"The commander who allows success to turn his head often loses that head in the very next battle." — From the writings on the War of the Five Kings by Emperor Robb Stark, First of His Name.
. . . . .
It was painful to look at Theon. In a few days, he had paled, grown gaunt, and seemed to have lost weight. Greyjoy wandered the castle like a restless spirit, seeking out the furthest and darkest corners. If he had to descend to the Great Hall and be present at councils, a more dismal companion could not be found. Jokes could no more be coaxed from him than a loan extension from a Jewish usurer, and if he did smile suddenly, it was a hunted, wolfish smile.
The other Northmen bore their grief and anxieties differently: some in sullen silence, others by emptying barrels of ale. Anyone could lose their home: the Mormonts, the Glovers, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts. Even Winterfell was under threat, which had driven Lady Catelyn to utter hysteria.
Cesare involuntarily shared the general mood. Yes, he did not love the North, but he loved changing excellent plans even less. These Ironborn bastards would answer for forcing him to drag himself back to this dreary hole, even if they were thrice kin to Theon! The first thing Cesare would do upon securing himself on the Iron Throne was thoroughly clean out that cesspit called the Iron Islands. He would put half the pirates to the sword and force the rest to guard merchant ships, so they might at least be of some use.
The latest war council resembled a wake. Discussion was held, but somehow sluggishly, as if all were already lost. What a painful blow to the pride of the great victorious Northern army! The enemy was at the gates, and they had blinked!
Finally, the Greatjon rose from his huge chair and drew himself up to his considerable height.
"The North is our home, and we are duty-bound to defend it," he declared, shaking his fists, "but we cannot abandon what we have won! To leave the taken villages and castles is to show weakness to the Lannisters, and they will not miss their chance!"
"What are you saying!" Maege Mormont leaped from her seat. "If Last Hearth were a couple of miles further west, you would sing a very different tune! You would be rushing home like a raven, praying to the Old Gods that your path did not end in ashes!"
The old woman could be understood—her lands were surrounded by water, and her home was called a castle only out of respect.
The lords divided, and the hall drowned in reproaches and curses.
Unexpectedly, the lord of the castle decided to voice his opinion.
"Lord Stark," he rasped. "When you lead the troops North, the Riverlands will remain defenseless. What if Tywin Lannister decides to seize the moment?"
Here the River lords, who had been sitting quietly and merely observing the squabbles of their allies, became alarmed.
"We can defend ourselves," Edmure Tully tried to pipe up, but struggle as he might, he could not convince his bannermen.
Cesare cleared his throat and nervously brushed away strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes. Frey's question was addressed to him, and it could not be ignored.
"The Lannisters will not attack—in the coming few months Tywin Lannister will be occupied with entirely different matters."
He took a deep breath, as if before plunging into water, and then explained:
"Stannis Baratheon's fleet will attack Lannisport in the near future."
"Whence such certainty?" Uncle Brynden was the first to ask.
"I do not doubt the reliability of my source," Cesare evaded a direct answer, then moved on to the burning question for everyone. "Our main forces are in the West. While we gather them, while we transfer them to the Neck, the Ironborn will have time to stroll to the eastern coast," straightening up and lifting his chin, Cesare surveyed his vassals with an eagle's gaze. "I believe the Ironborn threat is greatly exaggerated. Think, how many warriors can the Iron Islands field for such a raid? Two thousand, at the very most, two and a half. This is enough to seize a few coastal fortresses, but to attempt to hold the North with such forces is laughable."
He spoke, spoke, and spoke. Of the effectiveness of the Iron Fleet, of the tactics of the Ironborn and their attempts to create a stable state. There was nothing new in this speech, but it was precisely this that made Lady Maege's face brighten and Lord Greatjon's fists unclench.
"And it is true!" Umber rubbed his hands contentedly. "We need only cut them off from their ships, and then the fun will begin!"
The others gathered warmly supported the proposed tactics. All except one. Like a shadow, Theon slipped out of his corner, hunched like an old man. Noticing his movement, the lords fell silent as if on command. However, their glances were more eloquent than any words: "Why is he here?", "Outsider!", "Enemy!", "Danger!" Like a pack of wolves, they were ready to bare their teeth. But the alpha was silent for now.
"We can try to resolve the matter with diplomacy," his dry cracked voice sounded like claws scratching on wood. "I can depart for negotiations at once."
"Negotiations?!" roared Umber. "When these bastards burn villages and butcher our garrisons!"
Theon did not even flinch in his direction. All his attention was focused on the man upon whose will his fate depended—on Lord Stark.
From the despair radiating in waves from the hunched, broken figure, something inside Cesare wavered. His mouth went dry, and doubts scratched in his chest.
What a pity that rebirth had not turned his heart to stone! What injustice—with all his ambitions, not to lose the capacity to become attached to people!
Cesare looked at this uprooted boy and was about to agree, but his gaze turned to the other lords, and the words stuck in his throat. They would not forgive him if he showed weakness.
"Lord Umber," Cesare turned away demonstratively, as if Theon had ceased to exist for him, "gather your men towards the Twins. Lord Glover, your help will also be useful to me, as well as Lords Tallhart, Cerwyn, Bolton, and Lady Mormont. We will join with the army that Ser Rodrik Cassel is gathering now, and repel the attack. The remaining lords will defend the taken castles. Until my return, I appoint Brynden Tully as commander."
Edmure wanted to object, but remained silent under the attentive gaze of his elder relative.
Those gathered began to move toward the exit of the hall, talking among themselves. None of them paid attention to the mournful figure frozen in place. Theon's fingers clutched nervously at the table. He no longer tried to appear strong.
Cesare took a step toward him, but meeting a desperate gaze, froze in indecision.
"I thought we were friends, Robb," fell from thin cracked lips. "I thought we were friends."
Cesare did not know what to say. He could have started making excuses, assuring him of friendship and loyalty, but that would be a deliberate lie. Friendship is possible among equals, but are they equal? Even in his past life, he noticed the sin of pride in himself. Now he seemed to have become its bodily incarnation.
He did the only thing left to him—he remained silent. Silently walked past, giving Greyjoy a wide berth.
Only later, in the privacy of his own bedchamber, did Cesare ponder what to do with Theon. So far he had done nothing, but at any crucial moment he could betray. Cesare would have betrayed.
Judas de Córdoba came to mind with sickly regret on his ugly face: "I only carry out the will of my Queen." Whose will would Theon carry out? Tywin Lannister's?
Leaving a potential traitor at Riverrun was impossible. He had to bring him along. He was watched, but unobtrusively, from a distance.
Information received from Howland Reed made him grind his teeth in annoyance. The Ironborn attacked with two armies. The first was led by Victarion Greyjoy, the second by Asha, Theon's sister. Interestingly, Balon Greyjoy had already declared himself king, proclaiming separation from the Seven Kingdoms. Cesare received more and more reasons to walk with a bloody sword through his robber kingdom.
In a relatively short time, Victarion had managed to dig in well at the fortress. Reed's people often harassed him, not letting him feel confident, but this did not make the Ironborn position less advantageous. Had Cesare struck head-on, his entire small army would have remained beneath the mossy walls of Moat Cailin. But he, as always, found another way.
The short crannogmen could lead warriors along their secret paths. They had to split up again, leaving most of the army with wagons and horses on the Kingsroad.
This was one of Cesare's worst weeks in the new world. From endless marches and poor lodging, his body turned to stone in eternal tension. His boots squelched nastily now and then, and by evening bloody blisters began to appear. There were not enough of the crannogmen's smoking braziers, so the warriors suffered from unbearable midges. Malnutrition threatened to undermine morale even further.
When the swamps were finally left behind, Cesare sent a raven to Winterfell with relief. His arrival would not remain a secret to the enemy for long, so it was necessary to join with Ser Rodrik as soon as possible, and then successively defeat the uncle and niece.
Olyvar noticeably revived and several times a day asked to be told about Winterfell. Cesare shared what he could remember, though his thoughts were far in the west, beneath the walls of Lannisport...
Entering the Wolfswood, Cesare was already anticipating arrival. Indeed, what bad thing could happen when Winterfell was but a day's march away?
They struck suddenly, like kites on a flock of pigeons. There Cesare is swaying in the saddle, and a moment later he sees the man-at-arms riding ahead bristling with arrows.
Commands must be given, a semblance of formation organized, but time slips through fingers. A whistle and searing pain in the left shoulder. Fingers could not hold the slipping reins, and his body crashed heavily to the ground.
The last thing Cesare saw was a golden kraken on a black field.
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