Those distant days were a true trial of endurance and will. Had things turned out otherwise, I would not be the man I am. — From the classified "Notes" of Olyvar Frey.
. . . . .
"Escaped?! Are you certain?!"
Cesare sprang from his seat, but hissed in pain and immediately sank back down. Linford, the recently liberated Maester of Deepwood Motte, rushed to his aid.
"I told you, my lord: drink the milk of the poppy. Do not put weight on the leg," he lamented, checking the bandages, upon which, to Cesare's immense relief, no blood had appeared.
Try as his vassals might to protect him, during the assault the Ironborn had managed to reach him. A squad had struck at the approaches to the keep in a last desperate attempt to beat them back. It was led by the warrior with the famous shattered jaw and four lips. It was Dagmer Cleftjaw's last fight, and he died with dignity. Mortally wounded, in the final resolute surge of a fading consciousness, he had lunged at Cesare, intending to drag him into the abyss with him. Had a little more strength remained in him, his intention would have been fulfilled...
The wound was trifling and not dangerous, but painful and troublesome. All cares had to be shifted to subordinates, which added neither peace nor good humor. And now his expectations were confirmed—Olyvar appeared and delicately, trying to soften the blow, reported that Ramsay had escaped.
"He is not among the dead."
Olyvar lowered his gaze. The self-appointed role of bearer of bad tidings clearly weighed on him. News had to be pulled from him almost with pincers.
"We managed to capture Damon," Olyvar decided to get to the main point. "It was he who revealed his master's plans."
Cesare wiped the sweat that had broken out on his temples. A little more, and his patience would end. He would yield to the maester's persuasion and go to bed, having first ordered the execution of all captive Ironborn along with their female leader.
Decidedly, pain is not the best counselor.
"Are you sure we are not being led on a false trail?" A veil of pain clouded his gaze.
"Believe me, my lord. He is not in a state to shield anyone," Olyvar's voice sounded firm and confident. "He is confused, frightened, and would betray anyone for the mere hope of salvation."
He has already settled into his role, gained some experience, and can act on his own, without supervision or prompts. And yet so little time has passed. How grasping will Olyvar Frey be in a year? In five years? In fifteen?
"And what did this Damon tell you?"
"Ramsay will try to make his way to the Dreadfort."
Such a statement made Cesare snort.
"To the Dreadfort? Across the entire North, through lands controlled by me? They won't even let him out of the Wolfswood!"
"Where else is he to go?" Olyvar frowned. "North, to the Night's Watch? South, to Moat Cailin, to surrender to Victarion Greyjoy?"
"The North is vast. Just try to find a lone fugitive in its expanses."
Signaling the servant with the tray, Cesare took a goblet. Another one. Not milk of the poppy, of course, but at least something to dull this accursed pain.
Olyvar tactfully remained silent and delicately ignored the display of weakness.
"Do you think he will hole up in some distant hamlet and tremble with fear?"
His question sobered Cesare and forced him to look at the situation from a different angle. What would a man like Ramsay feel at the betrayal of a near-friend who had played on his feelings in the most dishonorable way? Rage and malice. He will not hide; he will want revenge. Had he even a full Dreadfort garrison at his disposal, he might have tried to sack Winterfell, but he had spent it in a suicidal attack on the ships. The remaining men would suffice only for a stubborn defense, but that would still be a huge problem. The Dreadfort is one of the most fortified strongholds in the North. To suppress resistance, troops would have to be withdrawn from the Westerlands, and possibly from the Riverlands. Tywin could play on this, promising Ramsay a title and the Maiden herself as a concubine. This could not be allowed.
"Do what you want, involve whom you must! Act in my name! Do everything, but bring him to me alive!"
When Olyvar swiftly exited, Cesare let out a sigh of relief.
The room pressed down on him with its low ceiling. His head spun from the dampness and the smell of dust, and the sight of a moth-eaten stuffed deer, which had recently served as a target for knives, caused disgust. Galbart Glover's chambers had become Cesare's temporary refuge.
In this place, he would dream no good dreams, save perhaps wolf dreams. In recent days, Grey Wind had disappeared somewhere. Surely frolicking somewhere in the endless expanses of the Wolfswood. Perhaps he had found a mate. Left his master in pain and weakness.
"Where is your milk, Maester?" spoken too wearily for a victor.
. . . . .
Olyvar succeeded. With precision and method, his men sifted the North in hopes of finding the coveted needle. Ramsay was intercepted in a small settlement on the southern border of the Wolfswood. The bastard had made a wide loop to confuse his trail, but it did not save him. After a short scuffle, he was seized and delivered to the dungeons of Torrhen's Square. Olyvar intended to return immediately to Deepwood Motte, but Cesare ordered him to stay put and await further instructions.
Damon turned out to be an extremely useful fellow. He clarified Theon's fate. When it dawned on Cesare exactly what the bastard intended to do with his friend, he furiously ordered Damon whipped until he lost consciousness.
When the blonde came to, Cesare already knew what to do with him.
"You, along with a detachment, will ride to the Dreadfort. You will sit straight in the saddle and pretend that all is well and you and your master have simply returned home."
Clay Cerwyn fit the role of Ramsay perfectly. Though he was but fourteen years of age, he was quite stout and from a distance could well pass for the Bolton bastard. He did not need much persuading to try on the pink cloak.
"The main thing is not to get stuck in his skin forever," he joked.
Ravens ran out quickly, so there was no possibility of active correspondence—a good half of them had been eaten by the starving during the prolonged siege. However, Cesare managed to issue the order to arrest Roose Bolton. Direct evidence of his guilt could not be found, but Cesare did not intend to miss the opportunity to rid himself of a vassal whose loyalty was in doubt.
As it turned out later, in this regard he was late—Roose had managed to flee. However, this simplified matters significantly—by this step Lord Bolton confirmed in absentia the accusations Cesare would yet bring against him. It was no secret where he would go. The Red Keep is always glad for turncloaks.
The days at Deepwood Motte drowned in waiting and the boredom that came with it. There were no books, no good conversationalists either, and dragging Dacey Mormont into bed was prevented by the unceasing pain in his leg.
Maester Linford turned out to be a real find. He was unlike any representative of his craft Cesare had yet met. He was lively and, despite all the horrors he had managed to survive, retained a natural cheerfulness. He was not yet five-and-twenty, and there was not even a scent of staidness about him. Such a mobile face with freckles and patches of reddish beard would have suited a bard better than a maester.
Linford quickly dropped the mask of servility and, during dressing changes, increasingly began to draw his patient into conversation. Thus began their long talks. Linford spoke of history, which he adored passionately, dwelling in particular detail on the Ghiscari wars. Then came astronomy and smithing.
"Do you have a platinum link?" Cesare asked once in jest.
"Far from it," the young maester waved his hand dismissively. "I didn't even get my silver one right away. The free time granted in the Citadel I spent more often in the port or taverns. When the Stranger carried me into the library, I went straight to the history section. Now Maester Vyman, yes, he is a true scholar."
"You know Maester Vyman?" Cesare did not try to hide his interest.
"Never met him in my life," his counterpart's eyes went round, "but a whisper here, two words there... There are many rumors about him in the Citadel."
"And what are they connected with?"
"He is a healer from the Seven. The Smith blessed his hands, and the Crone endowed him with a sharp, clear gaze. He saved those sick with greyscale, sought a cure for the bloody flux. That Hoster Tully is not yet in the Stranger's hands is entirely his merit."
Well, this greatly increased the value of Maester Vyman in Cesare's eyes. Despite all the statutes of his order, he would not stay in Riverrun. Of late, Cesare had clearly realized how badly he needed a healer capable of dragging him back from the other world at any moment.
"For a man with a complete lack of connections in the Citadel, it is very difficult to forge a worthy chain and get a good appointment."
For the first time, something dark cut through Linford's voice. His face tensed, and carefully restrained indignation flowed from his lips.
"No matter how talented you are, access to many areas of knowledge will be closed to you and will never open," his voice trembled, and his nails dug into his palms, but the youth quickly pulled himself together and smiled tightly. "However, Maester Vyman is an example that much can be achieved with hard work. He seems to be from some tiny fief in the Vale, yet he forged a chain to the envy of his foes, and one can only dream of two such appointments as he has had!"
"Wait," Cesare became alert. "Does a maester not serve one castle all his life?"
Linford nodded in agreement.
"As far as I know, that was an exceptional case," the maester frowned and rubbed his forehead, diligently digging into his memory. "He, it seems, failed to save some boy, and so returned to the Citadel, declaring he was not yet ready for such responsibility. I do not understand him," a note of envy appeared in Linford's voice. "To become Maester of Casterly Rock at thirty! Why, that is simply a dream!"
"Is that so," Cesare stroked his beard thoughtfully, memorizing the revealed detail and filing it away for later, when it would be more appropriate.
A noise was heard from the yard, which made Cesare rise slightly. This was enough to notice the closing gates and a dusty messenger with a black axe on his doublet.
"The Dreadfort is yours" — he read only two words in the message and let out a sigh of relief.
When Cesare arrived at Moat Cailin, not a single Ironborn remained. Or rather, there was one. Theon was in his retinue.
When Cesare saw him for the first time after captivity, the prepared words of comfort and support literally stuck in his throat. The man standing before him was no longer the well-known and understandable Theon Greyjoy. Emaciated, with earth-colored skin and threads of grey in his short-cropped hair, he looked at Cesare sharply and searchingly, as if trying to read thoughts. And then he approached and bent the knee, caring neither for the road mud nor the intrusive attention of the entourage.
"I am faithful to you, Robb, and I betrayed you neither by word nor deed," he said, looking up at Cesare. "Neither by word nor deed."
And Cesare, stung to the quick, collapsed beside him and squeezed his friend in an embrace. The pain shooting through his leg and up his spine to his head nearly made him lose consciousness.
Later, in the tent, they spoke of future prospects of the war, and Cesare studiously ignored the fact that Theon never removed his gloves.
"Your sister Asha is now my prisoner," by the way Greyjoy's face twitched, it was not hard to guess that this topic mattered to him. "I will allow you to decide her fate. You may release her to the Iron Islands if you wish, but only when we return..."
When the ancient towers of Moat Cailin came into view, Cesare involuntarily stopped and rubbed his eyes.
"Do you see the same as I?" he checked with Olyvar riding half a horse-length behind.
"Yes, my lord," followed the immediate reply.
The Stark banner flew over the Gatehouse Tower.
As it turned out later, learning of his brother's death, Victarion prepared to go home. Taking everything valuable and leaving a purely symbolic garrison, he departed for his own lands, which the Greatjon immediately took advantage of. During a night sortie, he managed to capture two towers out of three, and the next morning during the assault took the third. Due to the same lack of a proper raven, this wonderful news reached Cesare with a huge delay.
Dismounting, he immediately ordered everyone to be gathered in the huge courtyard of the fortress.
The air was cold and damp, making his leg burn with pain. Walking, Cesare still involuntarily dragged it. Beckoning the first man-at-arms he saw, he ordered a decent chair to be brought out. Grey Wind settled beside him, laying his head on his paws and closing his eyes. Only Ramsay's appearance made him alert.
The bastard was led by two burly warriors with the Cerwyn sigil on their doublets. Bound and beaten, he still looked arrogant and defiant, baring fragments of broken teeth in a grin. He was shoved toward the chair, and Cesare carelessly pushed him away with his foot, as a knight kicks aside the head of a slain dragon.
"We all returned to the North to defend our home from the Ironborn invaders. Tales of their cruelty are known to each of us. But returning home, I found something more terrible and disgusting than Ironborn—treason!"
The gathered crowd buzzed excitedly. Only a few knew the true state of affairs. Cesare intended to reveal all the cards, doing so in the most effective way possible.
"At the approaches to Winterfell, my retinue and I were attacked. In that battle fell Lord Galbart Glover and Smalljon Umber, worthiest of the worthy. I myself was wounded! Only the favor of the Old Gods and the loyalty of my squire allowed me to survive!"
Hiding none of his own wrath, Lord Umber tore from his place.
"I'll kill the bastard!" he roared and was stopped only by the intervention of Grey Wind, who blocked his path.
"I understand your fatherly pain, Lord Umber, but allow me to continue," there was the ice of the Long Night in Cesare's voice. "Through his henchman, known as Damon Dance-For-Me, Ramsay Snow found a mercenary band in the Vale and transported it to the North—they were in no way connected to House Bolton, and they were easy to get rid of. And after that, he tried to worm his way into my confidence, to strike in the back again at the right moment!"
Ramsay's eyes were full of undisguised hatred. Well, Cesare understood his feelings, but was infinitely far from compassion.
Grey Wind was of the same opinion. He growled, baring his teeth. A string of saliva dripped from his maw.
The anger of the gathered crowd gave way to expectation of the denouement. Looking at the raging direwolf, they quickly quieted down, making Cesare's further words sound especially weighty:
"We are in the North! The North forgives such treachery neither to southern intriguers nor to its own black sheep!"
Grey Wind growled, lowering his head to the ground, and lunged forward. Ramsay screamed—the direwolf's jaws closed on his shin, crushing bones and tearing meat. Blood immediately spurted from the wound. The beast seemed in no hurry, chewing methodically.
By some miracle, Ramsay managed to break the ropes, but this did not help him much. With the next lunge, the arm with which he unsuccessfully covered his head was torn off.
"Curse you, Stark spawn!" he howled on one note, after which Grey Wind's teeth sank into his neck.
Blood sprayed in all directions. Some hit Umber, Theon, and Olyvar standing in front, but Cesare got the most. He tasted the bastard's blood in his mouth. Looked at his hands—they too were in blood. A kind of vicious elation took possession of him.
"So it shall be with anyone who betrays my trust," he wanted to say, but only a growl spilled from his mouth.
They looked at him, looked, and it is unknown what was more in their eyes—triumph or fear.
"Olyvar, come to me," he tried to speak quietly, but even the servants in the back rows heard his words.
The squire obeyed immediately, unfazed as he skirted Grey Wind, who continued to feast.
"On your knees," Cesare proclaimed and drew his sword. "Do you swear, Olyvar of House Frey, to be faithful and loyal to House Stark, to follow the orders of its head, and to perceive his honor as your own?"
"I swear," the youth exhaled with feeling.
The blade touched his shoulders in turn, after which Cesare offered the newly made vassal a bloody hand.
"Rise, Ser Olyvar Frey."
The Greatjon was the first to applaud. Then Cerwyn and the Mormonts joined him. Soon the entire fortress drowned in ovation.
"We have done it," Cesare spoke. "We have won, and now we can return to the Riverlands to finish what we started."
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