Cayn

Snow had fallen during the night, leaving a light blanket of white covering the ground at the archery butts.

As he'd been doing for the last twenty-six years of his life, Cayn arose early and went down to the shooting field with his longbow. He'd already begun mastering the weapon during his youth, but it had still taken him ten years to match the standards of the Raven's Teeth.

In the early days of their inception, the Raven's Teeth consisted of some two hundred men, each one hand-picked by Lord Bloodraven for his skills and for his loyalty. Prior to the Blackfyre Rebellion, they had been little better than bodyguards to Lord Bloodraven, or else they had carried out his orders throughout King's Landing. They'd policed the streets more thoroughly than the goldcloaks had, seeking out traitors who whispered treason in the shadows. In the latter part of Daemon's rebellion, Bloodraven had personally led them out on a campaign in the south. The archers had helped secure victories in several battles until they'd achieved true glory at the Redgrass Field, turning the tide in favour of the red dragons once and for all.

The war had been a dizzying triumph for them, but not without cost. Fewer than a third of the Raven's Teeth had survived the war, in large part due to the fury of Bittersteel's assault upon them. It had mattered little, however; Lord Bloodraven had survived, and he was quick to rebuild his regiment's ranks. These had also swelled along with their commander's power.

By the time Cayn had joined, there were some four hundred men who wore Lord Bloodraven's sigil on their clothes. Even the most baseborn among them held authority over the Lord Commander of the goldcloaks. It was a chance for a man to rise up on the strength of his skills and character rather than his family.

This authority was not cheaply held. Ever since their first inception, many of the order had fallen to disease or been slain in battle, but there were plenty men willing to replace them. At present, there were nearly five hundred Raven's Teeth serving Lord Bloodraven.

Of those, fifty served under Cayn's command. Many of them joined him for his morning sessions at the butts.

There was another captain there too. Washton was a son of falconers in the riverlands. He'd been a captain for three years longer than Cayn, but had always resented his favour with Lord Bloodraven. On top of that, he was a bully and a braggart. Cayn marvelled that he'd ever been considered for captaincy, let alone successful at being promoted. Still, he was a formidable fighter and a veteran archer.

He was already entertaining the younger archers with colourful accounts of his exploits when Cayn arrived. "So it's two days before the tourney begins, and I'm walking into Seagard. I hear this deep voice shouting 'Oi! Make way for the lord!' I turn round, and one of the biggest horses I've ever seen is just a metre from my face!" Washton mimed a lunge. "I leap like that, and that's the only thing what saved my life. And the old lord Mallister doesn't even halt his bloody horse neither; doesn't even look at me!"

"Aye, well, what did you expect?" It was Colwyn of Perrill who spoke. Sporting a mess of freckles and wispy hair on his cheeks, his boyish face and short build made him seem even younger than his twenty-two years.

"Mind yourself, boyo," Washington warned him, "or I'll stripe your back with your own bow!" Cayn snorted to himself as he turned his back and loosed an arrow. Men often underestimated Colwyn, but Cayn knew him to be one of the deadliest archers in his company, and a man who could hold his own in a brawl with men twice his size.

"Anyway, I went to the Avebury Inn that night, about a stone's throw from Seagard castle. The innkeep's got a brace of girls working for him, each one comelier than the last. And of course, they'll bat their eyes at a bit of coin." Washton winked at his audience, even as Cayn rolled his eyes and loosed another shaft.

"This one in particular, now," Washton went on, "went by the name of Babs. She got black hair, blue eyes, and skin so pale as a lily. Smiled like maid, talked like a lady, and fucked like a bitch dog in heat. And the best part was she didn't even charge me! She liked me so much she did it for free!"

"Get away," Einon protested, even as Colwyn and the others jeered.

"Oh, that ain't the best part," Washton exclaimed. "I was there when the tourney started. Lord Mallister and his stupid sons are all there in armour, escorting the queen of love and beauty to her seat. Guess who that bloody queen was!"

Disbelieving laughter burst from a dozen throats.

"It's true," Washton swore hotly. "Turns out Babs was none other than Barbara Mallister! Little slut was going down to her daddy's smallfolk for fun!"

"Tell me," Cayn suddenly interjected. "When you were busy playing the pyrdewy with Babs, how drunk were you?"

Washton scowled as Cayn's archers laughed again. "Not so drunk as your papa had to be on his wedding night!"

The laughter died immediately, giving way to shock and outrage among the archers on behalf of their captain. Einon stepped forward, fists raised, only to halt when Cayn held up a hand to stay him.

"My father needed no drink to calm his nerves," Cayn replied calmly. "I trust that's what you meant?"

"What if it isn't?" Washton growled. "What if I say your papa bedded you on a squinty-eyed sow?"

Cayn felt a rush of anger filling him, but it was cold rather than hot. Rather than blurring and dulling his senses, as his tempers had done during his youth, this rage sharpened them.

It had taken a long time for him to master his stronger emotions. Lord Bloodraven had often taken him to the godswood and taught him how to stay in control of himself when lesser men took leave of their senses.

Never lose control of your breathing, he had told him. A hot temper is like fire. Fire consumes, it destroys, and it spreads chaos along with it. Let your temper be cold as ice. Ice preserves, as any man of the North knows. Just as you yourself know it.

He stepped forward, holding out his weirwood bow. Colwyn hurried forward to take it, ever eager to serve his captain.

"Come on, then," Washton goaded Cayn, balling his hands into fists. "I'll teach you to call me a liar!"

For his part, Cayn was not afraid; it was true that he had passed forty, but so had Washton. And unlike the hulking bully, he was still never ate meat save fish, in part due to his experiences as a warg. He kept up a stern regimen to keep his strength and trim figure. Washton was taller, broader, and probably stronger, but he lacked speed and discipline.

Cayn darted to the left, raising his right fist. As he expected, Washton stepped forward, aiming his right fist to collide with Cayn's face. By anger or the simple rush of a fight, it seemed to Cayn as if his foe was moving half as quickly as him. He felt an urge to laugh as he sidestepped Washton's punch with ease. Grinning broadly, he lunged upward with his own right fist.

Washton's left hand seized Cayn by the wrist, stopping his blow in mid-air. Washton cursed his opponent as he made to kick Cayn in the groin.

Suddenly, his yell was cut off, and his eyes widened. All the strength left his limbs; he released Cayn's wrist, and his leg thudded harmlessly against Cayn's inner thigh.

Cayn, whose left hand was just as able as his right, had flown upwards and struck Washton's throat. Now his breathing was cut off, driving the braggart to his knees. A high-pitched hiss emanated from his open mouth as he fervently clutched his neck with both hands.

Taut with rage and the rush of fighting, Cayn seized both of Washton's ears and twisted them. His knee flew upward and smashed into Washton's nose. A sickening crack rang out as Washton's screams were cut off and he collapsed.

Cayn was still trembling with rage, but he was still in control. A part of him was screaming to bring his boot down on Washton's neck and finish the job. But he knew such an action would create more problems than it solved. Instead, he stepped back from the writhing man and spat upon him.

"A free lesson for you," Cayn remarked, turning to the archers in attendance, "and for you as well. A lesson on when to speak, when to keep quiet, when not to lose your head, and how to win a fight quickly."

Two of the archers loyal to Washton picked him up and carried him away, even as Cayn's company joined their captain in practice.

As he resumed his training, Cayn wondered what Washton might say to Lord Bloodraven. The thought was a fleeting one, however. He knew full well that Washton would not breathe a word of this to their commander. Lord Bloodraven was not a man to tolerate half-truths, especially if they came from such a man with Washton's reputation.

The rest of the training went by without incident, as did the morning meal.

When that was done, Cayn led Einon and Colwyn to the tower which held the Red Keep's rookery and also the grand maester's quarters.

Grand Maester Piato was the only man whom Bloodraven had not had a say in placing on the small council, for the Conclave alone had authority over the grand maester's appointment.

That mattered little to Cayn, for he had no quarrel with the grand maester. Piato was an ebullient and open-handed man. He seemed younger than his years, and he was remarkably vigorous for his age. He spoke well and smiled easily, and he did not possess the usual snobbishness which so many of his holy order displayed towards those who did not worship the Seven.

"Good morning, Captain," he declared pleasantly. "How do you fare today?"

"Well enough," Cayn answered curtly.

After a moment's hesitation, the grand maester spoke again. "How may I help you?"

"Have there been any letters regarding the great council?"

"Have there been any letters?" The grand maester gave a good natured chuckle. "Well past fifty thus far! Most are refusals, though. Winter will keep many men inside their halls."

"All the same, my master will want to see them for himself," Cayn politely insisted. "If you please?"

"Of course, Captain." Piato went to his desk and indicated three neatly stacked columns of parchment scrolls.

"My thanks," Cayn told the grand maester, even as Einon and Colwyn collected the stacks. As they did so, Piato drew Cayn's attention to a scroll which he'd set aside. His normally cheerful countenance was suddenly grave.

"There was also this. It is not a reply, but a request."

"Oh?" Cayn took the scroll. He noted the broken seal and paused. It was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. It puzzled him, until he realised that the wax was black.

Once again, he felt an intense anger consuming him as he read the letter, but this was a far older wrath, one which he struggled to suppress in the face of these hateful words.

To the Great Council,

In light of the succession crisis which has come upon the Seven Kingdoms, I wish to present my own claim for kingship. My father, as you will doubtless recall, was a legitimate son of House Targaryen, and I believe that my claim is as valid as any other which will be presented before you.

I regret that I cannot present myself before you, due to the circumstances which are not in my power, but I assure you that my intentions are entirely honourable and peaceful. I will come alone, with neither escort nor arms as a sign of my good faith. I will swear any oath you demand of me that I say these things in good faith. All that I ask in return is safe passage to and from Westeros, under the Crown's protection, whatever the outcome.

This bird will find its way back to me. I await its return, hopefully with your reply.

-Aenys Blackfyre

Cayn struggled to keep his breathing at a measured pace. Aenys Blackfyre… how dare he… of all the fucking people… of all the nerve…

He was about to demand how Aenys Blackfyre knew about the great council being summoned, but stopped himself from asking the obvious. Nearly two hundred ravens had been sent out with the news. It would be impossible to find out who had reached out to the Blackfyres.

"Who else has read this?" Cayn growled instead.

"Nobody save I," the grand maester assured him. "I knew Lord Bloodraven would want the strictest secrecy around this message."

"Good." Cayn turned away with a final nod, and stalked out of Piato's chambers. Einon and Colwyn hastily followed him whilst trying to keep a firm grip on the stacks of parchment.

Lord Bloodraven awaited them in the Tower of the Hand. The men dropped the letters on a table where he sat, picking at the remains of his morning meal. Cayn could see the remains of egg, bread, and the peels of two types of orange upon his plate.

"Before you read those," Cayn urged him after Einon and Colwyn had left the room, "you must read this."

Lord Bloodraven's face darkened as he grasped the severity of Cayn's state, but as he read the letter, he let out a rare chuckle.

"By the Others themselves… he's either very brave, or very desperate," Lord Bloodraven remarked cheerfully.

"He could also be very mad," Cayn suggested darkly.

"Of course. All the Blackfyres are mad," Lord Bloodraven retorted matter-of-factly. "I do not question his lack of sense." He shook his head. "Still, I cannot help but admire this reckless gamble."

"Mayhaps it's just a diversion," Cayn mused. "I just don't know how."

Lord Bloodraven smiled dangerously. "Close, but I would say it is a rallying cry."

"What do you mean, my lord?"

In answer, Lord Bloodraven turned to the stacks of parchment and seized the first few. He scanned them quickly, then handed one of them to Cayn.

"You should read these with me," he advised. "Then you will see where the true danger lies."

Mystified, Cayn obeyed in silence nevertheless. He went through the day's new messages, dividing them into piles of acceptance and refusal. Then, he went through the previous day's acceptance and refusal piles, which his master had already organised.

Grand Maester Piato was not wrong; most of the lords and ladies of the realm were refusing the honour of attending the council. Most cited the impossibility of travelling through thick snows, whilst others claimed that pregnancies, injuries, or illnesses were holding them back.

Their loss, Cayn thought as he put Lord Sunderland's refusal back on the pile. He turned to the acceptance piles again. "At least all the regions will have some representation."

"Do you not notice something about the houses which will be attending?"

Cayn glanced back down at the replies before him.

Lord Bloodraven pointed to one. "This is Lord Milcar Blackmont. His mother was Veronika Yronwood. During the First Blackfyre Rebellion, both those houses betrayed their oaths to House Martell and House Targaryen."

He grabbed another. "Walderan Tarbeck. His house played both sides during that rebellion, as did the Hightowers." He gestured to other letters strewn about the table. "And here. Lord Roger Reyne and Lord Rayford Farring. Both of them are descended from traitors. Lord Calder Belmore… his mother was from House Moore and his wife was born to Lord Hersy. More Blackfyres."

Cayn stared at Lord Bloodraven in alarm. "This is a coup."

Lord Bloodraven seemed to consider that, but he then gave a shake of his head. "Nay, I do not think it will go that far. They will know that bloodshed will only lead to their destruction. Besides, these Blackfyre supporters will still be outnumbered by those whose loyalty I trust."

"What do you think will happen, then?"

The smile on Lord Bloodraven's face widened. "I never thought I'd say these words," he admitted, "but I believe Aenys was being genuine."

Aye, he means what he says. He thinks he might be able to steal the throne by vote rather than by force! And then it will be a catastrophe when the exiles return to Westeros. Once again, Cayn felt a wave of relief that the task of protecting the Seven Kingdoms was in Lord Bloodraven's hands.

"What shall we do?" Cayn asked his master.

Lord Bloodraven paused in thought, then stared at Aenys' letter once more. "If he cannot attend, if he cannot present his case, then there will be no banner to rally behind. He can say what he wants from across the Narrow Sea, and his supporters will dare not reveal themselves. These men are cowards, Cayn. They won't risk their necks for Aenys if he cannot win the majority to his cause. And besides, mayhaps these lords don't even know of this letter." He held it up and flapped it back and forth.

"Surely they must know," Cayn protested.

"Not necessarily," Lord Bloodraven gently countered. "If you wish to carry out a plot, it is best if the conspirators only know a part of the plan, lest they be forced to reveal it by their enemies. Even Aegor knew the truth of that."

"So be it," Cayn answered. "I'll destroy this at once." He reached out and took the letter back.

"See to that we keep his bird here," Lord Bloodraven added. "I don't want it flying back to him, with or without an answer. Let him wait for our reply until it's too late."

"Of course, my lord," Cayn replied. He gave a short bow and was about to leave when Lord Bloodraven spoke again.

"One more thing, Cayn." The pale lord leaned forward on his elbows. "You'll be pleased to know that Washton has recovered from his injuries."

Cayn quietly took a breath through his nostrils before he replied. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Are you?"

The question was not an accusation; it was more of a curious inquiry.

"I am," Cayn affirmed. "It was not my wish to kill him for mere words."

Lord Bloodraven continued to stare as he gave a slow nod. "You have come a long way from the lad I once knew. You should be proud of yourself."

"I am proud that I serve you, my lord," Cayn answered without hesitation.

Lord Bloodraven smiled at that. He took another piece of bread from his plate before wiping his hands with a napkin. "Captain Washton is still alive, as I said, but his throat received quite the blow. I imagine he will be bedridden for several days, and he may not recover."

"May the gods give him strength," Cayn replied curtly, but sincerely. Still, he could not help but add, "and may they give him sense as well."

Bloodraven's smile widened. "Handsomely said," he drawled. "Since you are so good at setting examples, go make another one when you return to the grand maester."

Cayn frowned. "What sort of example, my lord?"

"That I leave up to you," Lord Bloodraven answered. "I trust your judgment completely, Captain."

Relieved at how the matter of Washton was addressed, and honoured as always by his commander's faith in him, Cayn immediately made for the grand maester's chambers.

As he went, he thought about what his master had meant. Does he mean to punish the grand maester? He did as he should have done.

The truth of it came to Cayn as his boots thudded against stone. Grand Maester Piato had always seemed affable and trustworthy, but he still knew about the letter. Perhaps Lord Bloodraven wants him to recall his place?

Cayn had no wish to threaten or harm the old man. He knew that the Faith would not accept such treatment of their representative on the small council. Did he want something else? Or did he want something which could be written off as an accident?

Piato smiled as he opened his door, though his surprise was impossible to miss. "Hello again, Captain!"

Cayn bobbed his head respectfully. "My master has a response for Aenys Blackfyre. Where is the bird he sent to us?"

"Of course. Right this way." Piato led Cayn up the stairs to the rookery.

A veritable cacophony greeted them as they came through the door. Many of the castle's ravens were still away on their errands, but enough remained to make a forceful and disorderly chorus.

"The birds are hungry," Piato explained to a silent Cayn. "Many of these birds are newly returned. You must forgive me, I meant to feed them after breakfast."

The greybeard maneuvered his way amongst the cages before taking one which had been set aside from the others.

It should be here. A clear message. Cayn felt a twinge of remorse for what he was about to do. Piato was a good sort, rare amongst those servants to the Seven. Still, it had to be done. Cayn quietly drew his sword whilst the grand maester had his back turned.

"Here we are," Piato declared. "I didn't wish to confuse this bird for another." He gingerly opened the cage and coaxed the raven out with a piece of offal. As the raven ate the proffered morsel, it hopped forward until it perched on Piato's proffered wrist. Cayn wasn't sure if the grand maester's robes were protecting him from the raven's sharp claws, or if Piato was so accustomed to the pain that he no longer sensed it.

Cayn felt one last pang of doubt as he quietly drew his sword. Be steadfast. He kept out of Piato's eyesight as he followed him towards the wide ledge where ravens were equipped with scrolls.

The raven on Piato's shoulder gave a low, throaty caw as it hopped onto the smooth stone. It stood obediently still as the grand maester gave it a soothing stroke over the head.

"There we are," Piato declared, "now if you could please give me-" He didn't finish his sentence, for he'd turned and seen how Cayn's sword was raised above both their heads. A strangled cry left him as he recoiled. Both the sound and the gesture were halted abruptly.

Cayn's lunge quickly took him past the shocked grand maester, towards his target. The steel blade whistled through the air as he swung it downward.

The raven was croaking again when the blade struck his head. The skull snapped as if it were an eggshell, and the metal edge struck the stone with a screeching clang.

Undeterred, Cayn lifted the sword and struck the bird's twitching body yet again, then a third time, and a fourth. Blood and pieces of bird flew out and stained Cayn, Piato, and even the nearest raven cages.

Only when his sword had struck the ledge eight times did he finally let it fall from his twitching hands. It was properly ruined now; he could see how blunted and bent the sword's edges were. It made no matter, though; he would go to the Street of Steel and be gifted another weapon later. Such was the effect of serving the King's Hand and Master of Whispers. What is a sword in comparison to this message?

As he caught his breath, Cayn turned back to the grand maester, who'd gone utterly silent whilst Cayn had hacked Aenys' raven to pieces. By contrast, the ravens all around them had burst into an even louder clangor than before. Fools and poets might claim that they were protesting the execution of their fellow creature, but Cayn, the warg, knew that they were simply excited by the stench of blood. Do ravens eat their own? If so, do they know what it is they eat?

"That is the message Lord Bloodraven wishes to send," Cayn declared grimly, "to any traitors wishing to return."

The grand maester had mastered himself since his initial shock. A stony expression was on his countenance as he gave Cayn a curt nod. "Of course, Captain."

For the briefest of moments, Cayn suddenly wondered if he had gone too far. He had taken great care not to make his attack until he was certain that the grand maester was standing aside. He did not want to give Piato any reason to claim that his life was threatened, much less by a Northman who followed the old gods. Cayn did not doubt that the Faith, who already had reason enough to mislike Lord Bloodraven, would gladly leap at the chance to discredit him to the masses.

"And please, do give my regards to Castiza," Cayn added softly.

The name of his Pentoshi-born mistress brought about the desired effect. Piato's face paled; his mouth opened, but no sound left him. He neither moved nor spoke as Cayn made to leave the rookery. Is he wondering how we knew? Will he continue to see her?

Just once, as he stood beneath the doorway, Cayn turned back to regard the grand maester. The greybeard's feet were still rooted to the spot, his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be mouthing a prayer. What he was praying for, Cayn did not care to discover; he was satisfied that the message had been correctly perceived.