When arms clash, the Muses fall silent. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name (borrowed from Cicero).
. . . . .
Despite the grueling march to Riverrun that lay ahead, Lady Catelyn was resolved to remain with her eldest son to the bitter end, and his objections were accorded no weight whatsoever. The obstinacy of this woman was enough to make one envy Juan, who had ever been busy chasing after some fresh petticoat. It was only through the intervention of Brynden Tully that she was persuaded, if not to return to Winterfell, then at least to guest for a time at the Twins.
Cesare was pleased: the Blackfish had proven, without a doubt, to be one of his finest commanders. At first, when Brynden Tully was presented to him, Cesare had decided to keep him close merely to demonstrate the value he placed upon bonds of blood. Only later, when Tully began hunting down Lannister spies and outriders, did the wisdom of this appointment become clear. This was a man who had spent his life at war. In his youth, he had distinguished himself on the Stepstones during the last of the Targaryen dynastic squabbles. He met his maturity during Robert Baratheon's rebellion. Now, his weathered face was etched with deep lines and silver gleamed in his hair, yet his mind remained sharp as a razor, and his hands held a sword with an iron grip. His knowledge and experience were beyond price.
They sat now in the command tent, poring over a map, contemplating the coming battle for Riverrun. Night had fallen, and candles burned low, casting a weak light over the austere camp furnishings. The other lords had spoken their piece and retired to their rest, but Cesare had asked the Blackfish to remain.
"You know Jaime Lannister personally, do you not, Uncle?" Though Brynden was his great-uncle, the simpler address came more naturally to the tongue.
"I saw him a few times at tourneys, but you ought to remember him better—he came to Winterfell in the King's retinue but a year past."
The reminder brought a flicker of annoyance. That was the trouble: he barely remembered. Robb's memories were like a stained-glass window, shattered and pieced back together by a clumsy hand; some shards were lost, others placed askew, leaving the picture blurred and fragmented.
"Aye, I know, but I paid him little mind then," Cesare improvised, swirling the weak wine in his goblet. "You, however, assessed him as a potential adversary. Do you recall your observations?"
Brynden furrowed his brow, his thick eyebrows meeting above the bridge of his nose.
"He is arrogant. He loves risk and has the skill to back it, but he suffers defeat poorly and is utterly devoid of patience." The Blackfish cast a questioning look at Cesare.
"Impatience is a virtue to be exploited," Cesare noted, stroking his chin out of old habit. "Your scouts say he does not sit idle. How many holdfasts has he taken already, battling nothing but his own boredom? What think you, Uncle: if his outriders spot a Mallister force advancing to besiege Raventree Hall, will Lannister stay put?"
Brynden rose to his feet and began to pace the tent.
"You mean to lay a trap?"
Cesare shook his head.
"It will not go amiss to leave a hundred archers to thin their cavalry, but the most crucial thing is to prevent an assault on Riverrun." Cesare rubbed his eyes, fighting back a yawn. "We can destroy the Kingslayer's army while he is busy 'liberating' Raventree."
"We shall have to make a slight detour to the east to avoid stumbling into Lannister's main force."
"We will have a day, no more, before he returns to his camp," the Blackfish remarked. His gaze turned piercing and heavy, as if he sought to read his kinsman's very thoughts. "You understand that if you are not in time, you place the entire army under the hammer?"
"I understand, Uncle. And that is why I place my hope in your judgment and the truth of your scouts."
Cesare's words were entirely sincere. He understood that the lion's share of success in this plan depended on competent reconnaissance, and he was ready to trust this aging knight. If all went as required, he would find a fitting reward for him. If not... well, then worry would lose all meaning.
. . . . .
Theon volunteered to lead the archers heading for the Whispering Wood to meet and harry the Kingslayer. That they were, in effect, dead men walking did not seem to trouble him.
"Remember when you called me brother? Did you think I could not die for you?"
He grinned in that way only he could: mischievous, yet with his characteristic edge of mockery. This was Theon Greyjoy in full. Who and what was he trying to prove with this bravado? That he was brave? That he was loyal to the Starks and could be relied upon?
"The Blackfish's men will guide you out. When they begin to press you, pull your men back. Do not dare to play the hero and expose the others."
Theon said nothing. He simply embraced him hard. As an equal. As a brother.
Unexpectedly, memories from a distant past washed over him. Juan used to embrace him just so, and he had smiled just the same. Nine blows to the chest, one to the throat.
A bitterness rose in him, so sharp he wanted to scream. How many people had he lost? How many had he calmly sent to their deaths? Why did it feel so wretched now, when he was merely indulging the whim of an arrogant boy? Did these residual feelings belong to Robb, or had Cesare himself managed to grow attached to Theon during their journey?
"I will return, Stark, and we shall feast together in Riverrun," Greyjoy declared, throwing back the tent flap. For some reason, Cesare wanted to believe him.
. . . . .
Dusk was gathering. The host had crossed the Tumblestone upstream, but the ford across the Red Fork was still some miles away. The guides provided by the Blackfish knew their trade—if the pace did not slacken, they would arrive at the Southern Camp with a few hours to spare.
Cesare caught the eye of his new squire and offered an encouraging smile; Olyvar was clearly trembling. This was his first battle, his first war. Though, not his alone. Of all the youths who would guard Cesare's back in the coming slaughter, not one had seen true war: not Perwyn Frey, nor the Karstark brothers, nor Patrek Mallister. Their faces were grim, focused. No one tried to start a conversation or dispel the tension.
Cesare's detachment was the smallest, just as the Southern Camp he was tasked to take was the least defended. Cesare had consciously chosen this modest role. In the Seven Kingdoms, it was still held that a ruler must be a great warrior and lead his men personally into the fray. In Cesare's world, they had gradually moved away from such notions. Cesare himself had participated in battles more than once, but he never rode at the tip of the spear—the fate of Charles the Bold had taught him much. Therefore, the attack on the Northern Camp was led by Brynden Tully, and the Western by Roose Bolton. By choosing the less critical and dangerous target, Cesare minimized his risks. True, no one could rule out chance, but no one can defend against that.
Truth be told, the whole endeavor could go to ruin over the slightest trifle. Should the sentries of the Northern Camp be a shade more diligent, or the Western Camp fortified a mite better, Cesare Borgia would never see his triumph. The devil is in the details, as the English say. Doubt, doubt, doubt. Doubt and waiting—that is the hardest part of any war, open or secret.
And then, finally, they were at the camp, if one could call it that—a haphazard congregation of tents, pavilions, and wagons, surrounded by a puny palisade that a goat might vault. At times, Cesare was immensely glad that this world possessed neither cannons nor ancient Roman military treatises—it simplified matters greatly.
Sensing his mood, Grey Wind circled his horse in impatience. Dismounting, Cesare stroked the wolf's steel-grey fur and glanced questioningly at the guide. From the Southern Camp, one might spot the Western, but certainly not the Northern; timing the attack to coincide with Uncle Brynden was no simple feat. One could not send a runner or a raven. They had to navigate by the stars, and thankfully, the night promised to be clear.
"It is time, my lord," the guide announced, and Cesare suppressed a sigh of relief.
His speech to the men did not sparkle with eloquence and came out wonderfully short: "Let us show the Lannisters that treachery is paid for with a heavy coin."
His warriors did not shout with inspiration nor writhe in the ecstasy of impending battle. Archers took their positions; horsemen soothed mounts that rolled their eyes nervously at the direwolf.
With Olyvar's help, Cesare climbed into the saddle. The squire handed him his helm—an open-faced thing, lacking a visor, which made him recall his beloved Milanese plate with a pang of longing. But this was no time to weep over the clumsiness of Northern smiths. He waved his hand, signaling the archers.
A moment later, hundreds of arrows soared into the air, igniting against the inky sky like bright stars. The sight seemed beautiful to Cesare. Until the camp burst into flame.
Three volleys, and the horsemen entered the fray. They crashed in like a wave, sweeping away barriers, tents, and men. Among them was Cesare. His sword hewed at scrambling, half-naked men who resembled a flock of sheep scenting the wolf. Somewhere nearby, Grey Wind darted, and the crunch of his jaws could not be drowned out by any other sound.
Pushing deeper into the camp, Cesare encountered organized resistance more frequently, but what could they do? A line of infantrymen, with the best will in the world, did not resemble a Macedonian phalanx, and a dozen poorly armed riders looked nothing like the horde of Attila. The smoke made breathing impossible, and his eyes began to water, but Cesare, like the Stranger's reaper, continued his exhausting and monotonous labor.
At one moment, he spotted a rider in heavy plate charging straight for him. In the glow of the fire, the red bull on his shield looked sinister in the extreme. Cesare readied himself, though his right shoulder felt like a foreign object, his shield was hacked to splinters, and his sword threatened to slip from weakening fingers.
When the collision was but a heartbeat away, a grey streak of lightning darted from the left, from behind an overturned wagon. The force of the impact sent the knight flying from his saddle, while Grey Wind sank his teeth into the spine of the screaming horse.
It took Cesare several minutes to calm his own mount, which was trying to rear. When he finally managed to dismount, the battle was already beginning to die down.
His opponent was pinned beneath the carcass of his horse, and judging by the bloody mess where his head had been, there was no doubt of his death.
"Seven Hells! That is Ser Forley Prester, the camp commander!" Olyvar nudged the bull-shield with his toe and shook his head. "Ah, a pity, he would have been a fine captive!"
"We shall take plenty more Lannister lackeys captive this night. We won't have enough rope to bind them all."
More and more men gathered around Cesare. Someone handed him a skin of wine to wet his throat. Servants led his horse away, and Olyvar removed Cesare's helm.
They settled right there, a few paces from the mangled body of Forley Prester, on a small island of grass undisturbed by hooves. They could, of course, have occupied any of the tents left standing, but in that moment, no one thought of it. The youths animatedly discussed the battle just past, boasting of their successes, jesting. Occasionally, runners arrived with news from other ends of the camp. Cesare could not say exactly how long this went on.
Dawn was just beginning to break when a rider in Tully colors galloped into their midst.
"Urgent news for my lord," sweat poured from his face like hail. His breath came in ragged gasps, making his voice crack, so one had to strain to understand the meaning. "The Kingslayer struck our rear. Ser Brynden is fallen! The dead are beyond counting!"
"To horse!" Cesare ordered abruptly, turning to Olyvar.
Turning to his senior cousin, who had leaped to his feet with the others, Borgia barked: "Gather as many riders as you can! We must make haste!"
In the ensuing commotion, Brynden Tully's words came back to him: 'You understand that if you are not in time, you place the entire army under the hammer?' Yes, he had been ready. Moreover, he had even anticipated the possibility of a strike by Jaime Lannister, which was why there were more warriors under the Blackfish's command than with Cesare and Bolton combined.
He left the elder Karstark in command and galloped toward the Northern Camp. Now they made no attempt to maintain secrecy, nor did they choose the easiest fords.
The wind carried the scent of blood and carrion. Were these sensations his, or the wolf's? What did it matter? He was alive, and that was the main thing. This night, the scales would tip in his favor once more. Only one effort remained, one last push.
When they reached the Northern Camp, dawn was blazing across the firmament. The Greatjon rode out to meet them, looking battered but pleased.
"The siege is lifted, Your Grace. Riverrun is yours."
Cesare did not correct him. He was more interested in something else: "Where is the Kingslayer?"
"He is here, not far." Umber grew serious instantly and waved a hand toward the camp. "Barely managed to subdue him. He sits now under the guard of my men. We are preparing to move him to the fortress."
A weight lifted from his heart, but Cesare could not leave the uncertainty: "And Uncle Brynden?"
"He lives, but you had best ask the maesters about that. He was mauled badly."
Cesare closed his eyes and allowed himself a faint smile. The first victory was his. Now, he had only to reap its fruits.