ruins of the Dragonpit.

As the Black Bolt glided into the harbour, a thousand sounds could be heard. Ships and boats of all sizes were still coming and going. It might be winter, but it was mild enough that the Blackwater Bay continued to bustle with activity. There were still fish to be caught, merchandise and passengers to carry across the water, and patrols to be made.

A war galley of the Royal Fleet approached them as they drew near. "Who goes there?"

Leroya stepped forward. "Captain Leroya Dondarrion," she called out with her hands cupped on either side of her mouth. "I bring four nobles to the great council, and cargo from Braavos!"

"Proceed," came the reply. Find an empty space and pay the toll to the harbour master."

Leroya gave a mocking salute to the galley before noticing Sadog looking at her. "What?"

"You might have mentioned you were also carrying a representative of the Iron Bank," he huffed.

"I did," Leroya answered cheerfully. "I said I was bringing cargo from Braavos!"

Baalun, ever happy to see someone else be the butt of his sister's jokes, laughed aloud.

Titus shook his head as he patted Leroya on the shoulder. "Come on, now. We are entering a nest of vipers, we must leave our japes aboard this ship."

Leroya went to stand by the helmsman as he steered the ship this way and that.

Titus went back to the front of the ship, where Miru, Matthias, and Sadog were standing together. Just as they'd done at the beginning of their voyage.

It was a strange moment for all four of them, or so it seemed to Titus. Twenty-seven years had passed since they'd first left for the Summer Isles together, along with Ollo and Caris. Now the latter two were in the gods' keeping, the children had grown up, and Titus was more than ten years older than his father had ever been.

Since the start of his self-imposed exile from Westeros, Titus had come back just three times. The first had been to comfort his sister after the tragic death of her beloved husband. Then it had been her sons whom she'd been forced to bury before their time. The third time, it had been her erstwhile sworn shield, Willem Wylde.

On the third occasion, Titus had left Jena on bitter terms when he'd begged her to leave with him, and she had furiously refused. Letters had never been frequently exchanged across the Narrow Sea, but this third visit had led to them becoming even less frequent. The long years had only widened the gap which lay between them.

Now, Titus was finally crossing the gap with little idea what he would find on the other side.

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When the ship was properly docked, and the passengers began to disembark, Titus and his children went with the Northern lords and their retinues.

The people of King's Landing seemed fully aware of the great council which was being organized, and they were eager to make the process run to their advantage. Merchants mobbed the lords as they put the quays behind them. Prostitutes lounged in sight, making eyes at those whom they thought might buy their services. Beyond these throngs, wheelhouses with the royal insignia stood by to take them from the water to the Red Keep.

Out of politeness, and partly out of diffidence, Titus allowed the others to go ahead of him. It also gave him a chance to speak to his children when they shared one single wheelhouse between the six of them.

"Remember," Titus cautioned them. "There are many courtly rules at play. Trust nobody, and do not take their words at face value. This is a court of words, not swords."

Leroya sighed heavily. "Papa, you're speaking as if I've never set foot in Westeros before."

"Besides traveling in my company, have you ever set foot in the Red Keep?"

Leroya had nothing to say to that.

"You must beware Brynden Rivers," Titus urged. "Beware Shiera Seastar. Beware anyone whose loyalty you don't know."

"Father," Miru interjected softly, "what of Cayn?"

The air inside the wheelhouse seemed to become colder. Leroya, Matthias, and Baalun leaned forward as they glanced from Miru to their father and back again. Sadog was grim-faced at the mere mention of Cayn.

For his part, Titus had not wanted to think of him. He had never forgotten how he'd failed Cayn, but nor had he forgotten that his ward had become Brynden Rivers' pupil behind his back. He had spent much of the voyage pondering what he would say to Cayn if they ever faced each other again. With a jolt, he wondered if Cayn was even alive. He certainly hadn't had the heart to inquire about him to Jena.

"I still don't know," Titus admitted.

Perhaps out of discomfort, or a lack of something to contribute, Matthias opened the windows of the wheelhouse to look upon the streets of King's Landing. They passed an open square,

"One more thing. Be mindful of declaring your faith, or lack thereof." He focused on Miru when he said the last three words.

Finally, the wheelhouse came to a halt, and the driver opened the door. "The Red Keep, m'lud," he told Titus.

Prior to his leaving Braavos, Titus had withdrawn a considerable amount of Westerosi coins from the Iron Bank. He took out three copper groats and gave them to the driver as he disembarked.

The Red Keep had not changed in the last twelve years. Titus felt the old familiarity of walking beneath the outer wall. It was strange to recall how this place had been his home for ten years, when he must have spent more than half that time travelling across the Seven Kingdoms.

The Northern lords were nowhere to be seen. Assuming that they were already inside the Great Hall. Titus made for that same direction, followed by his children.

As he walked, Titus glanced about him. Guards looked back at him, but he was unable to glean the expressions on their faces. Many were wearing gold cloaks, but others were dressed all in black, but for the white dragon on their fronts and backs. Raven's Teeth. He wondered if Cayn was amongst them.

"Good morning, milord."

Titus turned to see a servant in Targaryen livery standing before him, along with a guard who also bore the red dragon on his black armour.

"And to you," Titus answered courteously. "I am Titus Dondarrion, ambassador to Braavos. I have come to attend the great council."

The guard's eyes quickly scanned the others who stood behind Titus; he was unable to conceal his bemusement and suspicion.

"Of course, milord," the servant replied. He seemed hesitant - he does not recognise my name, most like - but he turned around and led Titus into the Great Hall.

Hundreds of men, women, and children awaited him. Breakfast had already been served and cleared away, so the crowd was standing rather than sitting. They mingled amongst each other, sporting a myriad of colourful clothing. The sight, sound, and smell of such a crowd was enough to make Titus pause for a moment. Not until his name was announced by the servant did he step forward once again.

The nearest people turned to behold the newest arrival. Slowly, like a ripple across the surface of a pond, the conversations went quiet as more curious nobles tried to get a view of who had arrived.

For a brief moment, Titus felt a thrill of anticipation. He couldn't possibly know any of these lords' names. Introductions would have to be necessary, he thought, as he approached the first row of onlookers. Most were not wearing their house's sigils, either, so that was no help.

There was a movement from within the crowd, with a few gruff voices calling for the nobles to make way. Two formidable knights of the Kingsguard appeared as the crowd parted before them. Between the knights was a man who wore no sigil, but Titus recognised him immediately.

He was garbed in blacks and greys, as he'd always dressed since Titus had first met him. He might have been confused for an ancient man, but his white hair was a result of albinism rather than age. His face was lined and wrinkled, but the red birthmark across his face was clear as ever. One eye was red, whilst the other was replaced with a hideous scar. As always, Titus felt a visceral sense of loathing as he looked upon this man whom he'd detested from the first.

"Ser Titus," Brynden Rivers declared without any warmth. "I see that living abroad still suits you."

The further I was away from you, the better. "You must forgive my lack of forewarning," Titus observed calmly. "I presumed that you would appreciate the surprise."

"A surprise, indeed," Brynden remarked, loud enough for those nearby to eavesdrop, "for I do not recall inviting you to attend."

Titus stiffened with shock and outrage. It was a snub of the most insulting order, but from the crowd's lack of outcry, it seemed that nobody was going to dispute it.

"I am the ambassador to Braavos," Titus exclaimed coldly. "I was appointed by the king!"

"The king, Ser Titus?" Brynden gave a humourless smile. "Have you not heard? The king is dead. It will be our task to choose the next one."

Titus felt foolish. He had braced himself for Brynden's hostility, but he had never imagined anything so brazen as this. He has become far too powerful. He speaks as if he himself has been crowned king.

He looked around at the nobles who were witnesses to his humiliation. Many averted their eyes when he glanced at them, looking uneasy. Others were smiling, as if they were taking joy in this snubbing. Sycophants of this pale demon, Titus thought darkly. He also saw Lord Manderly and Lord Flint standing by. Although they looked disgusted and embarrassed with the way Titus was being treated, they made no move to defend him.

"Lord Rivers," Sadog suddenly called out in a tone which matched Brynden's false politeness. "Will you eject me as well?"

Brynden's eye flicked over to Sadog, who leaned on his cane and glared defiantly at him. "I fail to see why the Iron Bank of Braavos should impose itself on our council," he stated carefully, "but I see no reason to bar you if they wish for you to observe."

A tactful answer, Titus thought with dismay. The nobles of Westeros would greatly resent any outside influence imposing its ideals or interests on the great council.

"That is good to hear," Sadog replied coldly. "Then perhaps you would afford a similar privilege to mine own father? His service has earned him at least that small measure of courtesy."

"Your father is not of the Iron Bank," Brynden observed. "And the quality of his service is debatable at best."

Titus sensed Leroya take a step forward; he did not need to look at her to sense how wroth she was. Swiftly, he stuck his hand out and grabbed a handful of her capes, the fur and silk alike. "Don't," he whispered to her when she glanced at him.

As if he did not even notice Leroya, Brynden continued to address Sadog. "And since you are forcing this point, I very much doubt the Iron Bank wants to jeopardise its relations with us. Not for the sake of one banker forgetting to put business over personal matters."

Titus glanced at Sadog. He was frowning, but he had no retort for Rivers. Titus reached out and squeezed his son's arm to express his gratitude.

As he did so, his eyes wandered back to the multitude of onlookers. Much to his surprise, he still recalled many of the sigils that he could see. It was the faces that were unfamiliar to him, including the one who was wearing a purple lightning bolt on his black surcoat.

The man who wore it was unmistakably Titus' kinsman. His head was bald, but his beard was a dark orange colour.

Titus nodded courteously. "Lord Dondarrion, I presume?"

"Lord Geraint Dondarrion," the man replied with no small measure of reluctance. There was no warmth or friendliness in the younger Dondarrion's countenance. Titus noted that one of his hands was missing, replaced by a steel spike.

"I remember you," Titus remarked. He was surprised that it was so, but it was the truth. "You were a boy when I saw you last."

Geraint was unmoved. "As you say. But I know you not, old man."

Titus balked at the repudiation, spoken so boldly and loudly. This was a terrible mistake. "It is good to find a kinsman in my hour of need," Titus snapped scathingly.

"You dare invoke our kinship?" Geraint stepped forward, matching Titus' anger. His spike flashed in the torchlight as he pointed it accusingly at Titus. "Where were you when my father died? Or when my brother died? My son fell at Starpike, fighting for the king. Do you even know his name?"

More men and women had gathered to listen. Several tittered and whispered amongst themselves at Geraint's questions.

A sense of shame washed over Titus like cold water; it only made him angrier, especially when he saw how Brynden Rivers was smiling at him. He was waiting for this, Titus realised. He must have known Jena wrote to me, and he knew all along that he would send me away in disgrace.

"It seems you wasted a journey, Ser Titus," the pale lord spoke again. "But I thank you for this pleasant visit." He turned to one of the Kingsguard knights who'd muscled his way through the crowd. "Perhaps you can escort this man and his party back to the wheelhouses?"

Titus had only glanced at this knight before, but now he saw that the man stood taller than any man Titus had seen since Daemon Blackfyre. Even Leroya and Baalun, the tallest of his children, were half a head shorter than this giant.

There was something familiar about him, too. His brown hair was long and shaggy, streaked with grey. An old scar was across his cheek. Unlike the others, he looked upon Titus with curiosity, even pity in those bright blue eyes. An indecisive expression appeared on his face as he began to slowly approach Titus. Will he force me to- He didn't finish that thought, for realisation struck him as he recalled where he'd seen this man before.

"You were with the Vulture Hunt!"

The Kingsguard knight started, then gave a nod. "I was, aye. I recall you too, m'lord. My old master spoke well of you."

What was his name? Titus felt obligated to recall the man, but it was no easy matter dredging up that awful part of his life. The man had been short, he recalled, and cheerful through the worst conditions. "Ser Arven Penny, wasn't it? Something like that? You must forgive me, it was a lifetime ago."

A half-smile broke across the tall Kinsguard's face. "Ser Arlan of Pennytree, m'lord."

"That's it!" Titus stepped forward in his excitement. How could I forget that he bore my brother's name? "You were Dunk, the squire. You-" He halted in his tracks. This was the same squire whose actions had brought about the death of Baelor. Nay, that's not fair, Titus thought, but he could not forget what a loss it had been. The king who never was… the man who might have saved the realm.

Brynden had faltered when Dunk first spoke, but now he pointedly cleared his throat. "I believe I gave you an order, Ser Duncan."

"And I will rescind it!"

The crowd's mirth vanished with the speed of candlelight snuffed out by the wind. Brynden frowned as he turned to see the source of that voice. Titus did the same, for he could live another fifty years and still recognize who had spoken.

She was six years younger than Titus, but she looked at least sixteen years older. She walked with a cane, and she seemed to have shrunk. The red-gold hair on her head had turned brittle and white; her skin was loose and shrivelled. But her eyes were still bright, and her voice was still clear enough to be heard. It was also harsh with wrath as she limped forward and cast her furious gaze upon those who hastily bowed to her.

"Is this the welcome my brother is afforded?" She seemed ready to spit on those around her. "He rode with my husband at the Redgrass Field! He was Master of Laws in Daeron's court for ten years! Shame on you! Shame on all of you!"

"Princess Jena…" Brynden began, but she did not let him continue.

"And you," she rasped, turning on Brynden. "You will not bar my brother from the council!"

"On what grounds?" Brynden still spoke calmly, but Titus could sense that he was becoming irked. "He is no lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and his title has outlived the king who gave it unto him."

"As have your titles, Brynden Rivers," Jena countered loudly. "By what right are you still Hand of the King if the king is dead? What title do you hold that wasn't gifted to you by kings of the past?"

The hall became quieter. Brynden's mouth was a thin line, but his eyes burned with a cold fire.

"Last I looked," Jena continued in a voice made terrible with spite and hatred, "only one of us was called Targaryen! And I say that Titus has as much right to sit on the great council as you!"

Titus heard Matthias chuckling nervously under his breath beside him. Leroya and Baalun's faces were alight with amazement and amusement. He himself might have laughed at this admonishment of his old foe, but he was far too melancholic at the sight of his sister.

None would dare to dispute her words, or disrespect her, but it was clear that her power was not what it once was. Some men and women averted their eyes, even as the corners of their mouths twitched. Titus wished he could put a sword through those scornful faces.

"Very well," Brynden conceded. His voice and manner did not betray the slightest sign of his having been outmaneuvered. He glanced at two servants in Targaryen livery. "Find accommodations for Ser Titus and his family."

"No! I will take them to the holdfast," Jena insisted loudly. "They do not need to wait on you like beggars amongst buzzards and vermin!"

Jena left the Great Hall with Titus and his children in tow, even as she cast dark glances at those she passed by. Even before they'd left, Titus could hear heated whispers break out from within the crowd.

"Gods be good," Sadog muttered when they were out of earshot. "How did I ever miss being here?"

Matthias laughed at that, unable to stop himself. It did not help that Baalun was laughing too.

"Shall I challenge that pale man to a duel, Papa?" Leroya's tone was only half-serious, but Titus could sense how angry she really was.

"You'll do no such thing," Titus urged her. "Brynden would love the excuse to torture my daughter to death." Just as he tortured Orys Trant, and Maegor Toyne.

Jena had turned her gaze back to Titus. "So, you did come back after all. When I didn't get a reply, I was beginning to wonder."

Titus felt resentment twisting his insides together. Here he was, having left everything to come back here, only to nearly be sent back to sea with his tail between his legs, and his sister saw fit to reproach him? "You're most welcome for that."

Jena's glare intensified at his surly tone. "I did not force you to come back!"

"Oh aye," Titus remarked dryly. "Of course you didn't." A part of him was appalled at the bitterness which already festered in him. Yet ever since he'd looked upon the city of King's Landing from the harbour, all the old feelings were returning.

Jena gave a sigh. "I suppose I earned that. And I should thank you for being here at all. It must not have been easy to return."

"It wasn't," Titus replied quietly. He could sense what Jena was really saying. Resentment mixed with remorse inside of him once again.

"Aunt Jena?"

Both Titus and his sister turned. Miru had come forward for the first time.

Jena's expression softened. "I remember you," she murmured. She limped forward and took one of Miru's hands in hers. "You look far better than last I saw you."

Miru faltered. It was clear to Titus that she wanted to say the same, but it was not true. And what could she say about Jena's life which warranted enthusiasm?

She made her choice. "I am very glad to see you again." Before Jena could reply, she gestured to Matthias. "Do you recall Matthias?"

Jena frowned, then gave an apologetic shrug. "Not really, truth be told. You were only a babe when you left."

"So I've been told." Matthias approached his aunt and gave a bow. "Your Grace."

Jena wordlessly urged him to rise, even as she noticed Sadog. Her eyes flickered to his false leg for a moment. "I do recall you. Sador, isn't it?"

"Close enough," Sadog replied politely. He also gave a bow, taking care to take Jena's hand and kiss it softly. "As you might have heard in the hall, I have the honour of representing the Iron Bank."

"A prestigious honour indeed," Jena observed sincerely. She pointed to his ornate cane. "Must you work for them to get a cane like that?"

"I can arrange one to be made for you," Sadog answered cheerfully.

Jena patted his hand before looking up at Leroya and Baalun. "You must be Baalun, then," she continued, "and I suppose you are Leroya?"

"The same," Leroya answered. "My congratulations on your entrance, Aunt Jena."

"I call that high praise for one with your reputation," Jena observed wryly. "I've heard a great deal about you from your father. Kiera and I have often wondered whether he wrote those calumnies to amuse me or horrify me."

Even as Leroya grinned proudly, Jena turned back to Titus. "What madness possessed you to bring your children here?"

"Their madness," Titus reminded her. "They all chose to join me. I've yet to figure out whether they inherited it from me or from you."

For the first time, Jena's mouth twitched into a smile. Although it left her face as abruptly as it had appeared, her voice was much softer and warmer when she spoke again. "Gods be good, but I have missed you terribly, brother."

He was convinced that she meant it sincerely, without any malice or manipulation intended. And because of that, those words were harder for Titus to hear than anything else she could have said.