My enemies often call me a skinchanger and a beast in human shape. I hasten to disappoint them: I am no beast. I am worse—I am a man. — Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name. From his famous reply to Daenerys Targaryen.
. . . . .
The march of the army to the Neck was enough to exhaust any man. Cesare felt crushed and hollowed out. The cold had so thoroughly broken him that he already dreamed of sinking into the Inferno, closer to the fires of the damned. It was astonishing, really, that this was not even winter, but merely a Northern summer. A wretched land! After a few weeks spent within its borders, one understands why Dante described the Ninth Circle as a lake of ice.
Nature here offered no joy in brightness or variety. The entire world—from the low, dirty-grey sky to the withered, prickly grass—seemed faded. This bleakness touched the people, too. Their sullen faces were so alike they might have belonged to a single man.
If war were not on the horizon, it would have been worth starting one simply for the excuse to ride far away, to where it was warm. For the sole prospect of never returning to Winterfell, Cesare needed to win the Iron Throne.
Cesare spent his idle hours at the halts with his bannermen. He took care to show no favoritism, the better to know each man and weigh his strengths and weaknesses. He made special note of those who might cause trouble, like Bolton. Cesare already had the memory of one such meeting at Magione, and at that time he had held the fame of the all-powerful Duke Valentino. Now, with Tywin Lannister as his enemy—a man about whom legends were practically spun—he had to be ready for conspiracies and knives in the dark.
Apart from talk, there was simply nothing to do. A few times Cesare rode out with the outriders, but the beastly cold drove him back to camp. If his cock did not freeze and fall off during this march, he would have to light a candle to the Father, or whoever it was customary to pray to in the south.
Now he rode a sturdy speckled stallion, listening to Theon's musings. This man's position in Robb's retinue was rather strange: a childhood friend, a confidant, yet one could not forget his status as a hostage and his connection to that odd pirate confederacy known as the Iron Islands. Greyjoy radiated no hostility and reminded Cesare of himself at that age, but who knew what might snap in his head should the chance for freedom arise.
"I've been meaning to ask you, Theon," Cesare drawled thoughtfully. "How would you conduct yourself at a meeting with your father?"
The surprise on Greyjoy's face was instantly replaced by a sullen gravity. Cesare realized he had struck a nerve. Surely the lad had thought long on this very subject himself.
"I would try to show that I have grown into a worthy man," Theon answered, striving to convince himself more than his companion.
"And if he mocked you? If he said he had no need for an heir who had not seen the sea for half his life?" Theon's eyes bulged, and he hauled on the reins so hard his horse whinnied in protest. "What would you do then to win his recognition?"
He did not answer, only cast a wild look at Cesare and, spurring his horse, galloped ahead.
Well, the former Duke of Valentinois' instincts had not failed him. Theon Greyjoy was indeed very much like him—ready to do anything for a single approving glance from his father. In his own not-so-long life, Cesare too had known what it was to be a hostage. When Charles of France and his army had honored Rome with their presence on the way to Naples, Cesare's father, fearing for his position, had crowned Charles King of Naples. Cesare was the guarantee, sent to accompany the king. And though they did not clap him in irons or starve him, Cardinal Borgia feared for his life every day. It was no secret to him that his father was already negotiating the creation of an anti-French Holy League, which put Cesare directly in harm's way. Escape had been the only salvation...
The whitish sky darkened, promising either snow or rain. They were but two days' march from Moat Cailin, and so Cesare called fewer halts. Yet if the weather turned foul, stopping would become a necessity—he had no desire to break the horses' legs in the dark or lead the wagons into some bog.
With a heavy sigh, Cesare gave the order to make camp—the North refused to let him go.
. . . . .
He is running over earth slick with moisture, tracking prey. The recent rain has washed away the tracks, but the scents remain. Somewhere very close, in a ravine, a stream bubbles, and a small herd of deer has chosen it.
He creeps closer, holding back a savage hunger, until he spots a doe with her fawn approaching the water. Every muscle tenses before the leap, his heart beating faster.
A lunge—and he is upon them, staring into terrified eyes. Another snap—and his jaws crush the doe's neck with a wet crunch. Blood fills his mouth, pumping in hot spurts down his throat. He tears off a piece of meat and begins to chew slowly.
The fawn continues to stand nearby, watching. Foolish thing, it does not understand what has befallen its mother. However, the moment Cesare raises his head, the creature, obeying an ancient instinct, bolts for the forest. Cesare does not pursue—he already has his kill.
. . . . .
Cesare woke, still tasting the iron tang of blood. Neither water nor light wine could wash it away.
At first, when he had arrived in this world, Robb Stark's wolf had frightened him. Grey Wind—he believed that was the name—had himself been wary of the change in his master. Naturally, he did not try to attack, but he cast mistrustful, guarded glances at Cesare. The wolf rarely stayed long in Winterfell, preferring to run off to the nearby woods to hunt down another roe deer. Bran had even remarked that Grey Wind had not been like this before.
However, this shaggy beast would not have been such a problem had Cesare not begun to see through his eyes in his sleep. He had never summoned the courage to ask his brother about it. Judging by what he had gleaned, subtly questioning Greyjoy over a cup of wine, it was in the Stark blood; otherwise, why would his father's bastard commune so easily with his own beast, the one he called Ghost?
This world, which Cesare had only just begun to fathom, held many secrets and riddles. Take the dragons, for instance, on which the first Targaryens flew. Of course, Robb himself had seen neither the giant lizards nor their remains, but the material evidence was quite impressive. According to the books, in the Riverlands stood the cursed castle Harrenhal, melted by dragonfire. Who knows, perhaps in the coming months Cesare might even visit it... Surely in time, an explanation would be found for his wolf dreams as well. For now, he had entirely different priorities.
They finally arrived at Moat Cailin. To say Cesare was disappointed was an understatement. After the majestic walls of Forli and Milan, three moss-covered tower stumps, one of which was tilting to the side, looked frankly pitiful. Had Cesare intended to remain Lord of the North, he would have raised a proper castle on the site of this wretchedness. Now, however, there was neither time nor coin for such things.
Scouts brought news of the state of affairs in the Riverlands, and it was far from joyous. The army of Lords Vance and Piper had been smashed by Jaime Lannister, the remnants retreating to Riverrun. The Kingslayer had approached Riverrun and crushed Edmure Tully's superior forces, taking him and many bannermen captive, and laying siege to the fortress. The second Lannister host, commanded by Tywin, was moving toward Harrenhal, taking every castle in its path. He was unlikely to march on the Neck—too ill a reputation clung to that strip of land—but plundering the Riverlands utterly and stripping the Tully bannermen of their ancestral seats was well within his power. The situation worsened with every day, and Cesare needed to act, but he had to wait for Manderly.
He had a choice to make: father or son? To do battle with Tywin's superior army, or to cross the river and relieve the besieged Riverrun, striking at the son?
Today's war council was no different from the previous ones. The map spread on the table had not changed overnight, nor had the faces of the participants, save that the Greatjon looked more crumpled than usual—heavy drinking, especially in time of war, does no one any good. There was no fresh news, so the pouring from empty into void continued. Cesare was already tired of listening to arguments about the merits and flaws of both commanders and their strategic positions. It was precisely because of this boredom that he was the first to notice the woman entering the room.
She was quite young and very beautiful, though not to Cesare's taste. She wore a grey dress trimmed with fur, her auburn hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck.
Mother, flashed through his mind. The tenderness that flooded him did not belong to Cesare. Was it Robb, lurking somewhere but not entirely gone, or a surge of childhood memories? It was hard to say.
The lords took turns greeting Lady Stark, asking after her journey. Cesare, meanwhile, frantically considered what to say to her and how to behave. Should he play the frightened boy and ask for a mother's counsel, or show that the boy had grown and was fully prepared to make decisions?
Well, Lady Catelyn asked to be left alone with her son. As soon as the door closed behind Theon, Cesare stepped close to her and embraced her tightly, inhaling the fresh scent of her hair. The Lady Mother seemed taken aback by such a stormy display of affection, but a moment later she was stroking her son's shoulders.
In her eyes, as blue as Robb's own, there was anxiety and worry when she pulled away.
"Why did you not stay in Winterfell? Why expose yourself to such danger? You could have appointed any of the lords as commander."
"Mother, I must free Father and the girls myself. What kind of lord would I be if I cannot even protect my own family?"
Catelyn nodded understandingly. She valued family above all else, so the explanation satisfied her.
She did justice to the cold meats and ale while Cesare told her of events in Winterfell. Watching him, Lady Catelyn smiled faintly at some memory of her own.
A touch to his cheek silenced him.
"What is happening in the Riverlands, Robb?" There was firmness and resolve in her voice. "I can see you are hiding something from me."
"Riverrun is under siege, and your brother is a prisoner."
She flinched, but showed no other sign of her dismay. Cesare did not want to make empty promises, so he turned his back to her and walked to the hearth, signaling that the conversation was at an end.
"There is a spare room in the Gatehouse tower, next to my chambers," he threw over his shoulder.
Hearing the click of heels and the creak of the closing door, Cesare let out a breath. That she had not immediately exposed him as an imposter was good, but one still had to be on guard with this woman—no one knows a man better than his mother or his mistress. Fortunately, Robb had no constant paramour—it was not in the tradition of these Northmen. They, by all accounts, preferred to spend time with their own hand. Or perhaps in a chilled bed with their wives, who resembled drowsy fish. Though in this aspect, Lord Eddard had clearly been lucky to choose a wife from the south. Boring people!
Cesare recalled the devilish Fiammetta with her low, chesty voice and the ability to drive men to frenzy with a single glance. These northern hens were far from such art. The two serving girls Cesare had invited to his bed this month had only slightly dulled his hunger, bringing no satisfaction.
After a full horn of strong ale, Theon had spoken dreamily of Braavosi beauties. Cesare made a solemn vow to himself that he would invite a couple of them to the Seven Kingdoms. Immediately, as soon as he had destroyed all his enemies.