Human emotion is an instrument no different than a harp or a high lute, though far more capricious. Moreover, the pleasure derived from playing upon it is yours to keep, never to be shared. — Excerpt from a private audience between His Grace, Robb Stark, First of His Name, and Learo Mereer, Magister of the Free City of Lys.
. . . . .
Dusk settled upon the Wolfswood, heralding the chill of an autumn now firmly in its dominion. Cesare sat by the stream atop a massive, moss-crowned boulder, watching the sunset while drinking water so icy it made his teeth ache. The glare of the dying sun stung his eyes, yet a foolish, eternal obstinacy proved stronger than such paltry discomforts. Besides, the vista was truly fair.
In the memory of a man who had pledged his life to war, there lay no shortage of ugly, hideous recollections. Bodies shattered by cannon-shot; festering, gangrenous wounds; armor fused to bone by the heat of fire. Yet, he had somehow managed to retain the faculty to perceive and feel beauty keenly, though even with the utmost desire, he would never have styled himself a poet.
In matters of beauty, the Seven Kingdoms were dreadfully backward and mediocre. It was unlikely he would ever chance upon a canvas to rival the brush of Da Vinci, or read sonnets that even remotely echoed Petrarch. Though, one had to be honest: the stern geometry of The Rains of Castamere made it memorable and distinctive in its own fashion. The rest of the songs he had heard were fit only for bellowing in one's cups.
The men-at-arms stationed nearby spoke in hushed tones, casting sidelong glances at him. All new faces. Not a single man from the hundred he had led through the Greywater. Bitter vexation settled like dregs upon his tongue.
One of the soldiers, a tall, red-bearded lad, spotted something and sprang to his feet. The others followed suit. Cesare tensed inwardly, his palm closing around the hilt of his sword.
The alarm proved false—it was merely Ser Rodrik Cassel deciding to honor him with his presence. Cesare greeted him with a nod and even shifted aside, making room on the stone. The old knight chose to ignore the gesture, remaining on his feet, looming grimly over his foster son.
"I have long sought a moment to speak with you alone, Robb," he said, fixing Cesare with a piercing stare. "I hope, in memory of the time I served as your master-at-arms, you will hear my words and take them to heart."
"I am all ears." One mention of the late Ned Stark, and Cesare will leave without a word.
"Ramsay Snow has long enjoyed a foul reputation." After a brief hesitation, Rodrik continued, "In his own lands, he arranges 'hunts' for young peasant girls." Cassel grimaced with revulsion. "He sets dogs upon them."
Cesare understood well enough without the elaboration. He had expected something of the sort; realized it, if not at their first meeting, then certainly after their conversation in the crypts.
The knight watched him, awaiting a reaction. The longer the silence stretched, the darker his face became.
Cesare saw no reason to deny it or hastily craft a new lie. Yes, they would gladly believe him, but the denouement was close at hand, and the truth would out regardless.
"You knew," whispered Ser Rodrik, appearing to age twenty years in a single minute. "You knew."
The wrinkles on his face deepened, his back bowing under the heavy burden of disappointment.
"Your father would have dragged the cur to the block immediately, not drunk wine with him at the same table," the words flew from his lips, heavy with wrath.
"I am not my father." Cesare gave a careless shrug.
The old man looked around with a hollow gaze and turned toward the camp, but a call stopped him.
"Ser Rodrik." Cesare rose, closing the distance between them as if preparing to entrust him with a great secret. "I want you to remember—all that transpires in the coming days is done for the good of the North and House Stark."
He was heard. Perhaps not fully understood, but soon enough, all would become clear.
Returning to his chosen spot, Cesare felt a pang of disappointment. The sky was a slate-azure, marred by rare patches of felt-like clouds. The day had ended, and he had not even noticed.
Drawing his cloak tighter, Cesare wandered toward his pavilion, signaling the guard to follow.
He was dining when news came of Ramsay's return. The partridge had to be left uneaten—it was abundantly clear the bastard would rush immediately to report on his mission.
Slumping into his chair, Cesare arranged his features into a mask of supreme displeasure. Glancing sideways at a nearby mirror, he let out a heavy sigh. Was he overplaying it? Ramsay was far from a village fool. As little falsehood as possible! This bastard nearly killed you! He was arrogant enough to think he could twist you around his finger! He must pay! Pay the iron price!
By the time Ramsay's arrival was announced, Cesare had stoked his anger sufficiently to avoid suspicion. The shadows lying beneath his eyes and his hair, more disheveled than usual, lent him a dark and menacing air.
Ramsay appeared, practically radiating satisfaction.
"Excellent tidings, my lord. My men intercepted a rider hastening to Deepwood Motte. Balon Greyjoy is dead!"
Glancing at his liege lord, Ramsay froze, as if slamming into an invisible wall. His eyes darted around the interior—clearly recalling every sin, calculating how to wriggle out of one trap or another.
"Rumors of your amusements have reached me, Ramsay Snow."
The silence allowed the tension to thicken, to coalesce into a suffocating mass. In this instance, it was more eloquent than any words.
"Who told you this slander?!" Ramsay moved decisively to the attack. "How simple it is to accuse a man behind his back! They simply hate me because my father and mother exchanged no formal vows!"
"Yes, it rankles them that you are a bastard." Cesare savored the word like a fine vintage, deliberately pressing on the bruise, before speaking with calculated softness. "Yes, they deem your elevation undeserved, and thus they will dig into your past with doubled zeal, dragging your most unsavory deeds into the light. I will be forced to react, lest the shadow falls upon my own name."
Ramsay's fury was cold, like the knives of his sigil. Behind his eyes, a desperate labor churned: how to escape this situation and keep his station. Cesare graciously threw him a bone.
"They must see you in all your glory. Then their sharp tongues will be stilled for a long while."
Cesare squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Ramsay looked at him with bafflement and disbelief. He had seemingly expected insults and threats for his crimes, if not immediate arrest—certainly not aid and sympathy. Before, the bastard would surely have been more alarmed, viewing such mercy with suspicion, but their evenings together had done their work. He likely believed, in his arrogance, that he had cracked Cesare, that he had peered behind the mask of Ned Stark's worthy heir. Let him remain deceived.
"Nothing reveals a man's true pith like the heat of slaughter. In every sense." Cesare smirked grimly. A moment later, Ramsay followed suit, though his smile was somewhat more nervous. "The battle for Deepwood Motte begins imminently. For your sake, I have altered my plan."
It seemed Ramsay was touched by such concern. His coarse features took on a pitiful, almost moved expression. How interesting. Is he capable of gratitude? Next, we shall discover that beneath the mask of a ruthless killer lies a sensitive, fragile soul!
"You and your men will attack the ships. You attack tonight! Get close, and once the fighting starts, torch the vessels. Then I shall move my forces immediately to your aid."
For a heartbeat, Cesare felt he was about to be exposed as a liar. Or rather, that a knife would be drawn and slashed across his throat, leaving him to writhe on the floor, soaking the carpets in blood. It would be amusing if Oliver were right and Ramsay truly served the Lannisters. Cesare, in his dying moments, would have laughed at the joke.
However, Ramsay expectedly did not attack, like any rational man wishing to avoid being cut down by the guard.
"Ah, were it not for this accursed wound, we would ride together, shoulder to shoulder!" It was said almost sincerely, almost without guile.
Ramsay left for his quarters hopeful and nearly happy, and Cesare ordered the next participant in the coming mystery to be summoned.
"All is prepared, just as you commanded," the man declared the moment the tent flap fell shut.
"Wait as long as possible. We need as many Ironborn as possible to be consumed by the battle."
There was no need to say it—they had discussed the particulars of this enterprise several times.
"If I die in tomorrow's battle, do you promise to look after my family?"
The look cast upon Cesare was mournful and weary—a moment of weakness imperceptibly replacing the resolve that had burned in his eyes.
"You have my word—your family shall want for nothing. I will take your son as a cupbearer, and later as a squire, and I shall provide a handsome dowry for your daughter. Whatever happens on the field tomorrow, your brother shall be avenged—I swear it to you!"
Robett Glover gave a short bow in parting. Fear for his wife and children, and grief for his brother, had aged him prematurely. The title so many coveted was for him a cruel mockery of fate. This was a man accustomed to obeying, and thus he accepted Cesare's idea calmly, though it carried a high probability of his death. Men like him, no matter how high their birth raised them, were always the ideal executors of another's will.
He was woken by Oliver.
"Wake up, my lord! Ramsay has roused his men and led them to the offensive!"
Cesare had managed to doze off in the armchair and was now forced to suffer a crick in his neck.
"How long ago was their absence noted?" The end of the question drowned in a drawn-out yawn.
"Just now! His men stood the watch today!"
Noting his lord's composure, Oliver calmed somewhat.
"What are we to do?"
"Don armor, take up arms, ascend the nearest rise, and wait. We may bring wine to pass the time, but do not overindulge."
Cesare did exactly that. A joyous exhilaration helped him overcome the drowsiness still mastering him. He issued orders with businesslike efficiency, attempting to bring order to the chaotic stirring of the slowly waking camp.
"What has the boy thought up now! I've not seen greater folly in all my life, and I have lived long!" Lady Mormont fumed.
Standing nearby, Ser Rodrik refrained from unnecessary words, but the stern expression on his face suggested he was beginning to guess the motives that had driven Ramsay to this adventure.
"If we wish to lessen the coming slaughter, we must hasten to the bastard's aid!" interjected Dacey, who had approached unnoticed.
Her mother shot her a stern look.
"Why?" Cesare raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, though the darkness concealed the expressive gesture. "Ramsay will manage perfectly well without our help."
As if in confirmation of his words, a flower of fire bloomed in the distant bay, banishing the dark.
Excellent! Simply magnificent! A spectacle hard to miss.
It had been rather naive to believe Ramsay would fulfill his wish—a single flaming arrow with a pitch-soaked rag would not burn a fleet, but several of Robett Glover's fire ships certainly could. What trouble it had been to build them in secret! Thankfully, those cares had touched Cesare only fleetingly. Glover himself found the place, negotiated with the Bole clan, and oversaw the delivery of pitch and the progress of the work. truly, this Robett Glover was a capable man! If he survived, he would receive a post worthy of his talents.
Beside the first light, two new ones appeared. To the misfortune of the Ironborn, a strong wind rose, helping the flames gather strength.
"M'lord!" A man Cesare had sent to watch the fortress came running at full speed. "M'lord! A great host is sallying forth from the castle toward the bay!"
Cesare barely suppressed a shout of triumph.
"Well then," he turned to his bannermen. "To the assault."
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